David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“We are gathered here today,” the Barker said, “to celebrate the joining of two great houses. Kindren Thyne and Aullienna Meln, you are to link your hands, and thereby your lives, in a union that is to last forever. Will you accept this duty set upon you, ambar meleth , before Celestia, the bringer of light and life?”

The Barker looked to Aully first, and she dipped her chin and said, “I will.”

He looked at Kindren next, and the boy said in a voice just as handsome as his visage, “I will.”

The Barker touched both of their hands, which were still clasped together, and his wrinkled finger traced the image of a six-sided star, three points on Aully’s flesh, three points on Kindren’s. “Faith, family, and land, that is what you now share with this betrothal,” he murmured, his ancient eyes rolling back in his skull. “So shall it be done.”

“So shall it be done,” echoed the voices of every elf in attendance.

Aully and Kindren’s respective fathers stepped forward, shaking hands with each other to seal the agreement, and then the Barker turned to the crowd.

“Let the games begin!” he shouted.

The applause was riotous.

The betrothed couple were led across the field to a series of raised platforms horseshoeing around a section of freshly tilled and packed soil, seats that had been designated for the royal families. Her parents took their seats behind her, along with Orden and Phyrra Thyne and the lords of the Quellan, Neyvar Ruven and his wife. To her right was Ceredon, son of the Neyvar, intense and regal, his smooth cocoa skin seeming to blend in with the russet ribbon he wore about his neck. Kindren sat to her left, his previous confidence seeming to have fled him now that the opening ceremonies were over. He appeared nervous, his skin slick with sweat when his fingers touched hers. She wondered what she had done wrong, but the boy would barely look at her, much less offer her an explanation. Feeling alone between an intimidating man of royalty and her unresponsive fiancée, the butterflies in Aullienna’s stomach came swarming back to life.

The Tournament of Betrothal began with an archery competition. She watched elf after elf, male and female alike, step into the horseshoed arena, shooting their arrows with deadly accuracy at targets that were gradually moved farther and farther away. The air filled with the whoosh and thunk of bolts hitting their marks, and she felt her nerves slowly ebb. This was how she spent her days back in Stonewood-shooting game, playing at magic, climbing trees, and skipping stones across the surface of Rocky Neck Pond. She wished she could be down there with the rest of them.

The targets were brought back in after another set of contestants finished. The Barker shouted four names, including Kindren Thyne . Aully glanced aside to see Kindren nervously stand. He circled toward the back of the dais, retrieved a bow handed to him by his father, and descended the stairs. Gently twanging the string of his bow, he entered the arena, joining the other competitors in line. Despite the aged gracefulness of his posture, there was awkwardness to his movements that revealed his youth. He turned to look at her, smiling sheepishly, and then nocked an arrow. The three other competitors readied themselves as well, and all four released their strings in unison. The two Quellan elves on the left hit just outside the center, and the Dezren on the far right hit a perfect bull’s-eye. The arrow Kindren loosed missed the target entirely. It flew over the rounded, stuffed fabric by a good yard and embedded itself in the dirt. The crowd, perched on their raised platforms, uttered a collective moan of despair. He stepped away from the firing line with his head bowed low, even as the Barker said, “Disqualified.”

The prince of Dezerea skulked out of view. Aully held her breath as she heard him climb back onto the platform. She listened as the boy’s father offered a disgusted grunt, as if shamed by his son’s failure, and his mother gave him a too sweet word of apology. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ceredon roll his eyes and shake his head.

Kindren sat down beside her and held his face in his hands. He was shaking. Knowing she had to do something, she touched his wrist gently. He peered at her through his fingers, and she shrugged.

“It happens,” she said.

His dropped his hands and gave her an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry to have insulted you,” he said.

She shrugged again. “No shame in missing. I miss every time a cute boy’s staring at me .” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder and whispered into his ear. “And don’t tell anyone, but the Neyvar’s son was staring at you something fierce.”

Kindren laughed so hard that a string of spittle flew from his lips and dribbled down his chin. For a moment he froze in horror, but when Aully only laughed harder, he relaxed and joined in. She was so lost in amusement that she barely noticed when Ceredon rose from his seat and stormed away, a disgusted look on his face. Afraid of how the mass of royalty behind them might be reacting to their inappropriate mirth, she kept her focus squarely on Kindren’s gorgeous face.

“Thank you,” Kindren said when their laughter finally died down, keeping his voice low. The competition in the arena was going on as scheduled, oblivious to them. “I didn’t mean to ignore you earlier…I was nervous. I’m not the best archer, but father insisted that I take part in the tournament. I knew I would make a fool of myself.”

She elbowed him. “At least you do it well.”

“Very funny.”

“But it is,” she said with a smirk, channeling her sister’s demon-may-care persona. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“So you’re not embarrassed to be my betrothed?” he asked, disbelief heavy in his voice.

Aully shook her head. “I’d be more embarrassed if you’d thrown a tantrum.”

He grinned. “Good.”

“Besides, if you really want to impress me, all you need to do is conjure up a fireball the size of a redwood.”

“I might be able to do that. I’m much better with magic.”

“Really?” she said, her heart leaping.

“Really,” he answered with a wink.

Orden Thyne’s head poked between theirs, making both young elves jump. His expression was rigid, with narrowed eyes and firm lips.

“Children, this tournament is being held in your honor. It is disrespectful of you to ignore the proceedings,” he said.

Given his grave air and tone, they both shut their mouths and looked on. From that moment onward, though, they kept their fingers intertwined as often as possible.

The archery competition ended, won by Argo Stillen, the master of the Quellan archers’ guild. At almost four hundred years old, he was the oldest of the entrants, and yet he scored a staggering forty-three consecutive perfect hits, the last eleven from two hundred and fifty yards. Aully stood in awe of him, and gave a rousing ovation when the last of his bolts found its mark.

Next came contests of speed and strength. While an elf from Stonewood won the dash, Kindren’s cousin Mordikay won the high jump. The Dezren swept the speed competitions, which was not surprising given the taller and leaner physiques of Aullienna’s people. The Quellan were more compact and powerful, and when the strength contests began, they emerged victorious each time. Even the grumpy Ceredon got involved in the victory laps after he won the pole toss by a wide margin. He smirked up at Aully and Kindren, trying to appear superior, but the two youngsters laughed him off. Aully felt as though the newfound bond she and her betrothed shared was indestructible, and she wasn’t going to let some spoiled royal brat ruin it for her.