Mark Anthony - Kindred Spirits

He felt, rather than saw, Tyresian appear at his elbow, and heard the elf lord say smoothly, “That sounds like a challenge, my lord. Let’s see how our hotheaded half-human friend can do against you, Porthios.”

The sympathy flew from Porthios’s face. “You challenge me?” he asked softly.

They were all looking at him. Tanis decided quickly. “I do!”

“It’s hardly fair, Lord Porthios,” Ulthen called “from the bench. “The half-elf has barely begun his lessons. You do have a bit of an advantage.”

“I can outshoot you, Porthios,” Tanis cried recklessly.

Porthios watched Tanis carefully, then moved close. “Don’t do this, Tanis,” he murmured. “Don’t force me to do this.”

But the half-elf’s temper had heated to boiling. “I can defeat you under any conditions, Porthios!” he said. A steady drizzle now began to mist the area. “You name them.”

Porthios sighed and surveyed the moss at their feet. “Four arrows apiece,” he finally said. “We will use your bow, Tanis.”

Servants scurried to bring small pavilions that could shelter the silk-clad young nobles under their striped canvas. Lord Xenoth vanished, and returned with a hooded cape.

Tyresian appointed himself referee and, hair by now plastered against his angular skull, his pointed ears drooping slightly in the steady shower, took a stance between Porthios and Tanis. “Porthios Kanan names these conditions: Tanis Half-Elven will go first, shooting four times.” His military voice boomed off the damp stone walls. “A dragonseye brings ten points. Hitting any other part of the circular target brings five points. Striking the hay bales outside the target carries two points. Missing the bales completely-” He smiled snidely-”loses the bowman ten points.” He coughed. “Catching pneumonia in this gods-forsaken weather costs both archers fifty points, but we all hope that won’t happen.” Litanas, who had returned by now with two extra cloaks, applauded the jest. “Scarlet arrows for Porthios, cobalt for Tanis. Let the contestants begin.”

The rain grew harder. Occasional bunches of laurel leaves flopped to the ground, bounced, and lay still, like bits of forest flung by an angry, skybound god. Tanis took his position, and aimed through the slants of rain. The crowd behind him drew silent, to his surprise, though the weather may have had more to do with their quietude than courtesy had. Ulthen and Litanas looked like sea elves, their leggings damp to the knees. Selena, who had selected the favored spot in the yellow and white tent, had fared better.

Almost without thinking, Tanis released the arrow. It wobbled, caught in a fold of canvas to the right of the target, and stuck there, a bright splash of blue against a dun backing.

“Two points for the half-elf!” Tyresian called. “The next is Porthios.”

The Speaker’s heir, his face a mask of resignation, accepted the longbow from Tanis. “Remember, Tanis. I did not ask for this.” Tanis met his stare impassively, as though they’d never met.

Porthios nocked an arrow, drew his arm back-and Tanis froze in humiliation.

Porthios was right-handed. Yet in this contest, he had reversed the bow, drawing the bow with his weaker arm. Tanis felt his face go white, then red. Shooting with the off-arm was like saying Porthios could defeat the half-elf without trying. Porthios barely seemed to aim before the crimson-feathered arrow struck solidly in the dragonseye.

“Ten points for the full elf!” Tyresian cried.

The next turn brought the same result, and the score stood at twenty for Porthios and four for Tanis.

“It’s not too late to back down,” Porthios said softly as he handed the bow back to Tanis after his second dragonseye. For once, Porthios’s friends had grown quiet. “We could call off this farce because of rain.”

The words stung like the downpour that drilled into the moss around the two contestants. Even Tyresian had moved to one of the pavilions. Only the two combatants remained in the deluge. The half-elf stepped back to the line.

On the third round, Tanis’s shot slashed through the rain toward the target-and past it, chipping a shard of stone from the wall behind.

“Minus ten!” Tyresian cried. “The score stands thus: Tan-thalas Half-Elven, minus six in three. Porthios, twenty in two.”

Porthios sighed and gestured in a way that suggested he’d like nothing better than to abandon the contest. “Go ahead,” Tanis said. “Shoot.”

Porthios, still shooting left-handed, took even less time on this round, and his arrow arced overhead, striking the target a hand’s breadth from the center. He barely seemed to hear Tyresian call, “Five points. The score stands at minus six for the half-elf and twenty-five for Porthios.”

“There’s no way you can win,” Porthios urged. “Let’s stop this.”

Tanis felt his jaw stiffen, and Porthios looked away as the half-elf took more care than ever lining up the shot, concentrating on what was to come, visualizing a successful hit in the dragonseye. Tanis closed his eyes, willing the gods to be with him on this one. He thought of the contemptuous stares of Xenoth, Selena, and the rest, and felt anger rise like a boil within him. He narrowed his eyes against the rain, lined up the target, and released the arrow.

The cobalt-feathered projectile arced slightly, and Tanis’s heart sank.

Then it arced back to earth and neatly struck the dragons-eye.

“Ten points! The score stands at plus four for Tanis, twenty-five for Porthios.”

Porthios refused the bow when Tanis handed it to him. “Let it rest, Half-Elven. You are new to the sport. Let it rest.”

For a moment, Tanis almost succumbed to the sympathy that sprang up once more in Porthios’s green eyes. Suddenly, Tanis was painfully aware of his surroundings-the damp green smell of wet moss, the perfume of battered apples lying beneath a nearby tree, the faint cheep of a sparrow hiding from the storm in the branches of a spruce.

Then Tyresian spoke up. “Perhaps you should have chosen a more ‘human’ form of competition than the bow, half-elf.” Tanis felt rage mount in him again.

“Shoot, Porthios,” he snapped. “Or forfeit.”

Obviously tired of the charade, Porthios raised his arms and, sparing only a half-glance for the target, did as Tanis demanded. The arrow missed the target by more than ten paces.

“Final score: Porthios, at fifteen, is victor. A total of four for the half-human who seeks to show his expertise at an el-ven sport,” Tyresian said flatly, and turned on a muddy heel to head into the palace.

Even Selena and Litanas gasped at the vitriol in Tyresian’s words, but they followed Tyresian toward the steel doors, which shone dully through the gray downpour. Only Ul-then protested. “Unfair, Lord Tyresian,” he complained. “He did the best he could.”

Tyresian’s reply was smooth. “And it wasn’t enough, was it?”

As the courtyard emptied, Porthios stood uncertainly before Tanis, seemingly oblivious to the deluge that bent tree branches like reeds. Something like shame showed on the elf lord’s hawklike face. “Tanis, I…” he said, and trailed off.

Tanis said nothing, merely bending deliberately to pick up the discarded bow; then he paced to the wall to retrieve the arrows, blue and red, their feathers sodden in the mud that welled up around the patches of moss.

“Tanis,” Porthios repeated, and his face, for once, showed the strength of character that could be his as Speaker, if he only let it grow.

“I want a rematch,” Tanis interjected.

Porthios’s jaw dropped, and his upper lip drew up crookedly as though he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Have you no sense, Tanthalas? You are thirty to my eighty years. I’ve embarrassed myself enough already with this travesty. Would you duel with Laurana, by the gods? That’s what this comedy is to me.”