In the lower end of the city, Nele would be posing as an overlooked pickpocket. Relying on her young features to appear small and forgettable, she would be listening, blending in, and taking the occasional coin. Every year she tried to increase her profits.
As Robin neared the green hill, she saw an excited group gathered outside another nearby tavern. Fletcher would be inside, gathering bets on who would win the archery tournament.
The archery tournament was held in the expanse between the castle on the hill and the city below. She needed to find the organizer’s tent and put her name into the contestant circle before the rounds began.
Her head felt tight from the braids in her hair. She had dressed herself to look like an Etrarian woman to match her curved bow. Her borrowed clothing was different enough that she was drawing stares, but not so different that anyone was truly giving her a second glance. She expected the archers of Iseldis to get angry when she bested their scores during their own summer festival, but she would enjoy their ire.
Ian would applaud for her, even if she was beating him. She smiled, enjoying the image even as she reminded herself that she did not care what Ian thought about her.
Chapter 27
Ian wrinkled his nose, holding back a sneeze for the thousandth time that day. Robin had pasted a rather convincing beard on the lower half of his face. She had also rubbed a walnut into the skin around his eyes, and the oil had sunk into the lines and shadows on his face, accentuating them to make him appear several seasons older.
He felt far more comfortable and unpretentious in his dark clothes, and had spent the entire morning imitating Ulli’s quiet swagger. Lane told him he swayed more when he walked, and Robin kept telling him to relax his shoulders. Ian did his best to remember both as he ambled up the familiar road toward the castle.
The archery tournament was the main event of the harvestreign festival, as the winner took home a small bag of coins. Though Ian had participated in it several times as a young man, he had never been good enough to make it to the final round. He and Onric usually made it to the second to last round, which would consist of only the final ten contestants.
Ian shrugged, reminding himself to relax his shoulders. He missed his younger brother. Seeing the castle just up ahead, hewanted to ignore the carefully crafted plan and walk straight into his old home.
He looked back at the people around him, distracting himself from the bright white walls of the castle. Around him, several other men and women, bows strapped to their backs, made their way toward the entrance tent. Beyond it, a flat section of the hill had been transformed into an archery range, complete with a dozen targets and tiered benches for the nobles and villagers to watch the tournament.
Keeping his hood up, Ian stood in line outside the tent to add his name—a false one—to the entrants list. This was a part of the process he had never participated in before, as someone else always added the princes’ names to the list. Though he knew his brother would not be present, Ian could not help glancing around at his fellow archers to search for him.
When he got to the front of the line, the scribe seated under the shade of the tent looked up at him expectantly.
“Marian of Lockwood,” Ian said, wishing that Onric were present to enjoy the jest he played on his own name.
The scribe looked down, scratching ‘Marian’ onto the parchment, and Ian moved out of the line. Not having an invitation to one of the nobles’ tents, Ian moved with the crowd to stand in the designated place for tournament contestants.
He tried to listen to the conversations happening around him, to see if he could glean any information about Gareth or his father. But most of the chatter around him was mundane discussion about bowyer techniques or the best food cart in the markets below.
“They say Prince Ian is not competing this festival.”
At the sound of his name, Ian looked up, trying to identify the speaker.
“If he doesn’t,” another voice replied, “we will know for sure that he has run off.” The man was standing to Ian’s right, buta few people stood between them. Ian eased himself in that direction, wanting to hear what they thought of him.
“I can’t make sense of it,” the first voice replied. “He knows me by name. It just isn’t like him to run off.”
Stepping around another person, Ian caught a glimpse of the speaker’s face. He recognized the man instantly. It was Ormunder, one of the castle guard.
At that exact second, the guard looked over, staring Ian straight in the eye.
Ian froze, afraid he had been found out. He made a motion to lift his finger to his lips, hoping that the man did indeed trust him.
But Ormunder’s gaze quickly moved on.
“Our Onric will be here,” said the second man, also a member of the guard. “Maybe you or I will best him this time.”
Ian turned quickly turned away, reaching a hand up to stroke the beard on his face. Robin’s disguise had worked.
He wanted to look through the crowd and find her, as he had not seen her since the band had parted ways that morning. But the risk of being recognized felt too great, so he kept his face lowered, hiding beneath the shade of his hood.
Finally, the blast of a horn signaled for the tournament to start. In groups of twelve, the archers approached the line, where they each shot six arrows. The only requirement for making it to the next round was landing every arrow in the target itself.
This part of the process was tedious, and Ian waited until the crowd had significantly thinned before he stepped up to the line. Spectators had begun to gather around the sides of the field, filling the benches and spilling out over the green grass. Some of them cheered for specific archers. Their presence provided anticipation, but even they would not be fully engaged until the competition got fiercer.
Ian easily landed his six arrows on the target ahead of him and was invited to cross to the far side of the field and wait for the second round.
