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CHAPTER ONE
Thwack.
Heath could feel rather than hear the dull thud of the arrow sinking into the branch, his eyes confirming he had hit his mark a moment before his arm felt the sudden tug on the rope wrapped around it.
“Whoa!” His companion’s laughter was barely audible over the roar of the water. “That’s a big one!”
Heath couldn’t even hear the clatter of his bow landing at his feet on the wooden bridge, as he dropped it in order to grip the rope with both hands. He grunted in reply to the other young man’s words as he strained against the furious tug on the line.
“Seriously, Lord Heath,” his companion tried again, struggling with his own rope. “I think it’s too big.”
“Feel free to concede if you want,” Heath shouted. He continued to haul on the rope, attempting to pull the enormous branch up out of the torrent and onto the bridge.
The other man made no more protest, turning his attention to his own branch. When Heath spared him a glance, he saw that his rival had almost managed to get his trophy clear of the water. The branch, much smaller than Heath’s chosen target, had been hauled back from its passage under the bridge, and was pulled upright by the rope which stretched from an arrow buried into it, all the way up to the young man standing on the bridge.
Heath’s own branch was out of sight by now, pulled under the bridge by the relentless current, toward the roaring waterfall on the other side. Heath kept his back to the waterfall, all his focus on tugging the rope hand over hand as he attempted to pull the branch against the current. It crawled inch by inch back up the river to his side of the bridge.
All at once, his companion stumbled backward with a cry, falling hard against the wooden railing of the bridge, his unanchored rope in his hand. Heath gave a grim smile. As with his own previous two attempts, the other man’s arrow had come loose from the branch, unable to withstand the intensity of the pull created by the battering water. It was the reason Heath had chosen such a large branch this time. His arrow was buried so deeply in the wood, it would be difficult to dislodge.
He made a guttural sound deep in his throat as he hauled on the rope, his hands burning from the tension. He felt the branch inch back against the current, and he braced his legs on the bottom rung of the bridge’s railing, ignoring the burn in his still-healing leg as he did so.
The other man made no immediate attempt to find a new branch to shoot an arrow into. He sat for a moment on the bridge, looking a little winded from his sudden fall. If he was honest, Heath thought his opponent had done well to get his branch so close to clearing the water. He was an archer, like Heath, and an excellent one. He had been the victor in the previous year’s archery tournament, when Heath—along with all the other power-wielders—had sat out of the competition in order to appease the crown.
Of course, no one had been appeased when Heath was accidentally witnessed achieving the tournament’s final impossible feat. On the contrary, he had put everyone’s backs up, including the winner. Perhaps it was why the man had been so ready to accept this stupid challenge when Heath suggested it.
But like many archers, both of them were wiry rather than bulky, and being able to accurately shoot an arrow into a branch was different entirely from being able to haul that branch bodily out of a raging river. Percival would be able to do it in a heartbeat, of course, but Heath had made a point of not telling his brother what he was up to.
He pushed Percival from his thoughts, keeping his eyes and his focus firmly on the rope in his hands. Distraction seemed to be the only way to force everything else to the edge of his mind, at least temporarily.
“HEATH! WHAT IN THE BLAZES ARE YOU DOING?”
His brother’s raised voice sounded faintly above the roar of the falls. A moment later his familiar form appeared in Heath’s peripheral vision, as if summoned by his thoughts.
Heath’s focus slipped for a moment, his eyes flicking to Percival. His brother looked equal parts bemused and angry. Heath ignored the question, turning back to his branch, its tip just starting to emerge from under the bridge.
But Heath’s attention had been pulled from his simple physical task, and it was hard to recapture the detachment. A splash of water from the raging river hit his face, and he seized up. His limbs locked in place as his mind was tugged ruthlessly back to the feeling of driving rain against his skin as someone dragged him desperately up a beach, his senses alight with pain. He stared in panic into the plunging, churning water below the bridge, sure for a moment that he could see a shimmering purple tail amidst the spray.
A face swam before his eyes, warm brown skin, bright, inquisitive brown eyes, tangled dark hair. She wasn’t in the water, but above the surface, the green fronds of a palm tree waving lazily behind her against a clear blue sky. Her expression was determined, almost triumphant, no trace of the defeat and pain that had marred her features as she lay dying.
Heath gasped at this crystal-clear image of Merletta’s face, his arms losing all strength to keep pulling. The branch, released from its reluctant upward progress, sprang free of his control and surrendered gladly to the insistent pull of the current.
Heath’s limbs were still locked in place, and his hands seemed frozen in their grip on the rope. Instead of letting go, he was tugged suddenly and violently forward. He was aware of two startled shouts, but his mind was too blank to register his own danger until he felt an iron grip close around both of his legs. He cried out involuntarily as pain lanced through his injured leg, but the sensation was enough to bring him out of his stupor. He realized all at once that he was dangling over the edge, his torso already past the railing, and his brother’s speed in grabbing his legs the only thing keeping him from pitching all the way over into the furiously writhing river below.
Control returned, and he let go of the rope, falling back on top of Percival with a thump that shook the whole bridge. He scrambled upright, his heart racing at the realization of how close he had come to death. He was facing the other way now, with an excellent view of the place, a very short distance downstream, where the river plunged over the edge of the massive waterfall. If he had fallen in, there was no way he could have avoided being swept down the falls, and no way he would have survived that experience.
“Sorry,” he gasped, as Percival pushed himself to his feet. “And, you know, thanks.”
“What is wrong with you?” Percival roared, not in the least softened by the apology. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Calm down,” Heath muttered, although he knew his brother wouldn’t be able to hear. He turned to his original companion. “I guess it’s a draw,” he shouted, shrugging.
The man didn’t respond, his face pale as he leaned on the railing for support. With a sudden flash of certainty, Heath realized that the other archer was wondering what would have become of him if a noble—one from a power-wielding family, and one against whom he arguably had a grudge—had plunged over the edge of the falls to his death while in his sole company. Heath felt a twinge of guilt at the reminder of how little he had thought about the impact on others of his own foolish behavior. He pushed the thought aside. He didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else.
“Come on,” he shouted to Percival.
His brother was still glaring at him, but he made no protest as Heath strode toward the end of the bridge, his attempt at casual unconcern somewhat marred by his limp. The other two followed him, no one attempting further speech until they had their feet on solid ground again. Heath saw that Percival had tied his own horse next to the two he and his companion had left grazing. Ahead, he could see the city of Bryford rising up, all gray stone and waving pennants. Heath felt no enthusiasm about returning to the capital, and his new responsibilities.
A sudden gust of wind caught at Heath’s clothes as he mounted his horse, the movement awkward due to his injuries. He looked up, and a brief rush of excitement coursed through him before he remembered. The feeling subsided instantly, replaced by the dull ache that always sat uncomfortably in his chest now. He was annoyed with himself for the reaction, however involuntary it had been. The trouble was that no matter how angry he still felt with the dragon, after nineteen years of friendship, he couldn’t just erase the sense of beckoning adventure he always felt at Reka’s approach.
