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Overall, the teams all had a similar look about them—these men were the biggest, strongest, toughest, best of everything. And they knew it.
As the day drew on, two champions pulled ahead of the others—one from Lion team and one from Raven team—and both were clearly very skilled, even among their fellow competitors. By the time they inevitably squared off against each other, the two men were both sweaty and panting, covered in nicks and bruises from their other matches. But stamina was part of the game. They were only given a brief rest before they were pitted against each other in the final match.
I caught myself rooting particularly hard for one of the contestants and yanked my eyes away from the way the sunlight glinted off his shiny black horns. I couldn't play favorites. Not when these men were being chosen to help watch over Larkwood. There was more riding on this tournament than my own whimsical desires.
A gangly squire with a mop of shaggy red hair finished tending to my favorite contestant close to where I sat, and the big warrior patted the boy on the back to send him off. The boy stumbled over his own too-large feet and the contestant from Lion team made some remark that had the people in the stands behind him laughing as the boy blushed bright red. The contestant from Raven team frowned, clearly not finding the humor in the boy's embarrassment.
Then the match started. It was brutal. The man from the Lion team was easily the biggest male I had ever seen. His entire body rippled with muscle, and every movement emanated power. I tried really hard not to imagine what the brute would be like in bed. Stars. He'd probably leave bruises. I shifted in my seat. I wasn't sure if that thought was frightening or intriguing. But it did remind me that these men were potential mates.
It was all so absurd, choosing a life-bonded partner through a game. It seemed fitting that the queen and her adoring public referred to this tournament as the "Game of Hearts." They had certainly made my love life into a trivial game.
Steel rang as the smaller Raven team warrior—who was still tall and as broad as a wall, just smaller by comparison to his rival—blocked a vicious blow and parried. The massive guy from Lion team was stronger. Bigger. But he was slower too, his movements less controlled. It was soon obvious that although the two opponents were so different physically, they were pretty evenly matched when it came to skill.
In fact…if anything, the smaller, darker-haired one from Raven team seemed to be gaining the upper hand. His opponent was tiring faster. All he had to do was wear the bigger guy down. I forced myself to stay seated when all I wanted to do was jump to my feet and cheer for Ward.
Then calamity struck. The squire from earlier suddenly stumbled into the ring, tripping over his own feet and windmilling his arms as he tried to slow his fall. It took a moment for me to realize he had been pushed by the rowdy crowd behind him. The massive mountain of a fae from Lion team was intent on the fight. He didn't alter his course, didn't pull the vicious arc of his blade, even as the squire stumbled into his path.
Ward saw what was about to happen, and the Raven team contestant pivoted and shoved the boy out of harm's way, taking the other man's blade to his middle. A resounding clang of steel against armor rang out through the momentarily silent arena.
The blow knocked Ward to his knees. He barely got an arm up to avoid the kick that was aimed at his face. He somehow managed to find his feet again, but he held his side, clearly injured by the earlier blow.
They traded a few more swings, but it was obvious now that the injured fae was going to lose. When he fell one last time, I fully expected the match to end. But the massive golden warrior from Lion team followed him, overcome by the heat of the fight. He raised his sword and prepared to plunge the blade straight down into the chink between the other man's mail.
"Match!" The official's voice echoed through the arena, amplified by magic, as his spell froze both contestants, preventing any movement.
The crowd murmured and rumbled. The official released his magic, and the giant of a man from Lion team shook himself, blinked as if he was surprised, then offered his opponent a hand up.
As if he hadn't just tried to kill the man.
Chapter 9
I made my way into the tournament encampment with four armed guards at my side. I hated the conspicuous chaperone, but my royal hosts insisted. My escort drew attention, but I wasn't the only noble who came to pay their respects and wish their favorite champion well after the day's matches. And depending on how self-important the noble was, they usually trailed a passel of servants, guards, or insipid cronies with them. If anything, people would recognize me as working in the palace and think my overinflated sense of self-importance explained the guards.
I went unmasked and dressed in the nice but serviceable clothes of a well-paid palace employee. If one of the courtiers from the palace saw me, they'd just assume I was unmasked because I clearly wasn't the Prize. And they'd probably all whisper about how it was just someone in my position to throw away all sense of propriety and mingle with lowborn and highborn alike all for the chance to find the juiciest gossip and run back to my employer for a pat on the head.
I wasn't well known in Brightfall since I was the steward of a minor territory who hardly left home. So, no one outside the court should recognize me and trigger the spell’s effect anyway. As far as anyone here knew, I was just an eccentric minor noble out for a lark. The officials and guards who wandered about the place didn't know the identity of the tournament's prize. All anyone knew was that the Prize was a lady of potentially great noble standing who was sponsored by the king and queen—which meant she could be any privileged, well-connected miss in the kingdom. But certainly not a minor noble in the royal employ.
The queen’s deep magic was so deceptively simple that no one would even think to ask questions. They wouldn't think to look into who I was or verify who I worked for and find out that I was from a territory that was on the brink of vast growth and imminent wealth. The power of the spell was in the way it blurred people's natural curiosity just enough to keep them believing that I was nothing more than an unimportant gossip-monger. Even the head of my personal guard didn't know I was the Prize—she simply thought I was a royal employee who was prone to getting herself into sticky situations because of the royal thirst for gossip. Her mind would never quite be able to make that final leap to who I really was.
It was terrifying to think how easily the queen of Elfhaven had worked a spell that would influence every person I came into contact with. All with no one being able to pick up even a hint of magic. This was why people feared her. If she ever decided to turn her mischievous ways to more horrible delights, like the fae monarchs of old, no one could stop her.
I shook off that dark thought and forced myself to focus on the happy energy in the air. There was an air of gaiety and playfulness dancing about the competitor's encampment. Some of the visitors milling about in their masks played at being the Prize, even as they tried to guess who the true Prize really was. It was all a grand game for them. They flirted with the contestants, maybe hoping for a tumble with one of the handsome, well-made men. They took bets among their peers. They bribed servants for tidbits of information and kept an ear to the gossip that ran rampant. All hoping they would be the one who correctly identified the Prize.
It would almost be amusing, if my future and the future of Larkwood and all its people wasn't at stake. Sighing, I led my guards to the food tent, where the day's winning champions and runners-up would be treated to toasts and free rounds by patrons and fellow competitors. All in good fun. For the most part.
A few of the blokes along the outskirts look sullen as they nursed their bruises and scrapes with a frosty pint, courtesy of the ice magic of the highborn bartender. A few of the men sported healing amulets from the royal healers. But most joked and laughed, even through their bruised pride. I paused and looked around the room, taking it all in.
The men who took part in this tournament would earn bragging rights for years to come for their demonstrations of skill, even if they didn't win. But most of them were also here with the genuine hope of improving their lot in life. For the poorer men, marrying into a noble House would provide financial stability and a place in the world.
Even for the noble contestants, it was still a way to make something of themselves in a way they might otherwise never be able to. Some were so far down the line of inheritance in their own families that they didn't have many prospects. This tournament was a chance for something different. They would be part of the running of an estate. They would be fathers to children who would likely inherit a title. If they guessed the Prize had greater responsibilities to the throne, then they knew they might even have a say in local government and the way things were done.
The desire to better themselves might sound like pure greed or social climbing on the surface, and for some, it probably was. But when I looked around the brightly colored tent decorated with the animal totems of every team, I saw the faces of hardworking, hopeful men from all walks of life. These men were here to fight for the chance to be my bonded. And it suddenly made me feel small and outclassed.
I had done nothing to earn their labor and their hope. Would they be disappointed if they won? The king and queen and their siblings had several unmarried daughters. Would the contestants be expecting a highborn princess with a castle somewhere, rather than a mixed-breed duchess with stewardship of a previously unimportant backwater forest town?
Rowdy laughter snapped me out of my moody introspection, and I found myself standing near the champion's table, having drifted that way in my musings. The massive golden mountain of a man who had won both the sword and hand-to-hand competitions was currently regaling an overeager barmaid with the story of his win on the field today—liberally embellished for effect, of course. He held a tankard of ale in one hand, and he waved the other hand as he spoke, his handsome face split in a grin.
I waited patiently for him to finish his tale before I pushed through the surrounding crowd. I supposed the guy had earned some bragging rights after all the fighting he'd done today. He had made it to the final round, after all. Even if I wasn't exactly impressed with his last performance.
