The morning of the contest was bright and splendid, bristling with anticipation and merriment. The air smelled of cooking food: spiced meats, roasting vegetables, shaved drinks thick with sweet syrups. She walked in a parade behind Prince Nicobar, and the royal retinue. The Sheriff -what the Prince demanded his subjects call the enchanted metal man -stalked silently alongside Nicobar like a second shadow.
Adora exchange smiles with the people who crowded parted for the procession, held back by the guards. She desperately longed to hold the worn and wrinkled hands of the old folks who reached out, to pinch and kiss the cheeks of babes, and make her fingers sticky by sneaking sweets to the children. She loved the people of Stormwatch, with a bottomless well of passion and respect that filled her core. Her line to ascending the throne was long, messy, and she much closer to the bottom than the top. She had her studies in music, history, theology, art and etiquette. Yet, all the fineries in the world could not make her whole, soothe her soul, nor ignite her spirit the way the citizens did.
When she was a little girl, and the Good King had not yet gone away to war, she had had a friend. Not one of the many high society companions Lady Hersillia had attempted to align her with, but rather the commoner child of the palace gardener. She had thrown a great tantrum at one early birthday party when she wasn't allowed to invite him, and she could not understand why. Her tears only stopped when Lady Hersillia proclaimed that she could have two separate birthdays with different guests lists. It took years to understand, and she only grew more bitter toward the idea as it became clear.
She could not recall his name anymore, but held the memories she could like cherished treasures. He was small and wiry, she could remember that, and the way he would smile at her when he had a devilish idea. Sneaking into the kitchens to swipe treats, chasing the hounds through creeping fog in the meadows, getting lost in the hedge maze together and crying loudly until her maids came running to help, solemn walks through the cemetery with hands clasped tightly and daring one another to enter the mausoleum, her recounting lessons and teaching them to him.
The gardener had died suddenly, leaving her friend all alone in the world. She knew the feeling all too well, having been raised on stories of her parents alone. He left shortly thereafter, without a proper farewell. Adora had long come to peace with knowing she would likely never see him again.
The procession marched onto the field where the first contest was to be held. Nicobar, Adora, and the Sheriff, alongside a small number of staff, made their way to the tallest grandstand box on the edge of the field. All around, in semi-circle around the event field, was erected rows of seating which would soon be full. Everyone in the Kingdom was invited. Nicobar loved a spectacle.
From her comfortable seat on high, Adora could see nearly the entire event spread out before her like a moving painting. Flags snapping gaily atop canvas tents, people bustling about carrying trays and tables, children dancing in clusters, and the growing long line of potential suitors that wrapped around the stands and out of sight.
"Princess!" A voice invoked up from below the grandstand. She cast a glance to the Prince and his Sheriff, but their attention was on shouting commands at the Phantom on the field below. "Princess Adora!"
She stood up, and leaned out through the little window beside her seat. Down on the worn footpath that snaked under her box stood Sylven, waving his dark cap in greeting. The fluffy black feather swished back and forth, and then swept under his chest as he bowed deeply. Sunlight glinted off red eyes of the ebony mask.
"Sylven!" She called out in unmistakable, unmasked delight. Then stifling herself, and recalling Nicobar's warnings, said more plainly, "you came."
"Miss an invitation from her majesty directly? A promise sealed by a kiss? Not for all the world or its riches! Upon arriving I even found that my name had already been recorded. So, I daresay that I shall be competing today. Come now, wish me luck!"
She blinked in surprise then flushed hot and pink. She cast another anxious glance to Nicobar, and was relieved to find him blissfully unaware. For now. There was no telling just how closely he, or the Sheriff, might be listening.
"Oh, but you must know I cannot."
"Of course I know that, my lady. Wish it to me regardless! The rules of your Prince are not mine. What say you, then?" His voice was thick with more than just the magical filter. There was a rebelliousness in his tone. A provoking one.
Her skin prickled with goose-flesh despite the warm sun. He never answered straight about becoming her suitor, yet seemed to burn with passion for her. Could it be an act? She did not know anything of his birth or background, only that he had stories to tell and she wanted to hear them. They'd only met one time, but she had thought of that meeting and of him more than once since. Hadn't she been looking for him all morning? Her heart leapt like it had decided for her.
Feeling giddy, she undid the pink silk hair ribbon and set her golden hair free. She brought the ribbon to her lips for a moment, then let it slip through her fingers. It twirled and twisted down to Sylven, who caught it triumphantly. With as much meaning as she dared, she said, "I shall be watching you." It was a small gesture, but with the Sheriff so near, even breathing too freely might be seen as rebellion.
Down on the field, with her orders clear, the Phantom was preparing for the first event. There was a great deal to get done, and the responsibility to ensure it done correctly was on her shoulders this day. She barked orders, rolled the massive hay bale targets, and happily controlled the chaos.
As much as she detested a party, she lived for days like these. A show of skill, a chance to demonstrate mastery of an art, and the thrill of competition. On the outside she did not appear particularly happy as she sweat and labored. Inside, however, she was beyond satisfied.
Until she noticed she was being followed. It was not the Sheriff. If not him, then who? She made her way under the stands. Snapping the daggers out of her sleeves and up into her hands, she rounded on her pursuer.
To her great surprise, and greater annoyance, she recognized the handsome, nervous face that was once again before her blade. It was the curly-haired man who had returned her Princess the other evening. With a groan, she hid the blades, then folded her arms and glared at him. Lady Hersillia was always on about some mumbo jumbo about the energy and power of emotions. Now seemed as good a time as any to test the theory.
"Why are you following me? I am busy."
"Following? You? No, that's crazy. You're crazy," Echo fumbled, ending with a forced laugh. He leaned- fell- against a support beam attempting to look casual. "But, uh, if you're busy and need of a helping hand, then I'm your man!"
Her eyes ran him up and down, unimpressed, and he certainly could feel that she was pissed. That was fine, he could work with pissed as long as the blades stayed sheathed.
"No offense," she said, "but a strong breeze could blow you away. No thanks."
"Not just me. Did I say man? I meant men."
He flashed a cheeky grin, then jammed his hands into his patched jacket. When he pulled them out again, little glass spheres filled with swirling sunset color were balanced between his fingers. Pocket spells. He smashed them on the ground all at once, and they shattered into a puff of orange smoke. From it humanoid figures sprang into being, one by one, until she was surrounded by Echo. Not just one, but not a multitude of grinning Echos.
"Absolutely not."
"On come on, The Phantom, you said yourself that you're busy. I've been watching you running around all-"
"So you were following me?"
"No, not following. More like observing and- that, doesn't matter. Look, these guys are magic. Magic, The Phantom. They're not going to get tired or complain or not follow orders. Give me and my boys a chance."
He said 'The Phantom' in two separate words, like it really was a title and not just a mocking nickname she had earned during training because she never spoke to anyone. If others had wanted to think she had gained the name it for different reasons, she was content to let them do so.
Still, it was clear that he wasn't going to leave her alone until he tried.
She relented and gave him, all of him, an order. The Echos and the real one, though he formally introduced himself later as Reynard, saluted her and loped off to do as she asked. Varena would refuse to admit it, but with his help everything was coming together much more efficiently
Elsewhere, Hurricane was on his own mission. Winding through the crowded fair and searching for Lady Hersillia, his heart was a battleground. Equal halves waging a brutal war. One side for hope and the impossible, while the other reminded him of all the ways in which the world loved to slap him down; the inevitability of it doing so again.
Still, days like this felt almost like before the Good King left for war. Back when he was just a young pup and the world seemed bright and kind. There were deeper divides between people now, but at least today there were smiles and joy.
He found Lady Hersillia, looking resplendent and dripping in gold jewelry, speaking to the growing crowd of potential suitors for the Princess. Hurricane leaned against a shady tree and watched her from a distance. She sparkled in the bright sunlight, her elegant dress like dragon scales. He liked the way she tossed her wavy dark hair back to laugh, the way her body flowed and danced to a song only she seemed hear, the neat little enchanted scroll and ink pen that bobbed beside her, jotted down her notes.
Mages were fascinating, and not just to Hurricane, at least he assumed. Who wouldn't be interested in the kinds of people that were strong enough to conquer the raw element of magic? An otherwise uncontrollable force of nature. It was like taking an actual hurricane into your hands and harnessing its power. Anyone could use the pocket spells that mages stored inside protected glass balls, even an idiot like Echo, but it took someone worth knowing to properly use magic.
He very much wanted to know someone like Lady Hersillia.
Hurricane became lost in that thought and had to scramble to catch up with her as she parted from the crowd. When he caught up, she met him with a smile that made him feel like the only person in the world.
"Oh, marvelous, you've come. I don't believe I caught your name before?"
"Calden!" He said it too fast, too loud, but he couldn't help it. He was beginning to understand what would make a man risk everything today. The mage held out her bejeweled hand.
"Lady Hersillia. A pleasure."
"The pleasure is all mine. I promise you that." He pressed a now more practiced kiss to her warm hand, relishing her touch once more.
"I hate to admit, but I've fallen short of my end of the bargain. Nicobar has been a touch more," she paused, pressing her lips together thoughtfully, "restrictive over my dealings of late. I was also appointed master of ceremonies today, at the last minute... Perhaps you might be willing to settle for this: I have wonderful seats in the judging box. Right on the field, fantastic view of the action. If you would not mind my company, I should be pleased to have you join me for the day, Calden."
"Absolutely." He spoke too fast again, then added, "as long as you don't mind my company either." He felt like when the gang sparred together on the rickety bridge above the icy river, and someone managed to knock him into the torrent below. Good luck and Hurricane had a historically distant relationship.
The Lady showed him to their viewing box. They were otherwise alone, tucked into a corner of the field. She gave him a terribly pretty smile when she left to make her speech. Deep down, in his warring heart, he knew that they were living in two completely different worlds. Their paths might cross, hell even the moon would waltz by the sun on occasion, but they could never fully meet. The battle waged on. Hersillia made her way onto the field, glittering like a jewel.
"Hello and welcome, one and all!" Her voice echoed, magically amplified. "Good people of Stormwatch Kingdom, distinguished visitors, and guests! Prince Nicobar welcomes you. Our competitors battle this day for the hand of the fair Princess Adora! The first event, archery, is open to all who have either signed up or been selected through official channels. However, only the victors may proceed onto the second event: sword fighting. Those subsequent winners will advance to the final portion of the day, facing off in a joust! The winners of the joust, and only those select few alone, shall have the privilege of becoming the official suitors of the Princess. Though, the winner today will have the singular privilege of a kiss, bestowed by our lovely Adora."
"Tell me, Sheriff," Nicobar mused to the shadows. He watched on approvingly as the audience cheered. "Could my brother have ever pulled off an event such as this? Something so grand and becoming of the royal family?"
"No, Sire," replied the Sheriff.
"Any sign of trouble? Grimholt?"
"No, Sire."
The answer was a placating one. Of course there had been no sighting of Grimholt or his band of bandits. No one knew what any of them looked like, or, if they did, refused to answer Sheriff during his interrogation sessions. The outlaws were masters of disuse and deception, but Nicobar was plotting something to foil them.
The Prince was always improving, reforging, the Sheriff. He had built his own right hand man. Though skilled in portal magic, he had needed the assistance of the court mages to enchant the metal skeleton. Its eyes burned with ethereal, magic flame when it came to life and they had never gone out. Those eyes served as portals through which Nicobar could watch, as he chose. A new reforge was in the works for his enforcer.
Still, Nicobar was in a good humor today. Sylven was the only ugly splotch of ink on an otherwise perfect canvas. The Prince's jaw twitched as he watched the mystery man slip in among the rows of archers taking their places on the field below.
The man in the plague doctor costume was not like the rest. He was dressed in all black, with an occasional flash of pink from about his wrist. He couldn't seem to help but take up conversation with those around him, much to the obvious frustration of his fellow hopefuls. His arrows were tipped with colorful feathers, and he had taken to balancing them on the beak of his mask.
Princess Adora must have been smiling too openly, because Nicobar demanded her attention to point outhis favored options among her suitors. Of note, he indicated Count Cinbran of the far, far away Dutchy of Viremont. Her claim to the throne was so distant that Nicobar didn't mind shipping her across the globe. Viremont was settled high in of the Skardhal mountain pass, where winter was longer than any other season, and where circus performances were banned for being 'too ostentatious.'
He was a slight, pale man with dark hair and a severe yet handsome face that betrayed no emotions. He did not make a fool of himself to catch her attention. Instead, he focused on the matter at hand, readying his bow. Proper, precise, exact. Adora wasn't watching him, she hadn't promised him that.
It was the Phantom's turn to take center stage, her voice needing no magic to be heard as she marched up and down the rows and called out the rules. Three arrows, three chances. Only the best of the best would continue. When she finished, a hush had fallen over the restless audience. Every set of eyes watched hungrily, shimmering with anticipation.
"Ready!" Called the Phantom.
Arrows were notched, and the crowd collectively held their breath. "Aim!"
Even the breeze stood still as the bows were raised, the competitors aiming down the length of their arms. Princess Adora squeezed her hands and silently hoped.
"Release!"
Like a flock of birds startled from a tree, the arrows soared across the field. There was applause when it was done, but no cheers yet. Not until the first round was declared. A small army of men jogged out, almost in sync, to check the targets. When the qualifiers were selected, those who had failed to hit the target were escorted out. More than one threw a temper tantrum as he was shuffled off the field by a merciless Varena.
"Stow that pleased smile, Princess," said Nicobar icily across the box. Sylven had passed the first round with a perfect shot.
"Even if it is upon Count Cinbran that I smile?" It was a lie, but it was worth the stomach ache. The Count had also moved on to the second round, landing his own bullseye.
The roughness of the Prince's face smoothed. He was pleased; Adora found him to be a right hypocrite for it. Still, she had won this particular battle. Nicobar turned away from her and back to the mewling courtiers and guards that surrounded him perpetually.
The Sheriff watched her with the forever burning magical gasses he had in place of eyes.
"Ready! Aim!"
The Princess watched only Sylven. They couldn't control that.
"Release!"
The arrows whistled through the air again. The goal this round was to hit within the white rings. Varena's retinue dashed out to check the targets and match arrows and entertain. There was something oddly familiar about the men that jumped about, yet the Princess couldn't remember her bodyguard ever utilizing before. This was odd indeed, as Nicobar hosted countless events that could have benefited from them.
"Would you bring me my opera glasses?" The Princess whispered. The young maid at her side nodded and slipped out of the box.
Adora had to press her lips together to suppress a grin when it was announced that Sylven had passed once more. Another perfect bullseye.
"His good luck will wear out," the Sheriff rumbled reassurance to the moody monarch.
"It certainly will." A dark scowl began to settle on his face. Count Cinbran too had passed into the final round. No need to be hasty.
The maid returned just as the final round started, and delivered the glasses to her mistress.
Though, the Princess knew better than to look through them just yet. "Ready! Aim! Release!"
The only way to advance to the sword fighting was to hit a bullseye. Prince Nicobar was determined to make a big show of choosing the best marriage candidate for the Princess.
Whooshwent the arrows a final time. As the audience clapped, Adora brought the opera glasses to her eyes and scanned the field. She forced her face to stay neutral, searching for the men who hustled around to declare winners.
Like a blow to the chest she recognized him. Echo. Lots and lots of him!
She inhaled sharply. What was Echo doing here? What was he doing with her bodyguard? Feeling panic, she looked for her mentor was only alarmed to find Hurricane beside at Lady Hersillia in the judges box! The mage was laughing and touching his arm with familiarity.
What in the world was happening?