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PACING UP AND DOWN in her suite three days later, Asha felt sick with nerves. The storms had grown increasingly worse, forcing the combatants in the tournament to fight far more often. Their numbers had been reduced to a bare sixty now. Today would decide who the champion would be and which man would win her hand in marriage.
Several favorites had been chosen by the spectators. Tartor held the most votes, but Dalrin, or number one-eleven as everyone else knew him, was gaining favor. He was a mystery and no one knew anything about him. The advisors were nervous that an unknown man was carving his way through the ranks, but they were confident Tartor would win. They’d ignored her warning that she would reject the blue-haired warrior if he won. They thought they knew what was best, once again forgetting that fate couldn’t be controlled.
“You’ll need to look especially beautiful today, your majesty,” Olsa decided as she and her husband tried to decide what their mistress should wear.
“I think she should wear that one,” Unwin said, pointing at one of the gowns that hung in her extensive closet.
“Aye, it’s appropriate,” Olsa agreed.
Using their innate magic, they changed her outfit as she paced. Asha moved to stand in front of the mirror to examine herself. They’d chosen an amber gown with a myriad of gems on the bodice. It was sleeveless and fitted her more tightly than the other dresses she’d worn. The neckline was still modest and didn’t show off her cleavage like all the other female fairies tended to do. “It’s stunning,” she said, running a hand down the silky fabric of her skirt.
“A dress fit for a Queen,” Unwin agreed, smiling proudly at their work.
Bindel appeared on the table beside them, holding a silver tiara that was encrusted with gems. “Would you wear this today, your highness?” she asked shyly.
Asha strode over and took the tiara from her. “Of course,” she said. “It’s beautiful,” she added, studying it. Like her bodice, it had amber, green and brown gemstones. With the silver band, it was a nod to both sides of her heritage.
“Allow me, your highness,” Bindel said. She used a levitation spell to place the tiara on the dryad’s head. It settled into place and the trio sighed in satisfaction.
“You haven’t eaten your breakfast,” Olsa said, pointing at the plate of fruit that was untouched.
“I’m too nervous to eat,” Asha confessed. “If Dalrin loses the tournament and someone else wins, we’ll all be doomed.” Her heart had decided to choose the hunter and she instinctively knew no other man would suffice. The rain stopping and the clouds parting when he’d arrived at the palace had been a portent. Somehow, they would restore the balance together.
“He’ll win,” Bindel said confidently. “He’s the fiercest warrior this realm has ever seen, after all.”
Olsa and Unwin shot her warning looks as Asha frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked in confusion.
“Nothing,” the head brownie said, eyes shifting nervously. “I’d best be seeing to the others,” she added, then vanished.
“What shoes are we going to pair that dress with?” Unwin asked brightly. Asha was distracted by their chatter as they decided on the final piece of her outfit.
She was ready when Kurtus knocked on her door a few minutes later to escort her to the tournament. He gave her a sardonic look when she couldn’t hide her excitement. “Today is the day, my lady,” he said. “Your King will be decided and our realm will be saved.”
A rumble of thunder drowned out her words when she tried to respond. The ground shook so hard that she had to clutch his arm for balance. “I hope so,” she said when it died down. “We need to act fast to try to stop the chaos from spreading.”
Flooding had been reported all over the realm. Towns were inundated and travelers were holed up at the inns, unable to go any further. Entire communities were cut off from each other. There had even been word of landslides and small earthquakes that had caused fissures to open up.
The advisors were already seated in the balcony when Asha made her way to her seat. Hushed and subdued, the spectators huddled together as wind buffeted the arena. The rain was so loud that it was difficult to hear the announcer when he called the first batch of fighters.
Tartor sarcastically saluted Asha with his sword, then closed his visor and turned to face his opponent. Five more pairs of combatants faced each other as well. All had proven to be worthy opponents, but there could be only one overall winner.
Asha watched Tartor decimate his latest challenger, using unnecessary flashy moves and grandstanding as always. He was arrogant and overconfident, but he handily bested his first foe by chopping into his neck. Saluting her with his dripping sword again, he swaggered off the field even before the medics rushed in. Instead of cheering for him, the crowd exchanged disturbed murmurs. The wound had been grievous and the fairy could very well die. If he did, it would upset the balance even more.
“You want that reckless, vain fairy to be King?” Asha said quietly to the advisors. “He doesn’t even care if the realm implodes. All he cares about is his image.”
Lord Nicolaia heaved a sigh, but he didn’t contradict her. “We believed Tartor had the best chance of winning, my lady,” he said in a grave tone. “Perhaps fate has chosen another man to sit at your side.”
“Would you accept it if another warrior wins?” she asked.
They exchanged looks, then nodded reluctantly. “We are prepared to accept whomever prevails, my lady,” Lord Vanse said smoothly while eying her gem encrusted bodice with a leer he probably wasn’t even aware of.
“It will be for the good of our realm,” Lady Mildra added and received murmurs of agreement from the others.
“Good,” Asha said in satisfaction, then allowed herself to smile when Dalrin strode out onto the arena with the next batch of fighters. “Because number one-eleven is going to win,” she told them.
“How can you be so sure, daughter?” King Lod asked sourly. “Is it because he bows to you like a dandy whenever he wins?”
“It’s called manners, Lod,” she said archly. “That’s something you’re not acquainted with.”
Nicolaia leaned forward to address her. “You seem to be taken with the mysterious warrior. Why are you sure he’ll win?”
“He saved me from being trampled by a gigantic boar when I first arrived here,” she explained. “He escorted me part of the way to the palace before your soldiers kidnapped me.”
“Number one-eleven is the hunter you were seen with?” he asked in astonishment. The other advisors were just as amazed by that news.
“I haven’t seen his face, but I know it’s him,” she replied. “Besides, he’s wearing a portent that he’ll win.”
“What are you talking about?” Lady Mildra asked crankily.
“His number,” Asha pointed out. “One, one, one. He’s wearing the trinity to match my surname.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” the Goblin King muttered. “Only a female would believe in that sort of drivel.”
“You’d better hope I’m right,” Asha told him darkly. “He’s the only warrior who has a chance of winning me.”
“What are you saying?” Lord Vanse demanded.
“I’m saying I won’t marry anyone except Dalrin,” she declared, then smiled down at her rescuer as he turned to face her. Then the signal was given and the battle commenced.
Asha was too far away for Dacrith to hear what she was saying, but her beauty almost took his breath away when she smiled at him. Then a sword was whooshing towards his face and he had to focus. Still copying the styles of his opponents, he’d avoided the other contestants after each grueling day was over. Tartor had lain in wait with his cronies again, determined to unearth his true identity. Dacrith was just as determined to remain anonymous and deftly avoided their ambush.
His rival this time was highly skilled. They exchanged blows, searching for an opening for over half an hour. Human men would have been exhausted long before now, but their strength and stamina were excellent. Still, sweat dripped down their faces beneath their helmets and slid down their spines.
Dacrith’s opponent feigned tripping over a clump of dirt, but he didn’t fall for the tactic. He was ready for it when the fairy’s sword swung up, aiming for his chest. Knocking the weapon away, he plunged his own blade into the man’s side. They’d all been warned to avoid excessively wounding their foes. He pulled the sword free, then received an acknowledgment of defeat from his opponent.
Turning to the balcony among a shower of flowers from the spectators, Dacrith bowed to Asha. She beamed back at him and clapped in approval. Feeling as if he was levitating rather than walking, he entered the victors’ area. It had once been packed with men, but now seemed almost empty. Tartor sneered at him, then returned to cleaning and sharpening his sword. They all had to tend to their own gear now that the brownies were losing their magic.
Dacrith turned his attention back to the arena, but he kept one eye on his number one enemy. Soon, the pair would face each other in battle. He knew it as if it had been carved into his soul. Once he defeated Tartor, his dreams would be within his reach.
