Work Text:
The wood of the Spirit Forest under Jamke’s fingers had been a steadying presence amid the rush of pageantry ever since he arrived, letting him take in his surroundings with amazement rather than agitation. He gripped it even tighter when a squire, carrying a bow in his arms, his soft face stressed to breaking point, knocked into him.
“Ah, sorry! Sorry, sorry—”
The boy had rushed away before his apologies were even fully out of his mouth, ponytail streaming behind him.
Satisfied it had been just an accident, and wishing the boy luck with whichever knight’s temper had him so worried about being tardy, Jamke’s fingers loosened and he went back to soaking in the atmosphere.
So, this was Yngvi, home to the finest archers on the continent.
How stunning it all was.
Hundreds of banners flapped with each gust of wind. Merchants in fine Miletosian velvets with puffy sleeves fussed over their children’s equipment and lectured them about being their family’s one hope in a generation; knights in full parade armour strutted around, shouting at their pages to do well and not embarrass them. There was music on the air, a dozen bards and dancers in every direction. Less colourful, but far more exciting to someone who’d admired them from a distance for so many years, men in beige surcoats stood around languidly, chatting with the confidence of men who had nothing to prove.
He shifted his green hood with one hand, letting the shadows disguising his face fall away along with a little of his wariness.
A tournament of this sort would never be organised in Verdane. While archery was tolerated, it was hardly the most prestigious of martial disciplines. As Cimbaeth had once sneered at him before shoving an axe into his hand and dragging him off to hear pointers on techniques he didn’t care about, it was a pursuit for hunters and foreigners, not something a proud prince of Verdane should be wasting time on. Even Father, whose opinions Jamke otherwise respected highly, seemed to regard his predispositions as a childish fixation that would fade in time.
Yngvi, though: here, archery was held in the highest esteem. Their elite knights were the mounted archers; their founder’s holy weapon was a sacred bow. All he’d need to do was take a step over the river border and he’d be there, witnessing it all for himself rather than listening to stories of the terrifying Beige Ritter second-hand.
So, when he’d come out to Evans to visit Munnir and overheard talk of an archery competition being held for young men and women just past the Jun boundary, and being a young man himself, how could he resist?
It had taken a while longer than expected to get here and for things to start, with all the feasting and minor hastiludes before the main event, but it wasn’t as though Munnir ever bothered to keep an eye on him. He’d made sure to ride into the forest first anyway, like he was going on a hunting expedition for a few days. It wasn’t as though that would be unusual for him; he was more used to spending time in the Spirit Forest than within castle walls, after all, hunting, whittling and having conversations with the reclusive forest villagers. He had a hood to cover his face too, so nobody would recognise him.
He’d thought everything out. He could see how his skill stacked up against his martial peers in Grannvale without anyone bowing or scraping to him as a foreign prince, and if he really was worse than the lot of them, he wouldn’t bring embarrassment back on Verdane. Then, he’d ride back to Evans before he could be missed, and it would be like nothing had happened.
And if it was a little exciting to be in disguise like this, well. He was only human.
He allowed himself a secretive smile as he bit into some sort of Granvallian biscuit, marvelling at the exotic flavour and trying to place the ingredients. Perhaps he could buy more and bring them home; Father had said there was some kind of sweet he’d enjoyed last time he was here for diplomatic talks, and it would be good to bring him something he liked about Grannvale, something different from the constant doomsaying that had been a constant of court life ever since that sorcerer had been allowed to climb the ranks like a strangler fig.
Besides, if it was Jamke who brought them to him as a gift, hopefully Father would be readier to hear his misgivings about that Sandima being allowed any more influence than he’d already been granted.
Just as he’d placed the little chewy things as raisins, the call finally came.
“Competitors! Line up!”
Ah, too bad. He finished it in a few more bites, then found a spot near the end of the line, newly cautious about being recognised now that he wasn’t part of a crowd. Then, when he’d settled, he pulled back his hood and fixed his hair back in a ponytail like everyone else.
Well, mostly everyone else. There was one boy, standing in the very centre of the field, who didn’t bother. His pale blonde hair fell straight, being lightly buffeted by the wind. He stood out for more than just that, though. His clothes were elegant, but not as flashy as some of the others, and he wore them on a brash, confident stance. He wasn’t exactly an intimidating figure per se, but it seemed like, despite the bustle for the best spots occurring everywhere else on the field, most avoided getting in his space.
The strangest thing about him was that, unlike the other competitors, who all craned their necks over to the central stand where Lord Ring and Lady Edain were seated, he stared resolutely away from them.
“Lord Andrei is so admirable. Just look at how focused he is,” whispered one of the other boys who’d fought his way into a suitable position, clearly thinking he was being quieter than he really was. “You know, he insisted on participating in every competition around the duchy when he could just sit in the stands like Lady Edain.”
“I wish he didn’t… there’s no way I can win against someone from House Yngvi, they’re blessed by the gods. And besides, I heard he gets angry whenever he doesn’t win. I wouldn’t want someone like him mad at me.”
While the muttered conversations continued, Lord Ring handed a bundle to his daughter. She gracefully accepted it, stood, and descended onto the field. Her snow-white skirts were long enough that, initially, Jamke found himself worrying over whether the hem would get dirty. That thought quickly vanished when he, along with the others, realised what the bundle contained, sending excited mutters along the line.
It was the weapon that every child born of Verdane learned to fear before they turned three, having turned the tides of combat against their forces countless times in the decades before Father took the throne and set about brokering peace. It was the very reason that archery made so many in Verdane uncomfortable.
It was that most infamous of bows, Yewfelle.
What Munnir would definitely call unpatriotic excitement rose in his chest as it came down the line, presented to each competitor in turn. Some touched it with near-religious awe, as though they were being blessed with merely the touch of wood to their bare skin. Others tried to play it off, keeping their faces straight, as if touching the most famous bow on the continent was part of their morning routine. Their eyes betrayed them, though, glittering like hidden facets of diamond within a stone exterior.
When Lord Andrei touched Yewfelle, it was more of an impatient slap than a respectful laying of hands. He sent a cold look across to Lord Ring as he did, the first in all the time he’d been here. It seemed to say, ‘just as you expected’.
His sister’s dainty smile strained a little, but she managed to keep it in place. In fact, aside from then, her expression only shifted in front of the female competitors.
Along with the chatter about Lord Andrei, Jamke had overheard many incredulous mutters about girls being encouraged to participate, even more than boys; around a quarter of the competitors had ended up being female, making the boys around them uneasy and boisterous, partly sure they couldn’t possibly be surpassed, partly terrified for their masculinity if they were. He would never have expected that Lady Edain might have a problem with them, given she was a girl too, and yet, every time she stopped in front of one of them, something unreadable would flicker past her gracious courtesy. Her tawny eyes would become sharper, entirely focused. Then, the look would vanish, having searched for something that clearly hadn’t appeared.
It was a curious thing, but only lingered in his mind until Yewfelle was presented to him. After that, anybody would have forgotten anything else they were thinking about.
They said that the Crusaders’ weapons were infused with the power of divine dragons, and he could well imagine it. Jamke had made bows before. On his back was one he’d crafted himself for the competition; his finest work yet, built for power and precision. Verdane was lush with thick forest, Spirit Forest wood in particular being renowned across the continent; most gifts sent with ambassadors to other parts were sculpted and crafted from it by master artisans.
Even to them, this was on a completely different level. As his fingers cautiously skimmed across the fine finish, his heart drumming, he could feel an entirely different energy than mere tautness coursing down the string. He couldn’t even place the type of wood used to craft it. It seemed almost otherworldly.
Then it was gone, onto the person beside him. His hands tingled.
“So beautiful,” said the girl who had held it before him, her eyes full of wistful sparkles, as Lady Edain moved further down the row. “I only wish I could handle something even close to it in my lifetime.”
He only realised she was talking to him when she looked at him, expecting a reply.
“You can feel the history on it,” he agreed. “You can really tell it has divine origins.”
She blinked at him for some reason, her mouth slightly open, but then she nodded her head. “Ah… yeah.” She smiled and rubbed her nose, though she seemed a little more nervous than before for some reason. “You think so too, huh? Even if they say they’re all good, I bet none of the other Crusaders’ weapons even come close to how elegant Yewfelle is. It’s a shame Lady Brigid isn’t around to show the rest of ‘em what for. I mean, Lord Ring was probably really dashing back in the day, of course, but can you imagine—”
Full of enthusiasm, she commanded his attention so thoroughly that the elbow to his ribs took him off guard. He turned to face a hot glare.
“Hey, barbarian, how about you just keep your eyes to yourself? And that goes double for keeping them off Her Ladyship!”
Jamke blinked, confused, before he realised what had given him away. He’d disguised himself, but not his voice. This was close to the border, sure, but a West Verdanese accent, even a royal’s, was too distinct to be mistaken for anything else.
The girl beside him looked uncomfortable, plucking at her bowstring and trying not to look at him too much, no doubt worried about setting the boys around them off any more than they already had been.
A coldness settled in his stomach. It hadn’t occurred to him that they might take their sore egos out on him too. It hadn’t occurred to him that there was anything too distinct or hateful about him, disguised in their fashions, that they could lash out at. Yet, there was. His nation.
The word simmered in his mind. Barbarian.
Verdane was allied with Grannvale, despite how Munnir and Cimbaeth and Sandima, damn him, talked about their inevitable perfidy. Father had spent his life mending relations with Grannvale after decades of border strife which had raged, ferocious and bloody, since the very founding of the modern continental order. He’d done his best to instill a sense of openness in his sons, even though those seeds of tolerance had only ever taken root with his youngest. Lately, though, he’d been falling back into the old distrust, ever since that Sandima wretch had introduced himself to the court and been allowed to take residence.
Jamke hadn’t been able to understand it, but now that word kept bouncing around in his head.
As a prince, even the youngest, nobody outside his family could tell him that he acted oddly, or speak harshly to him. If he ever crossed paths with foreign traders and diplomats and travellers in the capital’s castle town, they fell over themselves to be courteous to him.
Disguised, he had no such station to shield him from their true vitriol.
If they hadn’t been aware of his station, back then, and dependent on the continued goodwill of their Verdanese hosts, would they have bothered with such courtesies? When they went home, did they boast about their dangerous adventures among savages?
How did all those diplomats and foreign kings who praised Father’s pacifistic endeavours to his face truly speak about him in private?
If this was the way they talked, even after all the effort Father had spent on peace, and all those years of painstaking diplomatic progress and gifts, then maybe he was starting to understand why he’d fallen back into thinking of Grannvale as being full of snakes poised to bite.
He pulled his bow from his back and drew the string with a sharp movement. The hemp was taut under his fingers, the movement seamless. Satisfied, he brought it back to a resting position.
Barbarian , indeed.
Just because witnessing the splendour of Yngvi for himself had always been a dream, just because he chafed against the bellicosity of his brothers, that didn’t mean he didn’t have all the pride of a true Verdanese prince. Before, he’d been content with participating. If these boys hadn’t wanted to be shown up, well. They would face the consequence of their own misstep.
The competition began as soon as Lady Edain reascended the stands, with a clap of Lord Ring’s hands. They all raised their bows in turn, like a slow wave rippling towards the finish line of the shore. There was loud cheering for Lord Andrei, of course, and for any shots of particular excellence.
The wave reached him and, without hesitation, he drew. The strand of hemp dug into his fingers, more familiar than anything else in this world. Indignation on his side, he felt himself pulling it back even more than usual, determination keeping his arm steady.
He knew this bow down to every grain in the Spirit Forest wood, and he’d made damn well sure it was in perfect condition before it was his turn. For the sake of more than his pride, he had no choice but to be spectacular now, and so it was with a furious belief in himself that he let go.
The arrow blasted right into the centre of the target. Then through it. It was a more violent result than the others, and sent a flinch through the gathered crowd. The fletching at the end of his arrow quivered for a few seconds, then fell upwards as the arrowhead clunked downwards and smacked against the target on the other side. The crowd behind him was silent.
Then, there was a lone cheer, and scattered applause.
He lowered his bow, and huffed a little breath of satisfaction.
The poor competitors who were still to shoot found themselves being ignored by their peers in favour of hushed, furious debates about how, surely, a move like that must disqualify him. They only intensified when his hand was eventually held up as the champion’s. He could feel their mutinous glares on his back as he was led to the stands, and the stares of everyone else.
The one gaze that wasn’t on him, in fact, was Lady Edain’s. It was instead trained on her brother, who was wallowing in an angry cloud of his own as he stamped off the field, a train of pages and servants nervously following behind. That boy from before among them. Small wonder that he’d been so nervous.
As he approached the stands, he noticed that there was a piece of white cloth in Lady Edain’s hand. It looked like the same material that had been wrapped around Yewfelle, and he was proven correct when he glanced over at where it was swaddled like an infant in Lord Ring’s hands: there was a noticeable, though neat, part that had been cut away.
Lady Edain had finally looked at him while he was distracted. Her eyes were firm.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t offer you Yewfelle. It belongs to another.”
“Offer it to me?”
She blinked. Her face was more well-trained than that other girl’s had been, but there was a similarity between their expressions, though she was quicker to regain control of it.
“I apologise for being blunt. You would be surprised how many winners have asked. They’ve asked for… a lot of odd prizes.” Her voice was still soft, but her brow creased in a faint exasperation. He could imagine what kinds of requests had been made. Mostly marriage offers and declarations of being the lost daughter of Yngvi, no doubt. “All winners have been offered apprenticeships with my father’s knights, if you wish to accept. Though… I don’t want to presume that you will.”
Talk about odd requests. Now he was getting an odd prize. The prince of Verdane, in service to a lord of Grannvale. Jamke found himself imagining everyone’s reaction back home at getting news like that. There would be a furore the likes of which had never been seen before, though no doubt more than a few would say they saw it coming and chastise those who’d let their prince practise foreign martial styles. He couldn’t help but chuckle.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, still smiling at the absurdity of it all. Even if he admired the Beige Ritter, it was just admiration. He knew where his loyalties lay. “Though, if I could make a request.”
She inclined her head, not seeming too offended. Of course, from what he’d heard, she had left behind potential knighthood to serve the gods instead. It made sense that she wouldn’t be.
“I’d rather the chance didn’t get wasted. Can one of the other competitors be given my spot?”
All of Lady Edain’s smiles up to now had seemed genuine, reflecting her pure-hearted reputation. This one seemed different, though; as though the rest would be given to just anyone who made the slightest effort to be civil back, but that now, she was actually pleased. This close, he couldn’t help but notice how when such a smile widened it, her widow’s peak turned her face into a pretty, round heart.
“Please don’t be concerned about that. We shall see to it that everyone is fairly assessed.”
She reached over the railing towards him. The white cloth fluttered.
“A piece of Yewfelle’s binding is still yours, though. I ask that you accept it.”
Her hand was slender, but warmer than he would have expected, as she pressed the cloth into his hand.
The warmth lingered, as did Jamke’s subsequent good humour, all through the closing ceremonies. He was still smiling to himself as he made his way back over to the stand where he’d found those biscuits before, his sense of purpose in retrieving some for Father renewed.
Of course, that was when he found himself interrupted, a strong arm grabbing and yanking him over into a headlock. He was about to wrestle out of it when he heard his assailant’s voice and realised, with a sinking feeling, that the jig was very much up.
“So,” Munnir drawled, “I get told to bring my little brother back to court and it turns out he’s wandered into enemy territory under my nose. I guess Father won’t mind, with all his talk of lying down and having us lick Grannvale’s boots, eh?”
He gave him a good few shakes, but then he paused. His head turned, a grin forming on his face.
“Well, well. Made some friends while you were here?”
Jamke looked back to see a small group of boys. They were led by the one who had hissed at him in the line and had since halted, assessing the situation. No doubt they’d seen him get jumped and presumed they’d be allowed to get a few kicks in, but had found a bandit and not a patriot. And one who raised an eyebrow and casually let his hand drift over the heft of his axe, staring directly at them.
They immediately scattered.
Munnir barked a laugh.
“Grannvalians,” he said. The word was malicious on his tongue. “Dogs and cowards, every last one.”
Jamke remained silent, but his gaze, as though answering an unasked question, lifted over and onto Lady Edain. Her hands were clasped before her as she bent down to speak kindly with an excited child in drab clothes.
Munnir followed his eyes, and a spark of interest filled his own.
“Well, now. I see what’s got you pretending at being a knight. They sure make them different here.” He whistled. “Too bad you don’t have the balls to just make off with one without all this nonsense, but I gotta say, maybe Cimbaeth’s right. You do have some redeeming qualities.”
Jamke’s expression deepened into a grimace. It would have been preferable, almost, if Munnir really did hold to some deep principle against Grannvale. As it was, as soon as he saw a pretty face or some other luxury for the taking, all his talk about their corrupt, untrustworthy natures revealed itself as base hypocrisy.
“Enough. I’m coming back, all right?”
“To steal her away?”
As though she felt that she was being discussed, Lady Edain’s back straightened and she looked over in their direction. Spotting him, she sent him that same warm smile as before, but it dropped from her face an instant later, her face turned white with alarm.
Jamke forced a relaxed look onto his face and waved before she could cry out. Given how Munnir tended to handle confrontation, such a thing would no doubt lead to a diplomatic incident. “To Evans ,” he said, through gritted teeth.
Lady Edain still looked worried, but her mouth, reluctantly, closed. Hands curling over themselves, it was only after a good few seconds that she turned away, reluctantly, her face full of conflict.
Munnir laughed, but this one sounded different from before. “Now, there’s a good girl. Knows how to keep her nose out of other people’s business.” As Lady Edain went back to greeting the crowds, her posture stiffer than before, still sending them worried looks every few moments, he didn’t break eye contact.
Something about his smile sent a chill down Jamke’s spine.
“If Father asked for me to be brought back, we should go quickly,” he said. “I didn’t mean to worry him.”
Mercifully, bringing King Batu into it finally made Munnir’s eyes leave her be, so they could roll at his little brother’s goody-two-shoes act instead.
“Fine. Feels like I’m gonna get a knife in my back the longer I’m standing around here anyway.”
As Munnir turned and dragged him away from the tourney field, scoffing about how some kingdoms had all the money to waste on peacocking around, Jamke shoved the piece of binding deep into his pocket, keeping it well-hidden from his brother’s mocking tongue.
For now, at least.