As he stepped from the dais Malikada moved in close. ‘You have made an enemy this day,’ he whispered. The White Wolf paused, then met the prince’s hawk-eyed gaze.
‘An infinitely better prospect than having you for a friend,’ he said.
The king’s birthday was always celebrated with extravagant displays; athletics competitions, boxing matches, horse races, and demonstrations of magic to thrill the crowds. Spear-throwing, archery, sword bouts, and wrestling were also included, with huge prizes for the winners in all events. This year promised even greater extravagances, for it was the king’s thirty-fifth birthday, a number of great mystical significance to Drenai and Ventrian alike. And the event was to take place in the Royal Park at the centre of Usa, the ancient capital of the old Ventrian Empire. The city was older than time, and mentioned in the earliest known historical records. In myth it had been a home for gods, one of whom was said to have raised the royal palace in a single night, lifting mammoth stones into place with the power of his will.
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Hundreds of huge tents had been pitched in the meadows at the centre of the thousand-acre Royal Park, and scores of carpenters had been working for weeks building tiered seating for the nobility.
The tall towers of the city were silhouetted against the eastern mountains as Kebra the Bowman leaned on a new fence and stared sombrely out towards where the archery tourney would be held. ‘You should have entered,’ said Nogusta, passing the bowman a thick wedge of hot pie.
‘To what purpose,’ answered Kebra, sourly, placing the food on the fence rail and ignoring it.
‘You are the champion,’ said Nogusta. ‘It is your title they will be shooting for.’
Kebra said nothing for a moment, transferring his gaze to the snow-topped peaks away to the west. He had first seen these mountains a year ago, when Skanda the king, having won the Battle of the River, had ridden into Usa to take the emperor’s throne. Cold winds blew down now from these grey giants and Kebra shivered and drew his pale blue cloak closer about his slender frame. ‘My eyes are fading. I could not win.’
‘No, but you could have taken part.’ The words hung in the cold air. A team of thirty workers moved to the king’s pavilion and began to raise wind-shields of stiffened crimson silk around it. Kebra had seen the pavilion constructed on many occasions, and recalled, with a stab of regret, the last time he had stood before it, receiving the Silver Arrow from the hand of the king himself. Skanda had given his boyish grin. ‘Does winning ever get boring, old lad?’ he had asked.
‘No, sire,’ he had answered. Turning to the crowd he had raised the Silver Arrow, and the cheers had thundered out. Kebra shivered again. He looked up into
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the black man’s pale, unreadable eyes. ‘I would be humiliated. Is that what you want to see?’
Nogusta shook his head. ‘You would not be humiliated, my friend. You would merely lose.’
Kebra gave a tired smile. ‘If I had entered most of the Drenai soldiers would have bet on me. They would lose their money.’
‘That would be a good reason to decline,’ agreed Nogusta. ‘If it were truly the reason.’
‘What is it you want from me?’ stormed Kebra. ‘You think there is a question of honour at stake here?’
‘No, not honour. Pride. False pride, at that. Without losers, Kebra, there would be no competitions at all. There will be more than a hundred archers taking part in the tourney. Only one will win. Of the ninety-nine losers more than half will know they cannot win before they draw the first shaft. Yet still they will try. You say your eyes are fading. I know that is true. But it is distance that troubles you. Two of the three events require speed, skill and talent. Only the third is shot over distance. You would still be in the top ten.’
Kebra stalked away from the fence. Nogusta followed him. ‘When the day comes that you don’t wish to hear the truth from me,’ he said, ‘you merely have to say.’