The Beggar King Read Free

pulled. He had the strength for this art, but not the aim. When his arrow landed in a haystack, his friends hooted.
    â€œYou’re supposed to hit the parchment, Jordan.”
    He grinned. “I was aiming for the haystack.”
    A series of trumpet blasts announced the beginning of the real contests. Everyone moved aside, and Jordan saw the commander, Theophen, leading the palace Landguards towards the field. With his hair streaming behind him and his head so erect and proud, he reminded Jordan of a lion. A jagged scar ran the length of his left cheek. It gave him a stern bearing, but most folks knew he had a kind heart. Donovan would be lucky to train under him.
    Two boys struggled to bring in the enormous ceremonial bow and presented it to Theophen. In other regiments the commander shot first, but Theophen passed the honour on to his second-in-command. He would shoot last. The target was placed an impossible distance away. One after the other the Landguards shot. They were well trained and reasonably accurate and their shots earned respectable applause. But when Theophen picked up the bow, everyone went quiet.
    A tall man with a long black beard had come to stand next to Jordan. “Is he a good shot?” the man asked in a heavy accent.
    â€œThe best,” said Jordan, “Watch.” One, two, three quick arrows were released, each scarcely aimed it seemed, and each a precise bull’s-eye. The spectators roared with delight and Jordan felt some interior needle swing as surely as the needle of a compass. The way all eyes were on Theophen; that was what Jordan wanted, to stand at the centre of an admiring crowd.
    â€œHmm,” the stranger said. “Is the high priestess as talented with a bow and arrow?”
    â€œHigh Priestess Arrabel is not allowed to use weaponry.” Jordan was about to add, “But everyone knows that,” when he realized the man had walked away.
    There were horseshoe games and a distance race from one end of the mountain plateau to the other, and then a challenge to see who could throw the weighted ball farthest. When the trumpets announced the palace feast, Jordan took leave of his friends and made his way home. Something was bothering him; something wasn’t quite right about the day, but it was like trying to recall a dream. He could grasp one corner, then another, but when he tried for the third the whole thing fell apart. Finally he gave up, remembering that sasapher cakes awaited him, and he hurried towards home.
    When he arrived, Elliott was placing small lit lanterns in every window of the house. The glass chimes were already hanging by the front door, a traditional ward against dark magic. Jordan could smell chicken roasting on the fire outside, but there were no cakes.
    â€œThe feast has probably kept your mother occupied,” Elliott said when he saw the disappointment on Jordan’s face. There was a tone of concern to his father’s voice that hadn’t been there earlier.
    Jordan knew this was the busiest time of year for Tanny. She would work until midnight helping with whatever tasks arose. Tomorrow at breakfast she would tell them all about who had sat next to whom around the enormous banquet table, and which snippets of conversation she had caught as she rushed to deliver yet another platter of food. She would speak of High Priestess Arrabel’s grace and how gallant Commander Theophen was, and Jordan would find himself wishing once again for something more in his life, something nameless and great and exciting . . . and unknown and impossible.
    He went into his bedroom and gratefully exchanged his feast robes for the short pants he usually wore. That evening he and his father ate their dinner on the rooftop patio because the spectacle of the burning tree was more magnificent when viewed from afar. After the meal, Elliott lit his sasapher pipe and Jordan chewed on a stalk of mellowreed. They sat back in their chairs as the heat of