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king’s thirty-fifth birthday, a number of great mystical significance to Drenai and Ventrians alike. And the event was to take place in the Royal Park at the center of Usa, the ancient capital of the old Ventrian Empire. The city was older than time and was 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.
    Hundreds of huge tents had been pitched in the meadows at the center 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 somberly out toward 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?” Kebra answered 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 those mountains a year earlier, 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 those gray 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 windshields 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 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 theDrenai 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 honor at stake here?”
    “No, not honor. 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 so.”
    The bowman paused and sighed. “What is the truth here, Nogusta?”
    The black man leaned in close. “You demean the championship by refusing to take part. The new champion will feel he has not earned the title. In part, I fear, this is why you have declined.”
    “And what if it is? He will still earn a hundred gold pieces. He will still be honored by the king and carried shoulder-high around the park.”
    “But he will not have beaten the legendary Kebra. I seem to recall your delight fifteen years ago when