Out into the air and over the cliff.
Instinctively, his right arm wrapped around the tree limb while his left arm held the quiver to his shoulder. He frantically hung by one arm, swinging crazily in the air, at least a thousand feet above the valley floor. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut down the fear, trying not to look down.
Someone had just tried to kill him, and looking down would be the completion of a death sentence.
Using his left hand, he placed the quiver strap around his neck. He was then able to bring both hands to the limb. His strength was beginning to ebb, but the old limb, at least for the time being, was holding his weight.
I thank the Afterlife, his terrified mind shouted.
Carefully, one hand after the other, he began to reverse direction on the limb to face his attacker. As he came around, he wondered if he would be able to hold on with only his left hand and secure and throw a dirk with his right at the same time. He would without question kill the person who was standing there before he swung himself back to the cliff.
If he could swing himself to the cliff.
As his body came around, he managed to hang on with his left hand and take a dirk with his right, praying he would be able to throw it without losing his grip. The limb bending and straining under his weight, he quickly finished the turn, bringing both his weapon and his eyes up to kill whoever it was that had tried to murder him.
It was his horse.
Pilgrim, his dappled gray stallion with the white mane and tail, stood at the edge of the cliff, looking at him with spirited, huge black eyes. The horse pawed the ground twice with his left front hoof and snorted softly at him, as if he had already put up with quite enough of Tristan’s foolishness and was more than ready to go back to the stables. Nudging Tristan from the back had been one of his favorite habits ever since he was a colt. But this spot had definitely not been the place for it.
Tristan hung in stark terror a thousand feet above the surface of the valley from a lone tree branch, slowly losing his strength. Carefully managing to replace the dirk in his quiver and his right hand upon the branch, he looked tentatively to the left where the limb joined the trunk, trying to see if it was dried or decayed. He groaned inwardly when he saw the dry crack, and there was no way to tell if it was strong enough for what he had planned. He couldn’t simply stretch his legs to the cliff. It was too far away. He would have to swing his body back and forth to gain the momentum to reach the ledge. It was the only way. Slowly, his eye on the crack, he began to swing from his arms the same way he had seen the court acrobats do so many times before, the bark starting to painfully twist off in his hands. Each time he swung his outstretched legs a little harder. Each time a little more bark came off in his now-raw palms. Each time a little more sweat began to flow into his eyes. And each time he had a little less strength.
The crack split open another inch.
Just two more swings should do it, he prayed. ,’ beg the Afterlife, just two more.
His release from the branch on the second swing came at the precise moment the crack split all the way open, the shards of the joint becoming a twisted, tortured rope of exposed wood. He flew through the air toward the cliff, his face finally striking the end of Pilgrim’s muzzle as the horse bolted backward in surprise. Tristan went down hard on one knee, the momentum carrying him over on his back, finally hitting the back of his head hard upon the ground.
Moments later, dazed, his eyes out of focus and his face strangely wet, he raised his hand to check his face for blood. There was none. The twisted and torn tree limb lay innocently upon his lap, and he tossed it to one side.
He wanted to kiss the ground.
Pilgrim’s lips once more nuzzled his master’s face. The stallion had definitely had enough of this and wanted to go home. Tristan sat up, looking at the impatient Pilgrim, and began to laugh softly, then harder, finally bursting with the sheer joy of being alive. He laughed at himself harder still, imagining the looks on the faces of all six wizards of the Directorate when they realized they had no king to fill the throne at the abdication ceremony. He still didn’t want to be king, but there had to be an easier way out of it all than this. And in truth he loved to tease them, but he didn’t want to die doing it. At least he had temporarily forgotten their ridiculous oath.
He slowly stood, wondering if anything was broken, and collected the scattered dirks. He was all right, but he would be sore for a week. When he placed his hands to either side of Pilgrim’s muzzle, the horse flinched his head to one side in pain. The stallion’s nose would be sore for a while, also. Served him right. Putting his arms around the horse’s neck and his mouth against the animal’s ear, he smiled.
“Next time we come up here, if you don’t behave yourself I shall have to tie you to a tree,” he said gently.
Pilgrim whinnied softly and brushed the longish center of his dappled head against the prince’s shoulder.
Tristan glanced to the left across the open glade to where he had hung the saddle and bridle over a convenient tree limb. Upon arriving he always took the saddle and bridle off, allowing the horse to roam freely. Pilgrim never went far, and had been trained from a colt to always return at Tristan’s first whistle. The prince hobbled stiffly across the clearing, removing the saddle and saddlebag from the tree, placing them on the soft grass in the shade. Looking up at the sun, he saw it was now early afternoon.
He removed his quiver and lay down in the grass with his saddle as a pillow. Reaching into one of the saddlebags, he pulled out a pair of carrots.
Upon hearing Tristan’s whistle, the stallion trotted over immediately. He carefully took the outstretched carrot from his master’s hand with his long, uniform teeth and munched contentedly, watching the prince eat his. This was another of one of their little rituals, and sometimes there was some carrot left over. Deciding he wasn’t really hungry anyway, Tristan offered the last half to the stallion. Pilgrim bent his head down and nuzzled Tristan’s face again, this time unceremoniously leaving little bits of wet carrot all over it. Tristan laughed a little, wiping off his face. He would have laughed harder, but his ribs were beginning to hurt.
“Go away,” he said. “I know I need a bath, but I don’t want it coming from you.”
Retrieving yet another carrot from the bag, Tristan slowly drew it before Pilgrim’s nostrils and then promptly threw it to the other side of the clearing. He smiled as the stallion ran off after it anxiously, his head and tail held high. Tristan’s previous mount, a mare, had died giving birth to Pilgrim after having been bred by one of the finest studs in the kingdom. From that moment on, the young prince and colt had been inseparable. Sometimes the horse seemed to be the best friend he’d ever had. Next, of course, to his twin sister Shailiha, and Wigg, Lead Wizard of the Directorate. He lay back down on the grass and watched the clouds go by. An odd one came into view, rather crookedly reminiscent of the old wizard’s profile, and he smiled.
Wigg, his mentor and friend. Lead Wizard, and therefore assumed by many to be the most learned and powerful of the Directorate. And the one he most enjoyed poking fun at. Wigg would be angry with him beyond all reason. But the thought of the six wizards of the Directorate seeing him hanging over a cliff so close to the abdication ceremony started him laughing all over again. King Tristan the First, Lord of the Swinging Tree Branches, he thought to himself. He laughed aloud until the recurring fire in his ribs forced him to stop.
Still looking at the sky, his mind drifted to the Directorate as a whole. The Directorate of Wizards, endowed advisors to the reigning king of Eutracia. He envisioned each of their faces in turn. Wigg, Egloff, Tretiak, Slike, Killius, and Maaddar. The ancient heroes who had been responsible for bringing victory in the Sorceresses’ War of so long ago. They were all over three hundred years old, two of them now over four hundred, each protected from the ravages of old age by the esoteric enchantments they themselves had conjured near the end of the insurrection. The enchantments were effective only upon those with endowed blood, and had been instrumental in the final victory. Their use was reserved exclusively for the Directorate of Wizards and the reigning king if he so chose; not even the lesser rural wizards could avail themselves of the health-sustaining incantations known as time enchantments. That was as much as Tristan knew.