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Indulf was seated among them. His blond hair was tied back, revealing his pockmarked face.

A long, curved nose gave him the appearance of a hawk.

As the third son of the Count of Hame in eastern Cornwall, Indulf would never inherit a title of nobility.

Tristan suspected that Indulf hated him for being the nephew and presumptive heir to King Marke’s throne.

He sensed the jealous stare of the knight who had tried to disqualify him in the morning joust.

Tossing a twig into the fire, Indulf taunted Tristan.

“You were very nearly thrown from your horse in the first run, Tristan. How fortunate that you hit the center circle on your second, else you would not have qualified. The Goddess herself smiled upon you today,” he smirked, glaring at Vaughan.

“The Goddess, and my ring,” Tristan mused, eyeing the black chough with the gleaming blue topaz eye. He held it up for Indulf to see.

“A gift for luck, from my uncle Marke. Seems it brought me good fortune today, wouldn’t you say?” Tristan shot Indulf a lupine grin.

“Indeed,” the knight huffed, rising from his seat near the fire.

“We’ll see if you are so fortunate tomorrow,” he scoffed, slithering off to his tent. Tristan watched Indulf’s retreating form, his face contorted with disgust.

The other competitors rose, wished one another good luck in the morning’s event, and headed off to their respective tents. Tristan, Vaughan, and Connor returned to theirs.

Lying on his bedroll, Tristan imagined facing Indulf in the final event. The battle of swords. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. When elusive sleep finally found him, he slept fitfully, dreaming of revenge.

The morning dawned cool and bright, with just a hint of the warmth that summer would soon bring. Tristan, Vaughan, and Connor finished their breakfast of porridge, meat, and ale, returning to their tent to fetch their weapons for the archery competition.

Tristan was a fine archer, but he knew his best event would be tomorrow’s challenge of the sword. It was essential for him to place today, for only the top twenty would advance to the final day’s competition in the Tournament of Champions.

The archery competition was divided into two areas with three targets spaced at increasing distances of thirty, fifty and seventy yards.

An arrow landing in the outermost circle would earn one point, with three for the inner ring and five for the bull’s eye in the dead center.

One arrow would be fired at each target.

The competitors were lined up, awaiting their turn, with Tristan, Vaughan, and Connor in the queue. Among the three, Vaughan was by far the most skilled, having grown up hunting with his father in the woods of the Kennall Vale in western Cornwall.

“All right, lads, watch how it’s done!” he boasted as he approached the first target.

Nocking his arrow, drawing his bow tightly, Vaughan released a bull’s eye at each of the three targets for a total score of fifteen points.

He was sure to place among the top twenty qualifiers to advance in the competition.

Vaughan removed his arrows from the three targets and returned to his companions’ side, grinning ear to ear. Tristan approached the starting point and positioned himself before the first target.

His first arrow hit the inner circle. Three points. His second shot scored three more. It might be enough, but he had to be sure. This last shot was crucial. His legs shook with adrenaline.

At the seventy-yard target, he positioned his feet, nocked his arrow, and drew the bow tightly. Just as he was about to shoot, a loud cough startled him, shattering his concentration.

Tristan turned to see Indulf grinning. Of course. The bastard!

Tristan rolled his shoulders. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face. His stomach clenched in fear at the thought of losing. The humiliation of facing his uncle in shame. No, he refused to let Indulf rattle him. He needed to focus. To concentrate. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

He stared into the eye of the sea raven. He kissed the blue topaz stone, praying the Goddess would guide his arrow straight and sure.

He positioned himself perpendicular to the target. Lowered his bow and nocked the arrow. Raised the bow and drew the string tightly back as he took aim. His uncle’s words came back to him. Make me proud, Tristan.

All the summers hunting in Kennall Vale, all of Vaughan’s lessons, the first buck he’d taken so many years ago.

Tristan channeled it all into a perfect release, watching with bated breath as his arrow thwacked the dead center of the target.

Bull’s eye. Five points. A total score of eleven.

He prayed it would be enough to advance to tomorrow’s final event.

As he retrieved his arrows, he spotted Indulf, leaning against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. One side of his mouth was drawn up in a smirk.

He snickered as Tristan walked by. Fuming silently, his fury as taut as a bowstring, it was all Tristan could do to restrain himself.

He joined Connor and Vaughan, who wisely said nothing as the trio returned to the tent.

That evening, huddled around the campfire, the competitors anxiously awaited the results of the archery event. Gorvenal finally posted the list of those who had advanced to the final competition.

Tristan, Vaughan, Connor, and Indulf had all qualified.

Twenty contestants now remained in the Tournament of Champions , and the stakes were high.

Only the ten victors of the final event would be knighted by King Marke in the throne room of Tintagel to embark upon the journey to Camelot.

Only the ten victors would earn the privilege of training under the legendary Sir Lancelot of the Lake, First Knight of King Arthur Pendragon.

And only the ten victors would be dubbed Knights of the Round Table of Camelot.

Everyone fighting tomorrow seemed edgy and jumpy.

Some competitors burned off steam with wooden swords on the dummies that had been set up on the practice field.

Tristan, Vaughan, and Connor ran a few miles in the surrounding woods, and returned to enormous vats of steaming seafood and fresh fish cooked over an open fire.

Tristan ate his fill of haddock, crab, and scallops, then sat alone in quiet contemplation, mentally preparing for the final event. After a while, he and his companions retired to their tent, anxiously awaiting the dawn.

****

The salty tang of ocean spray and the pine scent of the surrounding forest perfumed the air as Tristan entered the field to compete. The sun blazed overhead, and under the heavy chain mail, he began to sweat. His muscles quivered with tension, begging for release.

He clutched his wooden sword and shield, his hands drenched inside the leather gloves. He shook out his legs to keep them limber. He had to win this fight. Too much was at stake.

His heart raced wildly. He was a child again, standing in the woods near his father’s castle in Lyonesse.

The enormous Viking with the horned helmet and the long red beard forced his bloodied, battered father to his knees.

The massive arm raised the savage sword, ready to drop.

He was too young, too weak to fight. He could do nothing to stop the lethal blade from slicing off his father’s head before his very eyes.

Impotent rage and guilt were smothering him.

His chest was too tight; he couldn’t breathe. His mouth was so dry…

A sharp, fierce croak rang out through the sky. Disoriented, Tristan looked up, momentarily blinded by the sun. A magnificent sea raven soared overhead, his wings unfurled in glorious grace.

Tristan remembered. He removed his glove, wiped the sweat from his brow, and kissed the brilliant blue eye of the sacred chough on his ring. He took a deep breath, then blew it out from billowed cheeks, the bellows over a forge.

His opponent entered the field. Tristan was sorely disappointed to see that it was not Indulf, but a warrior named Donzel from the region of Camborne.

They circled each other, searching for weakness. Strategizing.

Tristan waited, tensely coiled, ready to attack. Donzel lunged; Tristan blocked and parried. His opponent lunged again wildly, and Tristan saw his opportunity.

He blocked the blow and reversed the attack, cutting upwards from his right. He brought his sword around in a tight circle, launching a series of blows which disarmed and toppled Donzel to the ground.

Tristan held the tip of his wooden sword against his opponent’s exposed throat and placed his foot on Donzel’s stomach.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Vaughan and Connor rushed to Tristan, congratulating him with slaps on the back, dragging him off the field to celebrate their combined victories.

“By the Goddess, Tristan, you’re a beast!” Vaughan roared, his arm wrapped tightly around Tristan’s neck.

They laughed and stumbled all the way back to their tent.

With the help of their pages, they removed the heavy chain mail, then washed the sweat from their faces in buckets of icy water.

Sporting fresh tunics and hearty grins, mugs of ale in hand, they proceeded to the area designated for the champions.

Gorvenal and the masters-at-arms announced the names of the ten finalists who had qualified for the voyage to Camelot. Tristan was thrilled to hear the names of his friends and dismayed—but not surprised—to hear Indulf’s as well.

Cheers of victory resounded though the woods. The ten champions would soon be knighted by King Marke in an official dubbing ceremony, complete with a royal feast. They would embark on a journey to Camelot, to train with Sir Lancelot, and become Knights of the Round Table of King Arthur himself.

Holding up his mug of ale, Tristan proposed a toast to his two brothers in arms.

“To us, three champions from Cornwall! To King Marke, King Arthur, and Sir Lancelot!”

As the three friends gulped the ale from their goblets, wiping the foam from their lips, Vaughan shouted triumphantly,

“To Camelot!”