Free Summerkin by Sarah Prineas Page B

crown?” the bear-man asked.
    As Fer looked around, another competitor stepped forward, leaving puddled footprints behind him. He was tall and thin and greeny-pale all over, from the tips of his curly hair to his long, slender feet. Like Gnar, he didn’t wear a glamorie, but his white satin suit was covered with tiny diamonds that glistened like dewdrops. He wavered into a deep bow. “I am Lich of the Damplands, kin of the Lady there. As is the way of our people since long before any”—he glanced aside at Fer—“humans came here, I will compete for the crown and become Lord of the Summerlands.”
    The bear-man nodded. “You may compete.”
    Fer frowned. They hadn’t even questioned Gnar or this boy Lich. Was this even going to be a fair contest?
    â€œIs there a fourth competitor?” the bear-man asked, gazing around the nathewyr.
    Arenthiel stepped up beside Fer. She glanced aside at him, and he gave her a wide, glittering smile. “Things are about to get interesting, dear girl,” he said. In a louder voice, he announced, “I will compete for this prize!”
    Fer stared. What?
    Up on the platform, the High Ones were whispering again, and then they nodded and the bear-man was accepting Arenthiel as a competitor.
    â€œYes, Gwynnefar,” Arenthiel murmured. “Long have I waited for the chance to claim a land of my own. At last my day has come. I am planning to become Lord of the Summerlands.” His golden smile sharpened as he looked her up and down, seeing, she knew, her lack of glamorie, her ordinary clothes. “As you can see, I am already winning.”
    â€œYou cheated,” Fer protested.
    He blinked, all innocence. “What a thing to say! I am no cheater. I only started the contest a bit early.”
    So he had. It had been a trick, him pretending to be her friend. She narrowed her eyes, but her glare bounced right off him. His smile glittered just as brightly. He ran a hand down the front of his embroidered coat, as if to say— see how perfect I am?
    Around them, the nathewyr was emptying as the High Ones glided down from the platform, followed out of the hall by the Lords and Ladies. The other two competitors—the Gnar girl and the pale Lich boy—came to stand with Fer and Arenthiel, and the bear-man stepped down to join them.
    Fer’s knees felt shaky, standing there. The contest was beginning, and she was already losing. Oh, she had been stupid to believe Arenthiel’s lies!
    The bear-man surveyed them all, his furry face stern. “You may call me Lord Artos,” he rumbled. “The contest begins later, this day. Your fitness to rule will be tested. You will ride, shoot bow and arrow, and demonstrate your mastery of the glamorie. Your strength will be tested. And”—and here Lord Artos turned his gaze on Fer—“also your weakness.”
    The girl named Gnar tossed her smoldering braids. “I will defeat you dull embers. I will win the crown and turn the Summerlands into a beautiful, dry land, with burning sand underfoot and no clouds in its ever-blue sky.”
    The tall Lich boy looked down his nose at her. “You will not, spark-thing. As the Lord of the Summerlands, I will bring to it coolth and peace and dripping fogs.”
    Arenthiel said nothing, but he smiled his perfect golden smile at all of them. He was confident, Fer could see. So sure he was going to win.
    Inside her chest, Fer felt her heart turn into a hard knot. Hard and determined. They wanted to turn the Summerlands into desert or swamp. Or—she eyed Arenthiel—into something worse. She was not going to lose her land and her people to any of them.

Eleven

    The contest would begin, Lord Artos had said, with a race. They would meet in the afternoon at the stables.
    Fer arrived dripping wet, the first one there. She wiped rain off her face and leaned against Phouka’s flank, looking out the stable’s arched