Mark of the Black Arrow by Debbie Viguié

the dead wheat grass sparked to fire, tiny flames licking their way across the circle. The prince felt it, felt the tightness break. Since setting foot on this shore he had been bound, his magic shuttered within him.
    Now he understood that the land itself had been protected from him, and from the Sheriff. With the sacrifice of the creature, that protection had been broken.
    Their plan could now begin.
    The Sheriff lowered his hands, face stark in the light of the glowing witch stone.
    “So it is spoken, so mote it be.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    A fter several songs, Friar Tuck rose to his feet and walked toward Marian. He leaned a little to the left and walked with the gait of someone determined not to stagger under the load of the enormous amount of ale they had consumed.
    He leaned down, moving his mouth by her ear. His warm, moist breath smelled like unbaked bread dough, confirming her assessment.
    “Milady, I would like to say something to the people,” he said, his voice low. “As hostess, do you mind?”
    She nodded her assent and held her breath for a moment, wondering what his announcement was going to be.
    While the bard still sang, the monk stalked to the center of the room, big feet slapping hard on the marbled floor. He stood, swaying to the rhythm of the song. Droopy eyelids closed and his mouth turned up in a smile of pure joy. People began watching him, nudging their tablemates and pointing. The priest seemed not to care, lost to the melody of the harp and the bard’s voice. His hands rose, hanging limply at the wrist as he waved them in time with the music, shoulders bouncing in a rhythm that didn’t quite match.
    Paying him no heed, the bard drove on, pushing his voice and his fingers to make the music a rolling thing. His face glowed, his mouth lively and laughing through the song, fingers a blur on the harp strings. Friar Tuck rolled and swayed, bending at the waist and turning at the knee as his hands and arms swirled along with the tune, possessed by the music to move in ways seemingly too fluid for his girth.
    The people around the tables were all caught up, the music driving and driving and driving, pulling listeners to the edge of their seats. Everyone leaned together and held their breath, the feast forgotten, the world outside forgotten. Everything that had been, was, and would be swirled into that very moment.
    The song ended with a crash of notes and the two men standing close enough to touch. For a long moment no one moved.
    Or breathed.
    Friar Tuck opened his eyes, his smile growing larger as he found his dear friend standing beside him, harp still vibrating from the last note struck.
    “Thank you,” he said. His voice was a whisper, but the silence in the room let everyone hear it.
    Alan-a-Dale nodded, just once. Slowly he turned, his gaze sweeping the crowd. As his eyes fell on the gathered people, it released them from the hold that gripped them, breaking the spell of the moment. One by one they sat back and breathed again, smiling and still feeling the ebb of rapture in their hearts.
    His eye fell to her last, and Marian felt that break.
    “That is the power of a true bard,” she said, commending the singer.
    People raised their glasses, and murmurs of “hear hear!” and “amen!” rang out. Alan waved them away and stepped back to his place at the table.
    Friar Tuck shook his head.
    “I had something to say, but it seems almost silly now. That was a moment given by the Most High, and I am humbled to quietude by being a part of it.”
    “Not that humble!” someone cried. Laughter broke among the people and Friar Tuck bowed his head at the jest, taking the jab with grace.
    “No, I suppose not,” he said. “Well, no more proclamations until the king arrives.” He clapped his hands together, the noise like a crack of thunder so loud it made Marian jump in her seat. “However, let us have some dancing!”
    All around, people came to their feet and moved to a cleared space of floor.