Page 7 of Tossing the Caber

“It doesn’t matter what you thought! You were deliberately dishonest and snuck out. Now you’ve made a fool out of me and a mess of everything else.”

It wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me finish my work earlier in the day,Laurel stops himself from saying. “You’re not a fool,” he tries instead. “My actions were my own, and I’ll take full responsibility.”

“As per usual, I remain baffled by the depths of your disrespect.” Rodney sighs through his nostrils and rubs the furrow between his brows. “It’s no matter. Soon, you won’t be my problem anymore… provided you don’t make a mess of this union like you did the last one.”

The words are so cold, Laurel gasps. He opens his mouth to protest, to defend himself, but common sense keeps anything from spilling out. All he does is tip his head in subservience before rushing to the closet to remove his smock.

“I’m so sorry, Papa. I’ll go home right now and?—”

“You won’t.”

Laurel freezes in place. “I won’t?”

“The opening ceremony has already begun. You’ll need to go as you are. Wash up,” Rodney advises. He subjects Laurel to a critical look, up and down his body. Laurel’s tail wraps around his leg, as if hiding from the scrutiny. “Do your best at least. You have ten minutes.”

“Yes, Papa.” Laurel doesn’t breathe again until his father has exited the workshop, slamming the door behind him. Silence oozes up from the floor, blocking out the noise and chatter from outside until all Laurel hears is static.

It takes him a full minute to launch back into motion, rushing into the small water closet to brush his teeth as well as his mussed hair.

Laurel already knows his father sees him as a burden, but it isn’t until this moment that he realizeshow muchRodney wants to be rid of him. He and his father have never been close, but the rejection is a cold knife in a warm gut, the chill spreading through his core. Laurel hasn’t felt such a deep pang since his former betrothed called off the union instead of taking responsibility for the accident.

No one else has wanted him, not since Laurel’s distress over losing part of his hand pushed him toward increasingly extreme body modifications. Even other elves seasoned with their own artistic expression occasionally find Laurel’s changes too extreme.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. The mods are forhim, to replace what he lost—so much more than half a hand.

Laurel takes a deep breath. The margin for error is tight, but not impossible. Rodney could have brought Laurel’s formal clothes with him, but he didn’t. Another subtle punishment, probably. But that’s fine.

Beacon Sure-of-Foot is going to meet Laurelas he is, not who his father would strongly prefer him to be.

Chapter Three

Beacon

Beacon is fit to be tied. No, worse. He’s fit to chew through any rope that dare enter his field of vision.

The Tunbrae mage gets them to Everend with a temporary enchantment, but the wagon still needs work to get back home. Beacon would have pulled the damn thing up the mountain by himself if he could get out of approaching a sketchy-looking kid—literally named Kidd Kidderson, boasting wagon-related services atKidd Kidderson’s Killer Karts—to pursue the necessary repairs. Alas, since Coach seemed to think he was an adult supervising toddlers, the task fell to Beacon.

That was last night. While usually Beacon has no problem rising early, he had erected his tent with an aching head and woke up with the memory of Raibull’s voice, loudly and clumsily trying to haggle with Kidd, still ringing in his ears.

So Beacon got out of his bedroll on the team’s section of the campgrounds and shuffled to the wash area to stand in a grimy stall with a manual pump for water. Although he typically only allows his beard to grow into rough stubble on his cheeks and chin, Beacon historically doesn’t shave for the duration of the Market festival, so after washing off yesterday’s sweat, he dresses and joins his parents at their tent.

It’s been two days since he spoke to either of them in morethan grunts and single syllable words. He won’t be outwardly disrespectful, even though he’d love to ignore them both. Arranging a marriage without his consent—or evenknowledge—registers as nothing other than a betrayal.

And, as established, it’s left him foul and brusque.

He continues his sullen silence while they walk toward the central Shrine for the Market’s official opening ceremony, grateful when Maura and Donlan only speak in soft tones between themselves without trying to engage him. One of Beacon’s teammates had asked him if he was excited to meet his betrothed and was summarily glowered at until he backed off.

No, he’s not excited, not even close. But he’s here, chin high as he stalks ahead of his parents. His kilt swings around his knees when a gust of wind catches his aggressive pace from the opposite direction, but Beacon presses forward without bothering to swipe flyaway bangs back from his forehead.

When they arrive at the Shrine, Beacon comes to a stop just outside the park boundary. The first time he saw the Shrine, he was young and affected by its symbolism. An ancient thing, the massive, unpolished stone stands proudly under a plain pavilion. It is the birthplace of the elves, striking reverence in all who might gaze upon it.

Well,almostall of them. After seeing it year after year, the old rock has stopped thrilling him.

More importantly, following this ceremony he’s scheduled to join the festivities with party games any elf can join. For now, he looks around, wondering which of the finely dressed men is his intended, as he’s refused his parents’ offers to show him any depictions of the elf or tell him anything other than his name.

Laurel Lushroot.

A dark-haired man hurries toward their small group,seeming frazzled. Beacon steps aside so the newcomer can approach Maura.