Page 4

By Archery

“ M ore to the right.”

“Like this?”

“No, not quite. A little more.”

“It won’t make a difference.”

“Trust me, it will. Try now.”

I sit on the branch by the entrance, watching the scene unfold.

Laced with earth, the snow deepens to marine blue where the shadows stretch. Above, the sky burns with the hues of sea-buckthorn orange, ember red, spark yellow, and the soft bloom of violet. Eredusk, the final breath before nightfall, paints the world in its last, fleeting fire.

The smell of reindeer meat seeps into the cold air, a sure sign it’ll soon be time to eat. The family is home. Mother is preparing dinner, Naeva is asleep, and I’m outside. I watch as Father gives Aeralon an archery lesson. He’s using Father’s bow, Arenvíss, the bowbird.

It’s amusing.

The arrow flies off, and Aeralon stumbles.

Father and Arenvíss have achieved Vho’an, the bond that forms when a weapon and its master choose each other, reaching perfect harmony and never wanting to part.

After that, no one else can wield the weapon except elves of the master’s blood, their descendants.

A master may have many weapons, but a weapon can only have one master.

Another arrow grazes the snow before reaching the target.

“If you’re just going to sit there and laugh at me,” Aeralon says, glaring at me from beneath thick, unruly eyebrows, “you might as well leave.”

“You’re part of the defense. You’ve had plenty of practice with archery, haven’t you?”

He crosses his arms and paces back and forth over the freshly fallen snow. His footsteps are almost silent, as it’s no longer the kind of snow that crunches beneath your feet. “I have.”

“Then why are you so bad at it?” I shift my weight on the branch, making it creak and sway, before crossing one leg over the other. “Is Arenvíss rejecting you?”

“Iszaelda!” Father snaps, his attention shifting from Aeralon to me. His dark-blond hair hangs loose, straight, sleek, and perfectly kept, while his eyes are an icy, frosted white.

“What? He’s terrible, isn’t he? I’m just saying what no one else dares to say.”

Aeralon points the bow at me. “Thank you, dear sister, but you can keep your opinions to yourself. I’m not bad.

I know everything there is to know about a bow’s anatomy, how to craft one from flamewood, and how to make it fireproof, which is far more than you know, Sarea.

I understand the rhythm of a bowstring, how to draw it, the difference between a longbow and a horsebow, and?—”

“I’m just being honest. You’re good at other things. No one can be great at everything.” I shrug. “I’m terrible at plenty of things myself.”

He laughs and paces across the yard, powdery snow swirling around his boots. “That list could become quite lengthy.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Now you know how it feels.”

“Enough with the bickering.” Father nudges Aeralon toward the arrow’s landing spot. “One more time. You need to practice, do you understand? Practice, practice, and practice again. There are no shortcuts.”

“Yes, try again.” I rock on the branch beneath me. “Let’s see if you can beat a dwarf this time.”

Aeralon takes his stance, positioning the arrow to the left of the handle. But his hands tremble, his gaze flickers, and his lips part and close. In the background, the sky’s colors fade, glowing over the treetops, shrinking with each passing spark.

“Take it easy,” Father says in his soft voice. “Breathe. You’ve got all the time in the world, understand?”

“Hmm-mm.” Aeralon closes one eye, aiming.

“See her as your companion, not your enemy. Work with her. Feel her. Feel how she moves with you.” Father stands about an elf-length behind him, his hands mimicking the motions as if he were holding the bow.

His body leans forward, ready. “Whisper to her, run your hands along her sides. She appreciates that.”

“She does obey. It’s not that. She’s just too big and bulky.”

The glow over the tree tops fades, sinking out of sight and leaving us in dim darkness.

“Embrace her. See her as part of you.”

Aeralon releases the string, and the arrow vanishes into the forest. It flies toward the spot where the vibrant colors of the sky have disappeared. Then it drops, falling hundreds of elf-lengths to the ground.

Aeralon stumbles and throws Arenvíss to the ground with a frustrated grunt.

Before he can storm back to the house, Father grabs his shoulders. “You need to practice! You can’t give up, do you hear me? One more time.”

“It’s no use.”

“Don’t say that.”

Aeralon bites his nails so hard they snap and shakes his head, his light hair dancing across his back. “I’ll never be good at this. You’ve taught me everything: the technique, the limbs and grips, backs and nocks. But it’s not enough, and?—”

“You have to keep trying, Aeralon! If you don’t, Talendir will never choose you as a Second Dual. It may sound harsh, but?—”

I jump off, leaving the branch swaying behind me. Rushing forward, I snatch two arrows from the quiver at Father’s waist and lift the bow from the snow, shaking it free of powder.

“Iszaelda, no!” Father shouts. “Put her down!”

I take my stance before they can reach me, before they can rip her from my hands. One leg in front of the other, knees slightly bent, I run my palm along Arenvíss’ cold exterior.

“Karimni cúnie,” I greet her. Good day. “Meeli. Múera dúera amin a, múera dúera isesa a, múera dúera tyava a.” Kindred. I hear you, I see you, I feel you.

“Put her down, Iszaelda!” Father inches closer, creeping toward me with his arms outstretched as if afraid. Afraid that I will shoot him in a panic if he approaches me too fast. Aeralon stands behind him, staring at me as if I were a demon from Saxx.

I place the arrow on the string and draw the bow, pulling my right elbow back. “Vesa isn’ar a. Vesa, vesa.” Be calm.

Something is wrong. I can already feel it. Something is not right. She twists under my fingers, differently from Brínnsesta. She’s not angry. She’s not frustrated. She’s not even irritated.

It’s worse.

She feels insulted.

Aeralon clears his throat. “Women shouldn’t?—”

“Silence!” I stare at Father’s makeshift target, a white cloth draped over a branch. However, it doesn’t appear white; in the approaching darkness, it looks like a dull, dusky blue. I draw my arm farther back.

I’ll show Aeralon how to shoot.

I’ll show him I can do better.

“Varati, Arenvíss. Múr irma.” Come on, help me.

I aim for the center of the cloth, doing everything right, and release, knowing I’ll hit it.

Arenvíss bucks violently, launching me into the air. I land hard on my backside, a cloud of white mist swirling around me. I don’t even know where the arrow went; it flew so far off.

“Sesta!” Aeralon rushes toward me. “Be careful! You have no idea how to handle a bow.”

Father stares.

Pushing to my feet, I grab another arrow and place it against the string. I draw my arm back, far and with purpose. Arenvíss is strong.

“Múera mme un ket tae brínn, sut Eolandel isn’ar a,” I whisper. Perhaps she needs to know my origins before she’ll listen, and now I’ve shared them with her.

I release just as Aeralon reaches me.

The arrow lands in the snow, nowhere near the target. And Arenvíss strikes back so hard I lose my breath. The bowstring quivers, letting out a faint, trembling ring.

How did the arrow miss? I aimed perfectly. When Brínnsesta is in a good mood, I can hit anything. And this is Arenvíss! Father’s mighty bow from Kaspien, the land renowned for crafting the highest-quality bows.

I meet Father’s and Aeralon’s disappointed gazes. I want to say, “This is how it’s done, dear brother. Did you see what I did, or was it too quick for you?” But it didn’t go as planned.

Aeralon yanks Arenvíss from my hands far too roughly for her liking. He doesn’t care about her. And at this point, neither do I.

“What are you doing?” he snaps. “You’re not allowed to use weapons!”

I cross my arms. “Father, why didn’t she obey? I know I did everything right.”

“That was reckless!” Father exclaims, covering his mouth with one hand. “Never do that again, do you understand? You could hurt yourself.”

“Why didn’t she obey? Did you see how she bucked and kicked me?”

“There’s a reason why women shouldn’t use weapons,” Aeralon says. “You’re just bad at archery. Worse than me.”

They don’t believe me. They don’t believe she didn’t obey me.

“You.” I step forward, the cold snow soft under my feet, and jab a finger at Aeralon’s chest. “I’ve made plenty of weapons cooperate, and they don’t care that?—”

Father steps between us, embracing me, his cold fingers cupping my cheeks. Why doesn’t anyone respect that I don’t want to be touched?

“Miela, when you do things like this, it terrifies me,” he whispers. “So much. I’m scared to death that I’m going to lose you.”

I choose to be rude and not return the embrace, letting my hands hang limply by my sides. “Then discipline your bow. If she had speared me any harder, I would’ve?—”

“A lifetime in the Hollow.” Aeralon picks up two stones from the ground and holds them up to the moonless sky as if he can see them better that way.

He stands beside me, a shadowy silhouette so dark I can’t make out his features.

All the light from the sunset is gone. “So far, one hundred and seventy-eight sun elves have been locked up there, and few have ever escaped. Most die in captivity, either from starvation or from?—”

“Shut up, Aeralon.” I wriggle free from Father’s embrace, relaxing only when his hands disappear. “A life sentence is for killing someone. Not for using weapons.”

“I’d like you to help your mother with the cooking.

” Father glances at Arenvíss, which hangs limply in Aeralon’s hand, before stepping toward her and running his hand along her frame.

Slowly. Gently. As if she were a helpless hare and somehow the victim here.

He’s completely ignoring that she disobeyed me.

Was I the only one who found her behavior strange?

“You shouldn’t be watching any more archery,” Father continues. “If you’re to become a good woman for Kelandil, you must learn how to?—”

“I know. Good luck with Aeralon. You’re going to need it.”