Page 12 of Twenty-One Arrow Salute

Suddenly, he went quiet. His cheeks gained colour and he averted his eyes. “I didn’t mean for you to go with me as such.” Hernan pinched his collar, turning his torso away from me. “I just meant it’s a place worth visiting. If you want, I could tell you where to find it and—”

“That’s a great idea,” I said without blinking and reiterated, careful not to leave any space for ambiguity, “I’d love to go there with you, if you don’t mind.”

The tension ebbed from him and his hunched shoulders lifted. “Y-you would?” he asked in both a pleased and uncertain voice. Chewing on his lip, he looked at me askance, as if expecting a taunt.

“Damn right. It’ll be great fun. I can’t wait! Thanks for offering. Let’s do it the first gehÿn.”

I wasn’t prepared for his whole face to light up from within. I’d never known anyone who smiled that way. Feeling as if he sucker-punched me, I didn’t dare to move, transfixed at the sight of green sparks glowing in his eyes. The tiny lines that formed at their corners tilted up towards his eyebrows and his nose wrinkled at the top, emphasising his pale freckles. Fascinated with the sheen of moisture left on his lip, I leant forward a little, and when he replicated the motion, we both stilled. My ears rang. An internal tremor went through me as if warning of a threat ahead when our gazes welded together. I refused to blink in fear of losing this unexpected connection.

And then, like a moron, I did…nothing.

Ask him to the Fete at least. If you lack the balls to kiss him. Do it now.

I swallowed and opened my mouth to form the question, but no words came out. A sudden attack of stage fright rendered me mute and indecisive.

Eventually, Hernan—looking pink-eared and jittery—drew a step back and the moment sizzled out.

Relieved and disappointed at the same time, I exhaled a long breath and ran my hand through my hair back and forth, most likely dishevelling it completely.

What was happening to me? Why did I continue to act so out of character?

A feeling of discontent and restlessness lingered within me for the rest of the day. Had it not been for Achiah’s timely intervention later that evening, I would’ve got into a scuffle with an older guard over a horse-riding roster.

Unable to engage in a fistfight and unwilling—for reasons beyond my grasp—to go after a shag, I found myself out of my usual options to get rid of pent-up tension. Nevertheless, whatever had been brewing within me of late, it needed a prompt outlet. Or there would be trouble.

It soon became apparent that the life of a Royal Archer of the Highland Regiment turned manic in the run-up to the Queen’s Namesday.

The horses needed more rigorous grooming and practice than ever. Any riding equipment and weapons had to be checked for signs of wear and tear, repaired or replaced if needed, and—eventually—cleaned and polished to the perfect shine. Before our dress uniforms arrived, we had to squeeze in a fitting or two at the military tailor and cobbler. And once the mounted rehearsals started, no one in the unit had enough time to scratch their arses.

Nonetheless, Hernan and I carried on with our training sessions at dawn. Otherwise, due to different duty schedules, we caught glimpses of each other at meal times. But even then we merely waved at each other in passing, given that Hernan sat at the Honour Guard table these days, and Achiah took to sitting next to me to rabbit on about the errands she wanted me to run. All while I was trying to shove food in my gob as quickly as I possibly could.

Four days before the festivities, an hour into our morning practice, Hernan and I ran out of arrows we’d been shooting into the sky, aiming towards the forest. It took a while to collect them from the grasses, thorny bushes and clumps of stinging nettles.

Every time Hernan bent over, treating me to the sight of his tight little behind encased in a fitted layer of baize, it sent a new thrill to my groin.

I twisted my hair into a topknot and fixed it up with a leather thong. I could really go without the constant trickle of moisture working its way down my back, making my uniform cling to my spine. Highlanders had a tough time acclimatising to blazing Asirhwÿnian summers as a rule, but for whatever reason, I coped with it worse than most.

Hernan, on the other hand, a native to the capital, presented fresh, crisp, and annoyingly unaffected by the heat.

Revived by a long drink from our waterskins, we pushed on with the training. On that occasion, I observed Hernan as he went through the forms, assessing his posture and trying to detect flaws in his technique. I spotted none. On the contrary, a feeling of excitement and satisfaction settled in my stomach at the competent elegance and fluidity of his movements.

He was ready.

“Good,” I said when he brought the bow in line with the centre of his body, having completed the shot.

“Good?” He turned his head my way, his forehead furrowing. “Bollocks. That was excellent!” His jaw jutted up in the familiar way I remembered from the camp.

I snorted, welcoming this manifestation of self-assurance. He needed that in spades right then. The conviction that he could do it, and do it well.

“We’ll talk excellence once you’ve given me six error-free rounds matching my speed and height. And that without stopping,” I said with the quirk of an eyebrow.

He squinted. “Very well, then. You’re on.”

Having applied some fine ash powder to my hands, I passed its container over to Hernan. A sweaty grip—an archer’s foe—could affect accuracy. And damn, was it hot that day.

All set, we got on with the shooting.

Half a dozen flawless bouts later, I felt a little giddy. I sauntered over to a larch tree nearby, propped my bow against it and removed my glove.