Page 16 of Twenty-One Arrow Salute

Before Hernan came through the door, I got myself so worked up that my thoughts were anything but logical.

At the sight of me, he came to an abrupt halt. His eyebrows curved into sharp arches.

That wasn’t the welcome I’d envisaged all morning. My heart sank at the awareness that, for the first time, Hernan didn’t greet me with a smile on his face.

“What’s the ma—?”

“What did he want?” I snarled. I must’ve been gurning because my jaw vibrated.

“Who?” he said with a flinch. His gaze danced briefly to the right and to the left.

“Rūe!”

“Oh. He asked me about the city. And then he asked me to the Archers’ Fete. I—”

“He did, eh?” I fucking knew it. And judging by all the chatting, grinning and rubbing shoulders I’d witnessed, Rūe got just what he came for. Did they laugh at me behind my back, too? A weird sensation consumed me—fury and nausea combined. I managed a stiff, “I think that’s great.”

Hernan stared up at me, unblinking. “You do?”

“Sure. You should go with him.”

After a long pause, he asked, “I should?”

Were his eyes always so large and glassy? And why the hell did he look all put out since I was the one made a fool of? And by the very first person I ever cared about, no less?

“You might as well.” I shrugged. “Nobody has asked you but him. And let’s be honest—what are the chances anyone else will?”

He winced as though I’d slapped him. The wounded look of shock, however, vanished from his gaze, replaced by his old impassive expression. He sure summoned it with impressive speed. “I see,” he said slowly. “Fine. Well, it’s a good job I said yes, then.”

If he’d stabbed me in my heart and twisted the knife, it would’ve hurt less than hearing this admission. Disbelief and disappointment at his betrayal slammed into me with the force of a Barbarian spear. “Fine,” I agreed over the harsh staccato of my breathing. Except it wasn’t fine in the slightest, and fuck if I knew what I’d consented to exactly. It all felt wrong and stupid, but astonishingly beyond my control. As if I, mute and helpless, had set an unstoppable pendulum in motion.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’ve appreciated your help,” Hernan said.

The more polite and remote he became, the more I wanted to scratch him raw and draw blood. Injure and maim. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I was just saving my own skin. I only did it because Achiah had dirt on me and threatened to blab to Yennés otherwise.” I made a vague hand gesture. “That’s the only reason I did it. We’re done now, anyhow. I’m sure you’ll do great, though.”

What the fuck am I saying? What am I doing?

I could be a moody arse at times, but I avoided acting cruelly on principle. So I didn’t understand what got into me all of a sudden, prompting me to say that. It was a lie. A malicious one, at that. One that I knew would hurt Hernan the most. Because at that moment, gods forgive me, some ugly self-defence mechanism sprung to life, urging me to inflict as much pain on him as I found myself enduring. And for a tiny bit—before shame and regret seeped in—it felt bloody satisfying. Like landing a clean, fight-ending blow on your opponent’s jaw.

Colour drained from his cheeks. “Yes,” he said in the wooden voice of a stranger, “I think we’re done, too.”

I watched him leave—chin up, shoulders back, wisps of auburn hair fluttering in the gentle wind like flames around a fire—telling myself I shouldn’t give a fuck. Wishing I could kick my own arse. The instant I was alone, I hugged my middle, breathing through what felt like a side stitch caused by a long, exhausting run. Then out of nowhere came the sting behind my eyes, completing my humiliation.

Two days later, the fuck I wasn’t supposed to give turned out to be colossal.

My arse, balanced on a narrow railing, had gone numb. I could’ve sworn an invisible column of ants entertained itself by marching up and down my legs. Nonetheless, I loitered in the stables unmoving, watching Fhěn, my bay mare, graze away and flick her tail to drive off the flies.

I took out a knife, flipping my wrist back to open it. The blade glistened in the dim light emitted by a lantern hanging overhead as I cut another slice of darhê. With the amount I’d chewed, sleeping that night seemed unlikely, which rendered any further rationing redundant. Aiming for the muck bucket resting by the opposite wall, I spat out the old, tasteless piece, just missing the target by a hair.

A deep sigh erupted from my chest. Couldn’t I do anything right?

Hooking my ankles behind the wooden frame, I slouched forward and popped a fresh chunk of the raw root into my mouth. My thoughts raced along with my pulse, as a potent onrush of sweet piquancy attacked my taste buds.

Jealousy. While I was familiar with the concept on a theoretical level, I’d never cared for anyone enough to experience it first-hand. Until then.

Until Hernan.

Nursing a broken heart sucked. An entire swarm of dark, confusing thoughts descended upon me. Guilt. Rage. Self-doubt. Hurt. Fear of abandonment. But how could I lose something I never had in the first place? Logic vacated the lodgings of my brain, inviting a new tenant—misery—to make itself at home.