Page 70 of Veiled Flames
I smile. Part of me wants to object, but the stakes are too high. Samyull dropped out of the pull up test, after doing the bare minimum of ten. His decision to drop after completing the minimum, assuming it was a decision, seems smart to me now.
Samyull tests the bow string and then dons the quiver of thirty arrows ready for the trial to begin. A bell sounds and Samyull quickly shoots his arrows. He’s better than he led me to believe.
Once or twice his hand fails to find an arrow when he reaches back, and some of his arrows miss the target, but by the time his minute is over, I’m pleased to see that his target is crowded with what I hope is twenty arrows.
The black flags rise and Saxon surveys the targets, raising his arm for each successful candidate. Three men are dismissed.
“Candidates, you have one minute to retrieve your arrows before the next group begins.” Saxon’s voice booms across the open space, and I hate that I still find the depth of his tone appealing.
Samyull hands the bow to me and races forward. When he reaches the target he rapidly pulls out his arrows and stashes them in the quiver.
I pick up the remaining quiver, then test the tautness of the string and practice my reach back. Based on watching Samyull, I decide that strapping the quiver at a slight angle will help ensure that an arrow meets my hand each time I reach back. I don’t want to waste even seconds.
I hear the twang of a bow string, and an arrow flies toward the targets, narrowly missing Samyull as he’s bent to retrieve one of his out of the ground.
He spins back. “Who shot that?”
Egon turns away, laughing, and I look toward Saxon. Surely Egon will be disqualified. But our master walks in the other direction, shaking his head.
Another bell rings, and the last few men race back toward us.
“Second group, prepare!” Saxon commands.
The black flags drop, the bell sounds, and I start shooting my allocation of arrows. My arms find some life, and I hear satisfying thunks as every single one of my arrows hits its mark. Not every arrow lands in the target’s center, but if I aimed each one at exactly the same place, I would have split many arrows in half.
I finish before our time expires, and glance toward Egon’s target. It looks like he landed enough, but a few are sticking out from the grass, and at least three are in the wall of straw behind the targets.
Saxon surveys the results again. He pauses in front of my target, but then his gaze skims right over me as he turns. He said he wouldn’t give me special treatment, but he lied. He’s not ignoring everyone else’s accomplishments.
“Better luck next time,” I say to Egon as we run to retrieve our arrows.
He glares at me, and an angry vein pulses on his reddened forehead.
I’m not sure I’ve ever disliked someone so strongly—not someone I wasn’t supposed to marry, that is. As I’m pulling out the last of my arrows, one whizzes past my ear and lands in my target. I spin, and another arrow narrowly misses my shoulder. Amis lowers his bow, a clear smirk on his face.
Again, Saxon ignores this behavior, even though I’m certain he can’t have missed it.
Our group loses a total of nine candidates at the end of round one, and my confidence slowly returns, although my body remains in pain.
Carrying a large bow and quiver of arrows, Master Treacher strides onto the field to join Saxon.
“Egon. Amis. Step forward.” Treacher calls out.
They proudly step forward, their barrel chests puffing out even bigger than normal.
“In round two, you’ll learn how it feels to have arrows aimed toward you,” Treacher says to the group. “Given the results of round one, Saxon has selected these two to enjoy that experience first.”
“Stand here.” Treacher leads them both to stand in front of targets.
Amis’s expression fills with trepidation, but Egon looks as obnoxiously self-assured as ever, widening his legs and crossing his arms over his chest.
Treacher says something to them both. I can’t hear what, but they shift their positions, both standing stiffly straight, their arms tucked in at their sides.
Saxon moves to the center of the field carrying his bow and arrow, and my heart rises into my throat as Saxon rapidly fires a full quiver of arrows toward the men, shooting so quickly, I barely see his arm move back to cock each one.
When Saxon’s quiver is empty, both Amis and Egon are surrounded by arrows. The group applauds, but I just stare, unable to move. I’m equally impressed by Saxon’s skill and appalled at his behavior. I was angry that he didn’t punish these men for shooting arrows at Samyull and me, but this… He could have killed them.
“Since it’s only day one.” Treacher strides across the field. “Master Saxon has convinced me to show you some undeserved mercy. Round two will be optional, for only those brave enough to volunteer.”
