Page 19 of Twenty-One Arrow Salute

THE ROYAL EVENT

The heat relented a bit by late afternoon, when a light breeze arose from the river. Every little bit helped if you happened to be a poor bastard on horseback, armed up to the teeth and baking under layers of heavy, ceremonial garb. I thanked the gods that the tall buildings clustered around the town square cast enough shadow to bathe us in the blessed shade.

If my mind hadn’t been a scramble of thoughts, devoured by anxiety, it likely would’ve erupted at the splendour and radiant beauty of the Silver City. The brightly coloured crowd—loud and cheerful, inspirited both by the occasion and a hefty quantity of ale—milled about in the wide streets, giving off a tangible sense of anticipation and gaping at us in reverence.

No wonder, too. The Royal Highland Regiment, one thousand archers strong, scrubbed up damn well. An unexpected surge of pride rushed through me as I viewed my home unit gathered under the blue and silver banner: warriors dark and magnificent, oozing quiet power, akin to a crouched mountain lion—still, but deadly nonetheless.

Street pedlars yelled, advertising their goods while bustling around, chasing away urchins and distributing sweet and savoury pastries to paying customers. The air carried a rich, buttery fragrance that teased my nostrils, almost fooling my mouth into tasting the crumbliness of the shortcrust dough.

At last, a commotion on the opposite side of the square announced an end to the wait, turning all heads. My nerves ragged, I watched the Guards of Honour, all seven of them, climb the stand that had been prepared for them. They formed a neat line to an ovation of the spectators, their bows strung and at the ready.

Hernan stood in the middle, flanked by three large Highlanders on either side. I couldn’t help but stare and admire the dashing figure he cut. He was paler than usual, and his expression seemed somewhat pinched, but damn it if he didn’t look sharp in his blue uniform, the silk Guard of Honour sash a daring statement across his chest. The only fault I found with his appearance, or his attire to be more precise, was that—as far as I could see from a distance—it bore no sign of my pin.

At the sight of his utterly pinless chest, disappointment rose like a lump in my throat and choked me. I anticipated hearing a loud crack because at that moment, I felt my heart break. My stomach revolted in a violent cramp and I sagged in my saddle, fearing I would be sick over the side of my horse. But the feeling passed as quickly as it appeared.

“Everything all right?” Achiah manoeuvred her gelding closer to my mare.

I collected myself with effort. “Fine,” I replied with a reassuring wave of my hand, refusing to make eye contact. “Too much darhê last night is all,” I added, fighting the shakiness of my voice, desperate to divert her attention.

Luckily, another burst of applause—deafening this time—rippled through the crowd. It could mean only one thing: the arrival of the Queen and her entourage. The trumpets roared an elaborate fanfare, the sound irritating enough to make me want to flip my ears inside out. Then it all grew hush.

“Her Grace, Queen Nae’amh. Ruler of the Elven Country, Protector of Crown Dependencies, Sovereign of the Empire and Commander-in-Chief of the Elven Armed Forces,” bellowed the royal herald.

Every civilian bowed their heads. Every soldier rendered a salute.

Her Grace stepped onto the platform embellished with garlands in the royal colours, faced the gathering and raised her hand in greeting. The gesture propelled her subjects out of their silence, bringing on the return of clapping, cheering and well-wishing.

I’d seen the Queen twice before. Once as a child in Black Mountain, soon after she’d granted autonomy to the Highlands, and recently at our swearing-in ceremony. Over half a century after taking the throne, she appeared as youthful, fresh-faced and vigorous as a human woman would be in her late twenties—nothing out of the ordinary for an Elf, and even more so one who descended from a noble and ancient bloodline.

Her golden hair was slicked back in a simple braid. Tall and athletic, she wore a Guard’s uniform, as she often did during public appearances. They didn’t call her Yrtŭs nii Arūkéro—First amongst Archers—for naught. I’d heard from other soldiers about her habit of turning up at our garrison unannounced to join random training days and drills to keep her skills honed. The word around the barracks was that Her Grace shot a mean long-range arrow—and from a mountain bow, no less—swore like a cobbler and never failed to take seconds at meal times.

Without further ado, the Queen reclined into the centre seat under the canopy, followed by Lord D’Arteň, the Royal Consort and one of the land’s finest swordsmen. He sprawled his muscular frame out on the chair to her right. The instant the couple settled, the Queen’s current lover, the petite Countess of Riyön, glided up the podium in her tulip-shaped skirts and poised on the edge of a pouffe by the Monarch’s feet. The Queen’s hand immediately lowered, and her fingers weaved into the woman’s hazel curls.

Once a handful of favourite courtiers—most of them members of the Féyes clan—had arranged themselves on the podium around the royal trio like a flock of exotic birds, the Queen nodded the signal for the festivities to commence.

I tried to entertain myself by guessing which one of the three Elves sporting huge swords behind Lord D’Arteň belonged to Hernan’s father—and failed. Apart from that, I didn’t bother sparing the group on the stand more than a detached peek, even though the cream of Elven aristocracy rallied there. All of them well-turned out, influential and desired. In any other circumstance, I wouldn’t pass up the chance to, at the very least, eyefuck a few. But in truth, I hungered after only one person’s smile in this entire sea of people. A smile just for me. And hadn’t I done a brilliant fucking job of ruining any chance of that happening.

My breath tore at my ribs as the rejection sank in. It was odd, the numbness that all of the sudden enveloped me. As if the colours, smells and sounds around became subdued and dreary. The atmosphere of jubilation, an evening that promised music, drink and dance lost its appeal. My lack of sleep came at me with a vengeance, hitting me with fatigue and a fit of bad temper. If anyone had offered me a chance to sneak out and ride back to the garrison, I would’ve taken it in a snap.

I directed my gaze back on Hernan to torture myself a little more.

Something niggled at my sense of symmetry. I couldn’t identify the problem until the Highlander next to Hernan pointed to his chest, making a quick half-circle gesture with his fingers. Only then did I notice that the sash was draped from Hernan’s left shoulder to his right hip, while the rest of the Guards wore it the other way round.

Hernan flailed a little, his eyes growing wide and his cheeks turning pink—which drew a reluctant tug of lips from me. He hurried to rectify his uniform mishap, sending his red hair tumbling everywhere. At last, he righted his clothes and smoothed the front of his jacket.

I squinted at him until my eyes crossed and watered. I caught sight of it right then, standing out against the indigo of his outfit: a tiny glint of silver where my grandfather’s brooch sat pinned over Hernan’s heart.

“Yes, fuck, yes!” My hips compelled me forward, and I rose up in my stirrups, one arm thrust in the air.

“The hell? What are you doing?” Rūe hissed behind me. “You’ll spook the horses, you nut-job.”

Emotion seeped out of me in a gush. Lightheaded with it, I flopped down into my saddle, chuckling to myself.

“What’s with you? Have you finally lost it?” The amusement in Achiah’s tone contradicted her scowl.

“He’d have to find it first.” Someone laughed. “Perhaps he’s remembered he’s getting some this evening.”

“Who isn’t on the night of the Archers’ Fete?” asked Achiah philosophically, studying the end of her braid.