Page 3 of Twenty-One Arrow Salute

Half of my squad stood engrossed in a game of cards, having gathered around two straw targets they had converted into a makeshift table. That subtle entertainment, known back home as The Druid’s Arse, involved an abundance of rude gestures and yelling, complete with slapping your opponents’ arses and faces. The game—crude, rowdy and handsy—conveyed the spirit of the Highlands better than any lengthy description could ever do.

A lonely figure loomed behind the group. I took a few steps forward and recognised the only archer not participating in the fun by his mass of flaming ginger hair.

Smaller-framed than an average Highlander, Seinnés lay on his stomach, pressing his elbows on the grass and cupping his chin in his hands. His legs, bent at the knee and crossed at the ankles, rested in the air. He stared at the players while gnawing on a blade of grass, sporting a half-curious, half-wistful expression, the book in front of him forgotten.

He sure was pretty.

A large red mouth and lucent eyes the shade of pale fern stood out on his slender face. The pointy tip of one ear, tinged pink, peeked out through his bright hair. His colouring, bold and ostentatious, called to mind the image of the forest in autumn glory.

My earlier agitation ebbed away. An odd twinge jolted through my chest.

The more I looked, the more I enjoyed the view, astonished that Seinnés’ clean-limbed build and graceful looks had escaped my notice so far. But something beyond his beauty garnered my attention: his mellow features, stripped of their usual frostiness and contemptuous arrogance. Unaware of my scrutiny and folded in such a childlike pose, he came across as downcast and forsaken. So out of his element that I ended up fighting an odd impulse to comfort him. I couldn’t shake the thought that I’d stumbled upon him in a private moment of vulnerability when he’d dropped his guard and left himself exposed. And suddenly, watching him like that seemed wrong somehow—akin to stealing secrets—in every way more intrusive than ogling bare, soaped arses through a shroud of bathhouse steam.

Startled, I made myself snap out of this peculiar sensation. All of my rushing about in the hot morning sun must’ve sneaked up on me. “Hey Seinnés,” I called, approaching the Asirhwÿnian.

The instant I addressed him, his face tensed. He got to his feet, looking wary.

The complete change in his demeanour made my head spin.

When his green gaze focused on me, the twinge in my breastbone made a repeat appearance. I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead to determine whether or not it felt feverish. I needed to get into the shade. And fast.

“What you want with him, Verhan?” a gruff voice speaking the Mountain Dialect boomed over my shoulder. A quick backward glance confirmed it belonged to a big fucker called Rūe, who must’ve abandoned the game and crept up on me while I’d been busy gawking at Seinnés. Rūe’s companions followed him, of course, curiosity luring them much like an Undine to the water. So with no warning, I found myself surrounded by the entire force of the players.

Fuck my kin and their compulsion to know everything. If nosing into other people’s affairs were a dedicated sport, the Highlanders would claim the highest trophies in every tournament. In which case, to be fair, I’d likely hold the title of the most celebrated athlete myself.

I knew damn well my fellow archers would give Seinnés crap over the news of his forthcoming performance and rib him to pieces, purely for fun or out of boredom if nothing else. In a split-second decision, I resolved to bear the brunt of their reaction. Why I chose to do it, I couldn’t really say. “Well, I want to congratulate him, of course,” I blurted out in Common Elven, mindful to switch the language to one an Asirhwÿnian could understand. “And you should, too.”

Seinnés kept eyeing me, unsure of what was to come, visibly bracing for a blow.

“Oh yeah? What on?” said Rūe.

“On becoming a Guard of Honour. And, come the Queen’s Namesday, the new centre shooter,” I announced, and watched eight pairs of black eyes—and one pair of green—go wide and round like a Barbarian’s shield.

“Him? The centre shooter?” Rūe threw his head back and howled with laughter.

Predictably, his companions didn’t waste the opportunity to join in, splitting their sides in amusement and slapping their thighs.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Once you’ve quite finished acting like eejits, do let me know.”

“This a fucking joke?” Rūe exchanged puzzled glances with the others, all of whom looked just as taken aback as I had been a quarter of an hour earlier.

“Must be some political bollocks or other?” someone suggested.

Seinnés stood unmoving, straight as an arrow and seemingly unfazed, but I couldn’t miss the unease locked in the clench of his jaw and the rigidity emanating from his stance. But considering that I had sprung this piece of information on him, he seemed to take it in stride. Well, minus some cracked molars, possibly.

I anchored my hands on my hips and cocked my head. “Why, are you jealous, Rūe? After the job yourself, were you?” Rūe’s flushed cheeks and narrowed gaze confirmed I’d hit the target head-on. “Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but they must’ve been after a looker, not an oaf.”

It wasn’t entirely truthful, strictly speaking. Rūe was a big’un, all right—rugged, broad and handsome. Between my bedcover and me, there might’ve been a couple of occasions when I’d stroked myself in the dark to the thought of having all those hard muscles trapped underneath me. Damn Rūe didn’t need to be privy to those details, though.

My words had a two-fold effect. Seinnés blinked a couple of times, his lips parting. Rūe, on the other hand, fixed his stare on me, tucked in his chin and balled up his fists. Before he could take a swing at me, the lads rounded on Seinnés.

“Have you ever shot a mountain bow before?” demanded one voice.

“Held it?” asked another.

“Or stood next to one?” Rūe sneered.

Everyone guffawed.