Page 38 of The Archer’s Wish

A lull settled over the grounds as the spent arrows were pulled free and splintered targets carried away to be replaced. The sharp twang of bowstrings faded into murmurs and laughter as most of the men drifted toward the ale tent, where village lasses served drink and flirted freely. The scent of malt and sweat mingled in the air.

Liam lingered behind.

His gaze slid toward the practice range, toward the familiar line etched into the earth. His fingers curled reflexively at his side, the phantom memory of a bow fitting into his palm making his hand itch with a restless ache. For a heartbeat, he forgot the pain, forgot the stiffness in his leg. He was only an archer again, hungry, eager, alive.

“Give it a go.”

The words cut through his thoughts.

Liam turned to find a young man standing before him, holding out a bow with both hands like an offering. The surrounding men fell silent, a ripple of stunned stillness sweeping through them. Liam recognized the lad at once, one of his former students. A boy he’d once trained to notch his first arrow.

The young man, blissfully unaware of the weight of what he’d just done, grinned from ear to ear. “I have improved much,” he said proudly. “I dinnae think I can beat ye, but I may surprise ye.”

Something twisted gently in Liam’s chest. The lad’s unguarded enthusiasm, his complete lack of fear or pity, struck deeper than any careful sympathy ever could. Despite himself, despite the trepidation curling low in his belly, Liam reached for the bow.

“I have very little doubt ye will beat me,” he said quietly. “I’ve nay held a bow in many months. I doubt I’ll even take proper aim.”

The young archer stiffened, realization dawning. “Ye dinnae have to,” he rushed out. “I ken ye’re the best.”

Liam met his earnest gaze. After a breath, he gave a slow nod. “Aye. Very well then. Show me what ye can do.”

That impish grin returned at once, bright and contagious. For a fleeting moment, Liam almost believed himself whole again. The bow fit his hand as if it had never left it. The familiar weight of it steadied his breathing, eased the tightness in his shoulders. Muscle memory whispered promises his body might no longer keep, but hope stirred anyway.

They moved to a quieter section of the grounds where only a handful of archers waited their turn.

“Go ahead,” Liam said, handing the bow back and folding his arms. “Show me.”

The lad took his stance, feet planted, one forward, shoulders squared. He lifted the bow with care, notched an arrow, drew, breathed and loosed.

The arrow struck just shy of the center. A murmur of impressed voices followed.

“One more,” Liam called out gently.

The second shot went wide. The young man scowled and kicked at the dirt in frustration.

“Ye did very well,” Liam said, stepping closer. “I am impressed.”

The lad’s jaw set with fierce determination. “I will make ye proud.”

“I already am,” Liam answered.

A hush crept over the gathering men as they waited. Liam felt their eyes on him, some worried, some hopeful, all brimming with unspoken questions. He held out his hand.

The bow and two arrows were placed into his grasp.

Once, he had competed in trickery, multiple arrows, blindfolded shots, feats meant to draw awe and gasps. Now, as he lifted his gaze to the target, doubt whispered cruelly at him. Had it always been this far?

He glanced toward the watching men, brothers in battle, men who had stood with him beneath charging horses and clashing steel. Hendry’s gaze met his, steady and sure. A single nod passed between them.

Pride flared in Liam’s chest at the simple, unshaken faith.

“Ye may all want to move away,” Liam called out dryly. “My aim is nae what it once was.”

Chuckles rippled through the circle of men, easing the tight coil in his chest.

He stepped to the line, heart thundering far too hard for so simple a thing. His stance was imperfect, his weight shifted awkwardly, but he adjusted, leaning at the waist until balance was something he could almost convince himself he had.

He lifted the bow. Notched both arrows. Despite the bandaging on his hands, he didn’t feel impaired. He ignored the tightening skin on his knuckles; it was but a slight nuisance.