“Do you want to get in more practice?” she asked hopefully, indicating the weapon.
“Nah,” he said, swinging it off his shoulder. Veronyka’s heart sank, until . . . “I think it’s time we gave you a try.”
“At the obstacle course?” she squeaked, then cleared her throat.
He chuckled. “No. That’s a bit advanced for you. Let’s try your hand at the bow and arrow first.”
The bow he held out was smaller than what a standing soldier would use, made from dark, polished wood and curled at both ends.
“It’s recurved,” he explained, tracing the reverse bends at top and bottom, “which gives maximum draw with minimal effort. Riders usually shoot while mounted, so they need smaller, more agile weapons. This works in your favor, compensating for your, uh, limited strength.”
Veronyka had to give him credit for trying to be tactful, though he’d failed.
Tristan showed her how to string and unstring the bow, but she couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. The strength and coordination it required to bend the wood and hold the string taut was more than she would have assumed, and soon her muscles began to tremble.
After watching her struggle, Tristan finally took pity on her and helped. “It’ll get easier,” he said, reaching around her to add his strength to hers, pushing the bow down so Veronyka could fasten the loop.
His sudden proximity filled her senses, the scent of cool green grass and woodsmoke mingling with the cotton of his tunic and the smell of his skin, salty with sweat and still warm from the day’s sun. When he released the bow and stepped back from her, Veronyka took a deep breath of the Tristan-free air and collected herself. Her nerves were on high alert because of the new challenge archery presented, she was sure, and not because of the way the commander’s son smelled.
Taking the bow from her, he demonstrated proper technique, drawing the string effortlessly. He pointed out the position of his feet, spread and evenly balanced, along with the angle of his elbow, and how far he drew the string, anchored to his chin. The position displayed his lean, muscular body to its best effect, and Veronyka took as long as was acceptable to stare at him.
To help my technique, she told herself, looking away at last. Yes, he was attractive—strong and smart and talented. And yes, she loved being with him. But he was also her training partner, the commander’s son, and with any luck, her sponsor someday. She couldn’t afford to get distracted.
He handed her the bow, and she tried to mimic him, drawing the arrowless string back and doing her best to remember his square, balanced posture.
He walked around her, nudging her elbow up, kicking her feet farther apart, and squinting at her grip.
Then he rested a hand, idly, against her chest.
His palm splayed against the fabric, his smallest finger mere millimeters away from the gentle swell of her flattened breasts. Immediately her chest constricted and her breath hitched.
“No, no,” Tristan said softly, the other hand resting on the elbow that drew back the string. “Deep breaths—that’s where your strength and posture come from. In and out, come on,” he encouraged, tapping her chest lightly.
Veronyka thought she might faint right then and there. Bad enough that she was a girl pretending to be a boy, her secret a fingertip away from being discovered, but Tristan’s very proximity was enough to make her lungs tighten and her body shake.
Veronyka, you fool.
Focusing on the bow in her hands, she relaxed and did as he ordered. Deep breath in, slow breath out. On the next breath in, she tightened her grip and drew back the string, feeling her muscles bunch and expand and her posture straighten.
“There it is,” he said softly, his breath tickling the back of her neck.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was so close, Veronyka could see the barest shadow of stubble along his jawline and the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. Once. Twice.
His hand lingered for a moment longer. Then it dropped, and she released the string, her body’s tension collapsing in on itself in a grateful moment of release.
Tristan cleared his throat and reached for the quiver. He was brusque when he took the bow again, avoiding her eye as he showed her how to hold the arrow, curling his fingers to pull it taut against the string and angling the shaft against the bow, with a finger below to guide it.
He was an excellent teacher, patient and thorough, and when it was Veronyka’s turn, she did her best to follow his instructions. Her form seemed accurate enough, but when it came time to actually shoot the weapon, the arrow flopped to the ground scant feet in front of her.
Tristan covered his mouth in a gesture that she knew was hiding laughter, and he collected the stray arrow before waving for her to try again. She got the hang of it eventually, firing weak shots in the general direction of the target. Before long the muscles in her shoulders, arms, and back began to ache, and her fingertips were rubbed raw.
“There are gloves and armguards to make you more comfortable,” Tristan offered, seeing her shake out her aching fingers after another unimpressive shot, “but it’s better to toughen the skin and develop calluses.”
“It’s fine,” Veronyka said in frustration. She’d managed to embed only a single arrow, on the outermost edge of the target, but nothing more.
“You have other strengths, you know,” Tristan said quietly.
Veronyka knew she sucked at this, but his words confirmed it. How was she going to be a mounted warrior when she could barely draw a bow? If Avalkyra Ashfire could be the best markswoman in the summer solstice games at age eleven, beating out hundreds of older, more experienced archers, Veronyka could learn too. She had to.
“If you want to be a Rider, you have to be an archer,” she gritted out. She’d just have to practice more, find ways to shoot late at night or early in the morning. . . .
“Yes, archery is important,” Tristan conceded, coming to stand in front of her, arms crossed. “But every Rider has their talents. Anders is an amazing flyer, fast and unpredictable. Fallon has incredible balance—he can ride standing, sitting, or even on his phoenix’s tail. Ronyn is by far the strongest of any of us; he can throw a spear almost as far as I can shoot an arrow.”
As Tristan continued to list off each Rider’s remarkable skills, Veronyka felt smaller and smaller. How could she think she belonged among them, when she had no such astounding abilities?
It seemed Tristan could read her mind. “But your strength, Nyk, is your magic.”
Veronyka gave him a disbelieving look. “We all have magic,” she said, unable to keep the embarrassing sulkiness out of her voice. Of course, Veronyka did have a magical skill that most of them did not—her shadow magic—but it had no bearing on how she’d fare as a Rider. In most cases it was a terrible inconvenience and a liability.