I ran from our room and through Maniyadoc. Even early the castle was busy with slaves and servants rushing backwards and forwards. My passage through the corridors disturbed the usual course of their day and I felt resentful eyes on my back as I passed. My run slowed to a jog, and my jog slowed to a fast walk, which slowed to a stately saunter. As I walked down the cold stone of the main staircase I felt myself wilting under the imperious gaze of the chief household servants, who guarded propriety like attack dogs. Even away from them it felt like everyone I passed watched me with suspicious eyes.
Aydor arrived at the squireyard just before I did, amid a tightly knit formation of guards with armour and weapons far more ornate then any others I had seen. After seeing him safely into the yard they turned smartly and marched past me. Their captain, a man with a short beard and missing front tooth, hissed, “Mage-bent,” and spat at the ground by my club foot as I watched them walk past.
Squires were already lining up to take bows from a rack as I entered. Targets made from large bales of hay with white circles painted on them had been set up at the far end of the yard.
“Take a bow, Girton,” said the squiremaster. “Today we shoot.”
“You may shoot,” said Aydor, walking away from the rack. “I will not. A bow is a thankful’s weapon.”
“And one you will need to master if you wish to become a Rider,” said the squiremaster.
“Kings have no need to pass skills tests,” said Aydor, and a few of his group smiled, though I noticed they still picked up bows. I walked to the rack, trying to watch the confrontation between Aydor and the squiremaster without obviously staring.
“You are not a king yet, Aydor, so I am still your master on this field. Pick up a bow.”
“Aydor does not want to shoot because his eyes are bad.” The whisper came from by my elbow. It was Rufra, the squire my master said was the child of Neander from the vicious ap Vthyr family. His eyes were constantly darting around the yard and he immediately struck me as shifty, running to tell tales. I nodded uncomfortably and went back to studying the bows.
Aydor walked over to the rack, pushed me out of the way and picked up the first bow his hand touched. I wondered again if the squiremaster was the assassin—if not he was a brave man to talk to Aydor the way he had. The heir would one day hold the squiremaster’s life in his hand.
“There,” said Aydor, “I have a bow.”
“Well done,” said Nywulf. “And you, Girton? Will you hold us up further?” He stared at me and I finished looking over the bows. They were a poor lot but I picked the best of them. “Right, who will shoot first?”
“I will,” said Aydor. An offer which surprised everyone.
“Very well,” said Nywulf. “Take your mark.”
Aydor stepped forward to a line Nywulf had marked in the sand with a stick. Arrows had been stuck in the ground along it.
“Draw,” said Nywulf.
The heir’s armour creaked as he nocked an arrow and brought the bow up, pulling the string taut so it rested against his cheek and holding the bow like that for far longer than was needed for him to aim. It was bravado, a display of strength that would do nothing for his ability to hit a target. Then he spun on the spot and a little cloud of dirt rose around his feet. He pointed the arrow at the squiremaster. Nywulf did not flinch. He stared straight down the shaft of the arrow into Aydor’s eyes.
“And loose,” said Nywulf.
Sweat stood out on the heir’s brow.
He let the arrow fly.
“No!” The boy by me, Rufra, shouted the word, articulating what everyone on the field was thinking. Even Kyril, Borniya and Hallin, Aydor’s little clique, looked shocked.
With a sound like cloth ripping the arrow shot across the training yard, flying past Nywulf’s head in a blur and burying itself in the wooden wall.
A silence settled over the training yard. Nywulf did not move. He stared at Aydor.
“You missed,” he said.
Aydor spat on the ground. “It seems I have no skill with these thankful weapons.” He dropped the bow in the dirt.
“I doubt anyone else will shoot so poorly, Squire Aydor,” said Nywulf. It seemed inhuman that his voice did not waver or crack. “So you have placed last. You may leave now.”
Aydor seemed at a loss for a moment, his thunder stolen from him by the steel core that ran through Nywulf. Then he turned and walked out the gate watched by everyone on the field, Celot jogging after him like a loyal dog.
“Right,” shouted Nywulf, so loud it made me jump. “Who’s next?”
“Me,” said Tomas. He walked to the line, drew and loosed at the target in one fluid motion. He hit it dead centre. One by one the other squires followed. All were reasonably skilled—in that none missed the target—but some were better than others. Each archer had five arrows and those who scored lowest in each round of shooting were out. After five rounds it came down to Tomas, Rufra, Boros and myself—though only Tomas and I could win. The others shot for third place, which Boros won. Then Tomas and I stepped up. Tomas shot first. Both he and I had been shooting straight centres right through the competition. I was a little ahead as Tomas’s second shot had gone into the painted line of the centre rather than the actual centre.
Tomas took his last shot—a centre again.
I nocked an arrow to my bow and drew. I would not miss—we were far nearer the target than I generally practised at and it should be an easy win—but I was not here to win, even though I wanted to. I let the bow waver as if my strength was going and when I loosed the arrow it flew straight and true into the second circle, giving Tomas victory.
His small group of friends let out a roar of approval and ran over to clap him on the back. I shook my head and stared at the ground as if ashamed.
“You shoot well.” I looked up—it was Rufra again. “And you look surprised that I am talking to you.” He glanced around. His nervousness was contagious and I had to stop myself flinching as if in expectation of a blow. “We are not all like the heir.” He put out his hand to grasp. I was confused and annoyed. I had expected Tomas to talk to me not this nervous boy. After a near-run match it was normal for the winner to compliment the loser. I glanced over at Tomas. He smiled at me but it was a cold, aloof smile, and any friendship that may have been in it swiftly died when he saw I was talking to Rufra.
“Thank you,” I said to Rufra without taking his hand. There was an aura of barely suppressed frustration around the boy, as if he were a coiled spring ready to burst into violent action. When he smiled it seemed as much a mask as that of any priest.
“You are a hostage, I heard?” he said, letting his offered hand fall.
“Yes,” I replied, trying to work out why he was talking to me. Evidently the rest of Aydor’s clique were wondering the same as they watched us with interest. Hallin, the boy with the blinded eye, was running his thumb along the back of his knife. “My father was lax in his tributes so I am here as surety.”
“My family is not trusted either.” Rufra gave me an unconvincing smile and then glanced over his shoulder. “They are old country and still follow some of those ways. My aunt even rides a warmount and commands men.” His face lit up at the mention of his aunt but I did not return his smile. “She taught me to shoot a bow.”