To Target the Heart

by Aldrea Alien

  He recalled back then as if his boyhood self stood right before him, frustrated after a long day of practice. Even as young as seven, he could hit the target. But there’d been no consistency to those hits, each mark scattered around the outer rings like a drunken man’s game of darts. Not like his brother, who could put three of every four arrows near the middle of the target. He had been so angry, then. So jealous of his brother’s talents.

  And now, he was the one surpassing everyone he had ever competed against.

  Except it wasn’t so easy at this moment, not when his mother’s words kept playing in his mind. How could she? She had promised him.

  He knocked on the door to his mother’s study and stood waiting, the desire to burst into the room close to overwhelming. His stomach was leaden, cramping and ready to expel his meal. No actual clue as to why he was here other than she wanted to speak with him.

  Answers. He needed them. Craved to know, to assuage the fear bubbling in his chest. What could she want? What had she done that would send Nora into a tizzy?

  Not daring to breathe, he loosed the arrow. Again, it fell short of its mark.

  Curse Darshan. It was all his doing, filling his head with talk of magic. He wasn’t a spellster. He couldn’t be. He just needed to focus. On the moment, not the memory of the mess he had left behind in that study.

  He flung the door open at the first pealing call of her permission to enter. His mother sat in her usual padded chair near the fireplace, casually working a needle through a small piece of hooped linen. Although she had plenty of servants that could’ve done her needlework for her, his mother had a fondness for such tasks.

  “You wanted to see me?” Hamish shuffled in the doorway. His gaze flicked over the room. Nothing unusual.

  His mother glanced up from her needlework. “I did.” She carried on with her sewing as if it was far more important than their conversation. “About your lack of enthusiasm in finding a wife. I—”

  “It’s taking longer than usual,” he blurted, hoping to stave off her usual lamenting of him not adhering to custom. “I ken that. I…” His mind desperately worked to find the right words that would see him leaving without angering her. Floundering, he latched onto an old excuse. “I just havenae found the right one.”

  “Well, then.” She finally put the hooped fabric aside. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear you can stop looking.”

  “I… can?” Relief stuttered in his heart. Had she…? Was she finally seeing what she was doing to him? “Is this because you’ve decided to make me the ambassador at Minamist?”

  His bow shook and another arrow missed its mark, glancing off the lower edge of the target and spinning away. He should’ve known right then. Should’ve realised her intentions and left.

  But no, he’d been stupid enough to believe she would keep her word. Fool.

  His mother laughed. It was a dreadful, sneering tone that sent an icy vein of horror through him. “Are you still harping on about that? Nae, you’ll be far too busy forming a family with your new wife to venture off into foreign lands.”

  “I dinnae…” Pain erupted in his chest, squeezing tight. Panic and dizziness overcame his senses. He stumbled to lean against the doorframe. “You said I—” It couldn’t be. New wife? He dared another darting look around the room. They were still alone. “What wife?”

  Sighing, his mother stood. “Hamish, you’re thirty-seven years old. When I was your age, I was married, your brother was born and your sister was on the way.” She clasped her hands before her, every inch the queen. “That is why I am holding a union contest for your hand.”

  Hamish doubled over, teetering on the edge of nausea as he struggled to keep back tears. Nae. He pressed a hand to his belly, trying to still his stomach. How was this happening?

  The union contest. He’d witnessed it with his siblings; a fight amongst currently eligible noblewomen from all the clans. But unlike his siblings, he wouldn’t have a prospective spouse amongst the competition. Rather, he would be gifted to the woman who won his hand. Like a trophy.

  “Dinnae look so distraught,” his mother snapped. “Your brother went through the same contest.”

  Hamish pressed a hand to his lips. Aye. But Gordon had loved his wife. The union contest had been a mere formality for them, necessary only because his mother had deemed Muireall unfit to become the princess consort.

  But Hamish? Who would even have him? It was well-known that he had never had a wife, an unheard of thing at his age. Maybe the competitors would twig something wasn’t right.

  But if the expected suitors did come? If someone won? What then? Chaos. He’d be despised. Outcast. Unsuitable as another link in the royal chain. His purpose of siring a child like his ancestors finally declared invalid. “You cannae—”

  “The first of the eligible nobles have already arrived. The rest will filter in over the coming week.”

  Hamish frowned. A week? When the nearest clan was several weeks away? That could only mean she had sent the call before Darshan’s arrival.

  Anger singed the fear from his mind. “You swore,” he growled. He had thought this was retribution for his intimacy with the ambassador, but she’d been planning this before she even knew the wrong spellster was coming. “You gave me your word as queen that I would be allowed to marry in me own time.”

  “I think we both know you didnae intend to ever keep your end of the deal, dear.”

  He glowered at her. No, he hadn’t.

  “Dinnae think I was unaware of what you’ve been up to. Becoming an ambassador? Of all the inane lies to weave. Nae son of mine is travelling to some far-off city to be some noble’s bedwarmer. You will stay here and do your duty like any other Tirglasian prince.”

  “But—”

  She strode across the room to halt before him, an imposing figure even if she came only to his chin. “The call has been sent. A few from the closer clans have already arrived. What do you expect me to do?”

  “Call off the competition!” What difference would it make to the clans if the queen reneged the union contest? There could only be one winner, so no one lost anything. “Tell them I’m nae ready for a family, that I might never be ready.”

  “You ken once the call has been sent, it cannae be undone.”

  He turned his gaze to the walls. “Aye,” he muttered. Clans had fought over less. For the queen to renege the union contest was to invite civil war.

  She clasped his hand in both of hers, her fingers colder than her ice-blue gaze. “I ken it seems unfair, but sacrifices have to be made to keep the land together. You’ve spent your whole life preparing for this; trained to defend your clan, schooled in case you have to take the throne. It’s well past the time for you to settle down and have wee bairns like your siblings. Like I did with your father.”

  “But it’s nae your life you’re building, it’s mine. I dinnae want it to be over.”

  His mother scoffed, jerking her hands back. “It’s marriage, nae a death sentence.”

  That was debatable. “I ken what you’re really after. You didnae even care which woman I marry.” She never had been, thrusting every woman from the noblewomen who came to visit, to the youngest maid. “If it’s the wee bairns you want from me, then why bother with the pretence of marriage? Why dinnae you just tie me to a bed and put me out to stud?” He was about as willing either way.

  Gasping, his mother jerked her shoulders back. Her whole body strained to be taller than her spine allowed for.

  Her hand came up, swift and sharp.

  His cheek stung before he realised she had slapped him.

  Hamish stared at her, struggling to see his mother amongst the naked rage blazing in front of him. He backed away, his hand pressed to his cheek. Warmth soaked through his fingertips. “You hit me.” She had never raised more than her voice at him in the past.

  “You brought it upon yourself. You’re the one who dared to speak to me in that manner.” Rather than follow, his mother stood he
r ground and pointed at the floor before her. “Now get back here.”

  His feet took him back through the doorway. Standing in the corridor, faced with a vision of his mother he’d never witnessed before, he fled.

  Even in that, he had been hounded by her voice.

  Hamish’s hands shook as he raised his final arrow. His feet had taken him here, scuttling to the familiar like a roach. But even out here, in the heart of the only act that gave him some measure of control, he wasn’t free of her.

  And what exactly did he command? His skill with a bow? It lay shattered across the archery range. Stolen from him by… by…

  The memory of the arrow he had loosed out in the forest filled his mind. The way it had twitched, veering off at an angle no trick archer could ever attempt—

  Steady. Focus.

  The arrow flew from his fingers, landing short.

  Screaming, he lobbed the bow after it. Even that didn’t make the blasted target.

  Hamish raged up and down the line, throwing everything that his hands could get on down the range. Nothing he did mattered. He had nothing, not even his skill. He commanded nothing, least of all his life.

  He was nothing.

  Fury spent and, exhausted to his core, he leant over the low stone wall. Only an old, deeply aching sorrow was left. What am I going to do? He hung his head. What could he do?

  Nothing.

  “Now dinnae get me wrong,” his father said. “But I’m sure it works better when the arrow flies, nae the bow.”

  Hamish jerked his head up. How long had his father been standing there watching him fail at the one thing he’d been good at? Did he know what his wife had done? Did he care? “Can you nae talk to her?”

  “The bow?” His father scratched at his beard, a weak attempt at a jovial smile on his lips. “I dinnae think she’ll listen to me, lad.” He winced as Hamish levelled a glare at him.

  “Mum,” Hamish clarified, certain his father knew exactly who he meant. Reclaiming his bow and another arrow, he returned his focus to the target. “Do you ken what she has done now?”

  “You mean announcing the union contest for your hand? Aye.” His father sighed. “I dinnae think your mum will listen to me any more than the bow. She’s pretty dead set on this.”

  You better understand that, whoever wins your hand, you will marry them. His mother’s final words echoed through his mind, digging their barbs into him.

  Tears blurred his vision, but still he stared at the watery image of the target. There was a way out that involved him not letting the union contest come to pass. It was a path he had tried once before and so much of him didn’t want to go through with another attempt. But marriage? It was no less likely to end in warfare than refusing. That left him with one action that was solely his to take.

  I understand what you want from me, Mum. The bowstring snapped against his bare arm, taking off a thin layer of skin on its way.

  The arrowhead struck dead centre on the target. He had one chance.

  And he knew precisely how to do it without a single scrap of blame falling upon anyone’s shoulders.

  Darshan stared at the note unfurled and pinned on the table before him by two small weights. It was the reply from his father’s trade council on the percentages they recommended for any textile beyond the desired linen. Most were as dismally low as he had expected them to be.

  What was he going to do with it? Perhaps if he had the inclination to barter further, he would throw caution to the wind and strike a temporary deal that leant in Tirglas’ favour. As things stood? Especially with Queen Fiona’s ire at the supposed corruption of her son still strong…

  He just couldn’t bring himself to care for any of it.

  Worse still, how was he going to explain all this to his father? Sorry, I was too focused on getting a prince into my bed to care about trade. Where would his father ship him off to next? Cezhory? The Independent Isles? Perhaps he would be of better use serving the dwarven hedgewitches. Most of them wouldn’t even acknowledge a proposition, much less be lured by it.

  Hamish managed. How? His lover seemed like such a reserved man, at least in comparison to past flings. What had Hamish said that had convinced a hedgewitch to—?

  A door slammed open, jolting him from his musing. After being given the message, Nora had assured him he would have the library all to himself this afternoon. Who had invaded his privacy? And why? Was it some urgent missive from his father or the senate? Perhaps even from the trade council itself. Or something far sinister?

  Abandoning the message, he peered around the bookshelf.

  Hamish filled the doorway, a positively glowing example of divine work, his chest heaving with each ragged breath and his stance one of purpose.

  “ ‘Mish.” A quick cast about the room confirmed they were alone. “Mea lux, whilst your presence is always a welcome sight, I am—” Words failed him as the man stepped into the candlelight.

  Those sapphiric eyes lifted. Dull and crushed. Pain moulded that handsome face, turning it ghastly.

  “What is it?”

  His lover silently wrapped an arm around him, firmly holding Darshan against that broad chest. Their lips met with none of the man’s usual gentleness or wariness; just harsh desperation. A soft whimper escaped Hamish’s lips. Far too much like a sob to ignore.

  Darshan pushed back, patting Hamish’s chest once they’d some distance between them. “As much as I appreciate the senti—”

  “I need you inside me,” his lover grated. “Now.”

  “No.” Clearly, Hamish had been crying; those gorgeous eyes were rimmed in red. Darshan cupped his lover’s face, trying to still him long enough to centre the man. “I would not dare to think of such things until you tell me what has upset you so.”

  Hamish shook his head, already reaching for his belt buckle. There was a numb quality to the action. Wherever his thoughts had gone, it wasn’t on the task. “After,” he mumbled.

  “Talk to me, mea lux.” Darshan clasped his lover’s hands, pulling them from the belt buckle and to his lips. “I am here for you.”

  “Nae for much longer,” his lover muttered, that red-edged gaze cast aside.

  Try as Darshan might, the right words refused to make themselves known much less make their way to his lips.

  Yes, he would only be here for the duration of the trade negotiations—they’d always known that—but if Queen Fiona refused to speak with him, then his time in Tirglas could become quite short indeed. Not for another fortnight, at least. That was the earliest any ship was heading for a Udynean port. At least, according to Nora’s copy of the Mullhind docking schedule and that was only providing the appointed ship arrived here in due time.

  Then he would return to the Crystal Court in Minamist. Whereas Hamish would be here, forced into his old way of life. Worse still, there was little either of them could do about that without having Tirglasian troops scouring the land or tailing Darshan back home.

  “Tell me what is wrong,” Darshan urged. “Maybe I cannot help with it, but that does not mean you need to bear whatever burden you do alone.”

  “Help?” Hamish all but growled. Rage and hurt fought for control across his face, darkening his eyes. “You already ken what I need from you.”

  “That is not happening. Not here. Not whilst you are like this.” Gods, he would never forgive himself if he even thought of taking advantage of the man when he was clearly distraught over something.

  “Fine,” Hamish spat. “If you willnae give…” He grabbed Darshan’s hips, bodily lifting him onto the table.

  Indignance had magic humming along Darshan’s skin before he could think to use it. One blast of air was enough to send Hamish staggering back.

  He slammed a shield around himself, keeping one hand outstretched to warn Hamish back should his lover attempt to rush him. What madness had taken over the man? “No one manhandles me without my permission and you are most certainly not in the right frame of mind to get that. Nor will I
give my word until you tell me what is wrong.”

  Rather than move, or answer, Hamish stood between two bookshelves, trembling.

  Just when Darshan thought his lover might not reply, Hamish slumped into a nearby chair. “Everything,” he whispered. He laughed, a soft and mirthless sound. Broken emotion looking for an outlet. “It’s all gone so wrong and I… I dinnae ken what to do.”

  Darshan shuffled closer, dropping his shield. “I take it your mother is no more inclined towards letting you leave?” He could see how that would indeed be a concern, but his lover hadn’t mentioned anything throughout their travels that would’ve indicated any further barriers than those already in play.

  Had conversing with Queen Fiona brought the situation back into the forefront of his concerns? Or was his lover now privy to new information?

  Hamish shook his head. “Less so, if you can believe it. I—” His shoulders seemed to grow as he inhaled noisily. Whatever the case, the act appeared to give him strength. “I’m sorry. I dinnae ken what came over me. I just—”

  Wanted to feel something. Darshan knew that feeling. It had become an old bedfellow of his a long time ago. He wrapped his arms around Hamish’s shoulders, straddling one of the man’s legs to get close enough, and squeezed.

  His lover’s arm snaked behind Darshan, drawing him closer. Not with the same desperate urgency as before, but just as firmly.

  “Whatever is wrong,” Darshan murmured against Hamish’s temple. “You do not need to tell me now. But sex is most definitely off the table until we have talked.”

  Hamish lifted his head, wiping away the thin trace of tears from his face. “I also feel a little bad that you didnae get to see a bear on our way back.” He stood, his face swiftly regaining the unflappable poise Darshan had come to witness during their travels. “How about I take you to one nae that far from here?”

  “As in now?” Why the urgency? Was there something dangerous within the castle? To Hamish?