To Target the Heart

by Aldrea Alien

  I’m so nae ready for this. Hamish strode back and forth in what little space he had within the tent walls. His stomach bubbled. He hadn’t expected to be so far from the castle, but the archery range had been deemed unsuitable. At least, as far as his mother was concerned.

  She had arranged for a single target set in a nearby field. A decision she had apparently come to whilst he had been dreamlessly sleeping at Darshan’s side.

  Less of a chance for tampering. That had been her excuse upon his query. By who and how, Hamish still couldn’t figure out. Did his mother think the woman who had snuck her way into his bed last night would stoop to other means? Or was she afraid Darshan would intervene?

  His mother was out there right now, addressing the crowd, ensuring the clans and their competitors knew the rules.

  “Will you stop pacing?” Gordon grumbled. Only his brother shared the tent, the rest having left to wait upon a temporary stage placed at the foot of the field. “You’re giving me anxiety just watching you.”

  Outside, his mother continued to address the crowd, her muffled words failing to cut through his silent terror. Darshan already stood with the other competitors, waiting. Likely hoping no one would look too closely at him.

  All whilst Hamish was forced to linger in here for the chance to gain his freedom.

  “I cannae just sit here.” Everything hinged on this one chance. If he failed to grasp the arrow as Darshan loosed, then it was over. “Was this how you felt when Muireall competed?”

  A small, sad smile creased his brother’s face. “Aye.”

  “What if he’s discovered before it’s over?” If his lover was unmasked whilst Hamish was in here, he wouldn’t know Darshan had been found out until it was too late to salvage the day. “What if—?”

  “It hasnae happened yet.”

  But there were more competitors before. Darshan could’ve gotten lost in the crowd as just another veiled face. Being one amongst nine gave him fewer opportunities to keep his head down.

  “There are so many ways things could go wrong,” Hamish mumbled. “I could make him miss. I could miss.” Darshan had explained during his attempts to teach Hamish magic that, given the weakness of his ability, his emotional state could greatly affect what he was capable of. “One of the others could hit the centre. Or—”

  “You’re nae going to miss. You’re good at archery. You’ll make sure he hits the target.” Gordon’s conviction seemed to waver at the last statement. It had taken some convincing for his brother to grasp that Hamish’s talent with a bow was in part due to magic. “And if one of the others matches you, there’s nae much you can do about it.”

  “What if I cannae focus when the time comes?” Guiding another’s arrow was all so very new. If he’d had more time to practice, then he wouldn’t be left doubting himself. “If he fails? What then?”

  Sighing, his brother got to his feet and clapped his hands on Hamish’s shoulders. “I guess then we’ve nae choice but to let them ken about you two.”

  “I…” It was one thing to have his family know, but others? Even a handful of guards was as far as it went. Announcing it to all the clans once Darshan won was a big step, but to do that same thing with his lover disqualified? “I’m nae sure I can do that.” Not with another as the victor.

  “You’ll be fine.” Gordon squeezed Hamish’s shoulder, holding him firmly in place. “Dinnae think on all the bad that could happen. Think on what you want.”

  “All I can think of is how everyone will ken soon.” He had never imagined letting more than his family and a few quick flings know that he liked men.

  “If you dinnae want to go through with this…”

  “Then what? Have one of the others win? Force myself to be someone I’ll never be?” There was no other choice. Not one he could live with. “I have to take this chance.”

  Gordon nodded. He opened his mouth, then swiftly shut it and cocked his head.

  Hamish strained to make out the words amongst the droning beyond the tent walls. Had they just missed the call for his appearance? He held his breath as if it would somehow help him hear.

  “They must be getting close,” his brother mumbled, shaking his head. “Or I’m going senile. Maybe I should—”

  Ethan burst through the tent flap before Gordon could take a step towards the entrance. He halted in front of them, doubling over and panting like a winded boarhound as soon as his feet slid to a stop. He waved a small wooden box at Hamish. “Take,” he managed.

  Hamish did as the boy requested. Peeking inside the box revealed Darshan’s glasses nestled amongst a swathe of silk. “Where did you find this?” He knew where it should’ve been. How his nephew had gotten hold of it was a different matter.

  Ethan shook his head. “Nae found,” he replied between puffs. “Given.”

  “The person who these belong to gave them to you?”

  With his breathing normal again, his nephew nodded. “For me to give to you, aye. For after, he said.”

  For when he’s won. Darshan would need to expose his face and, even if everything went as they planned, the man would be vulnerable standing in the middle of a field without decent vision. Hamish slipped the case into his belt pouch, grumbling to himself as it barely fit. “Are they ready for me?”

  Ethan nodded. “Me mum sent me over when you didnae show.”

  Of course. He’d been too busy fretting that he had missed the announcement. He grabbed his bow, fiddled with checking the string—an act he must’ve done a dozen times this morning—and exited the tent.

  The roar of the crowd hit him with full force. A horde of people filled the field. Cheers and cries drowned out any other sound. Hamish acknowledged them all with a stiff nod and raised his bow to a renewed cheer from the crowd. In their eyes, they were witnessing the Goddess’ selection of a new princess, not the disownment of a prince.

  He strode towards the waiting competitors.

  The women turned as he joined them at the mark—a simple length of rope pegged to the ground. Darshan stood off to one side. The ruby heart Hamish had gifted him just yesterday afternoon sat proudly upon his overcoat, gleaming in the midday sun.

  Hamish glanced over at the temporary stage. Both his older siblings and their children sat in the shade of an awning, whilst his parents stood near the stage edge. His mother spoke, he knew that only because her mouth clearly moved.

  He swallowed a sudden lump of uncertainty threatening to seal his throat shut. I can do this. He just had to block out everything else, focus only on the black circle painted in the centre of the target. The canvas draped over the target wasn’t typical, but beneath it sat the usual lengths of straw, bound and coiled into a vaguely circular shape. Just like those used in the castle training grounds.

  A steward trotted over. Her job would be to ensure that every loosed arrow bore no inherent flaws, as well as noting that no one stepped over the rope. Including himself. She handed him an arrow.

  Taking a deep breath, Hamish nocked the arrow and loosed. Dead centre. Right where he had aimed. He didn’t need to wait for the stewards at the far end to announce it. He could feel the rightness within his very core.

  All he needed to do now was stay back and let the Goddess’ grace dictate where the competitors’ would hit the target until it was time for him to guide Darshan’s arrow.

  There appeared to be a sort of hierarchy amongst the women. They shuffled into a line and the first took her place at the mark. She lifted her bow.

  Off-centre. Hamish averted his gaze before the urge to correct her got the better of him, but he already knew her stance was wrong. The arrow would land to the right side of the target if not miss it altogether.

  “Disqualified!” The sound was nearly drowned out by the crowd’s mixed response.

  Hamish lifted his gaze at the call. Sure enough, the arrow had just managed to graze the target’s edge.

  Stomping her foot, the woman removed her veil to reveal a suntanned face reddened with frust
ration and embarrassment. As soon as she vacated the immediate area, another competitor took her place at the mark.

  One by one, the other women took their turn. Some were little better than the first—one even missed the target completely and threw an almighty tantrum when she did—whilst two came fairly close to matching his shot. That could be a problem. They had to be from the clans in the north-eastern planes where the people hunted from horseback as easily as he did on the ground.

  The last competitor of the eight women lowered her bow. She had failed to hit within the range of those closer to his arrow—the stewards nearer the target had already disqualified her—but she refused to give up the mark.

  “My lady,” snapped the steward. She stood off to one side, clutching the ninth arrow. Her ire was directed at the woman who still refused to move. “Your attempt has already been proven unsatisfactory.” The steward strode towards the woman, squaring her shoulders in a clear anticipation of resistance. “I must insist you step aside and show your face or be subjected to force.” She reached out, likely prepared to snatch the scarf from the woman’s head.

  The competitor whirled on the steward, the veil dropping as she shot the other woman a feral glare.

  It cannae be. Hamish stared at the woman’s face. He knew her. But then, he would be hard-pressed to forget the very woman who had spent several hours trying to convince his mother to have them married, especially after she had attempted to molest him. But hadn’t she been removed from the contest? Aye. He quite clearly remembered her face being stained. How had she managed to scrub it off?

  “What are you doing here?” the steward demanded. “You’re already disqualified. And where is our other competitor?” She craned her neck around the woman as if another would suddenly appear.

  “She is,” the woman replied with a smirk, “nae fit to compete.”

  “What have you done?” Hamish growled. He’d no interest in having anyone but Darshan win this bloody contest, but that didn’t mean any harm inflicted on the other competitors was acceptable.

  Scoffing, the woman rolled her eyes. She planted her hand firmly upon one hip. “She’s fine. She’s even all snugly tucked up in her tent. She’s just nae able to compete.”

  “Guards!” the steward bellowed. “Arrest this woman. Reckless endangerment of the competition.”

  “And send someone to check on the other competitor,” Hamish added as two guards marched over to firmly secure the woman by her arms. “See that she hasnae come to any serious harm.” He glowered at the woman. “We wouldnae want to add murder to this one’s charges.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened and shut soundlessly like a stunned fish, but she was whisked away before she was capable of uttering a single word.

  All around them, the mutter of the crowd increased with every breath. What would the guards find? Hopefully, the worst case would be the poor competitor trussed up like a felled deer.

  Hamish glanced over his shoulder at the temporary stage where his mother now sat on a heavy wooden chair as if it were the stone slab of the throne. Would she insist on waiting for the actual competitor? Or, perhaps, a rematch? As things currently stood, all but two had been immediately disqualified.

  There was just Darshan’s shot left. He would have to hit pretty damn close to centre. Not, perhaps, land alongside Hamish’s original shot, but doing worse than the next closest two would disqualify him and a draw with the others would only prolong the trial’s end. They couldn’t afford to have the stewards clear the target and demand everyone try again.

  With a dramatic sweep of her arm, his mother waved them on.

  “Final contestant,” the steward bellowed. “Step to the mark.”

  Hamish shuffled a little to his left as his lover came forward. He breathed deep. This was it. The last step. All he had to do was focus and ensure this arrow landed in the precise spot without also looking as though anything other than the bow had sent the arrow across the field. If Mum catches even a whiff of magic—

  He shook his head and returned his attention to the arrow Darshan now held at full draw. The sky between them and the target was clear, the breeze was slight and the distance no greater than when they’d practised. Nae different to the tree.

  Except that this shot needed to best the others.

  His lover’s hand trembled. Even with Hamish’s focus divided between the arrow and the target, the bow’s juddering movements were clear. The tap of the arrow shaft against the bow’s belly thundered through Hamish’s ears. His stomach flopped with every scattered attempt to envision his own fingers holding the fletching.

  Still, that tightness deep in his core vibrated. That line he could almost see between arrowhead and target wavered, but he could manage. All he needed was for Darshan to let go.

  His lover would never make it alone. Even with his glasses, he hadn’t the skill or strength for a full draw with such a bow. And if Darshan tried? Then one of the other two competitors would be the victor and then—

  Darshan released the arrow, the snap shuddering through Hamish’s body.

  The world seemed to slow like winter honey off a spoon. The arrow sailed through the air. It wasn’t a perfect arc. A little flat, a little off-centre. Such knowledge buzzed through Hamish, even before the arrow had reached the downward curve, much less reached the target.

  It would be enough. A close hit. That was all they needed. It had worked. Not even the Goddess could stop it now.

  The arrow passed the halfway point. He slowly prepared to let his hold on the arrow slip free and allow momentum to carry it onwards, then stopped.

  Something wasn’t right.

  It was a slight change. The arrow had been travelling straight. Now it wobbled, growing…

  Hot.

  Hamish raced towards his lover as he relinquished his already tenuous hold on the arrow. He clapped a hand onto Darshan’s shoulder. The man’s body vibrated beneath his fingers. “Dar—”

  A gasp from the other competitors drew his attention back up.

  Fire sputtered along the arrow shaft as it continued the downward curve of its arc. Smoke trailed off the fletching, followed fast by flames. Nae…

  The arrow hit. Hamish barely saw where before the entire target was consumed in a blaze.

  Darshan whirled on him as the target continued to burn. “My glasses,” he demanded, his hand outstretched. “Quickly.”

  Hamish fumbled with his belt pouch, withdrawing the wooden case and handing it over. “Was that you?” The question was out before the idiocy of asking caught up with reason. It had to be him. Who else would’ve had the ability?

  “Regrettably,” Darshan muttered, sliding the ends of the glasses beneath the scarf.

  “Why?” Rage fought for dominance over his disbelief. The emotions bubbled in his gut, threatening to have him vomit hard enough to expel last night’s dinner. “I had it.”

  “I know.” His lover lowered the veil and smiled weakly. He looked as queasy as Hamish felt. “I panicked.”

  “What’s going on here?” bellowed one of the disqualified competitors; a black-haired woman with a brown scar puckering her left cheek. She levelled a finger at them as if brandishing a sword. “Nae one said anything about a man competing. Who the hell are you?”

  Clearing his throat, Darshan casually removed the scarf to bundle it beneath one arm whilst also stepping between Hamish and the competitors. “I am Darshan vris Mhanek.” He paused, perhaps waiting for them to reach some sort of realisation.

  Hamish winced. He had been expecting his mother to appear at his side any second since Darshan revealed himself. Perhaps she was far enough away that the man was unrecognisable without his usual glittering attire, but his voice travelled well.

  He dared to glance over his shoulder at the temporary stage. His mother stood at the edge, held back by his father’s grasp around her shoulders. Rage blazed across her face like a bonfire, but her mouth moved silently. For now. He was going to be in for a right
bollocking once she had regained her voice.

  When no one spoke, Darshan continued, “I am the crown prince of Udynea by virtue of birth and blood.” That snippet of information gained a few glances between the women, but nobody chose to speak up. “For those of you who are unaware, I was sent to negotiate trade relations with your queen.” He turned his head, that hazel gaze settling on Hamish. One corner of his mouth lifted. “I stayed to woo her son and win his hand in this contest. Which I believe I have just done.”

  “You dinnae ken that,” growled the scarred woman. “Naebody does.” She jerked a thumb at the now-smouldering target. “The bloody thing blew up!”

  “Goddess,” another woman moaned, her milk-pale skin somehow growing whiter. “Did you do that?” She indicated the target with a shaky finger. “Have we been competing against a spellster?”

  The other competitors shuffled back, as if putting distance between them and Darshan somehow helped. A few mumbles and mutters came from the group. Only a few were loud enough to hear.

  “Surely the queen wouldnae let a spellster run amok,” one said. “Nae during the union contest.”

  “It’s a trick!” another proclaimed. “They wouldnae let a spellster compete.”

  Darshan scoffed. “I assure you, as unorthodox as it may appear, my inclusion is quite legal. And you have all been in my presence at one point or the other during this past week.”

  “That’s hardly a fair match,” the scarred woman grumped, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You had magic to help you. Whether you entered legally or nae, you should be disqualified.”

  “Magic,” mumbled the ashen-faced woman—the one who had been shaking since the revelation that the target had ignited via magic. Her dark eyes rolled back as she slithered to the ground.

  “Did you do that?” wailed one of the women—her face red in the scant patches between the heavy spray of freckles adorning her face. She pointed at the fallen woman.

  “I most certainly did no—”

  “Of course, he did,” another woman cried out.

  As a group, they scuttled back several steps. They muttered and whispered amongst themselves, quiet enough that Hamish caught only the occasional word.