The Myatheira Chronicles: The Vor'shai: From the Ashes (Volume 1)

by Melissa Collins

  The courtyard was set deep into the center of the large house, surrounded on all sides by well-trimmed hedges and trees which shielded it from most of the windows. Sections were set apart for different types of relaxation, chairs for resting in the shade or sun, a grassy clearing for picnics, and in the middle a grand arrangement of packed sand with stones outlining a private arena ring. Archery targets were arranged at the furthest end, still displaying several weathered arrows protruding from various positions around the bullseye.

  Racks lined the edge of the ring opposite the targets, though mostly empty now in preparation of the coming winter. Only a few scattered swords could be seen there, already showing rust along their blades from age and past neglect.

  It had a familiar feel to her from her days at the academy. Though they never practiced archery, at least with her, the targets had been accessible to the more advanced students. She and Blaise had chosen to focus on melee combat, never discussing the details of a ranged attack. During the war, there had been special units specifically trained with bows and arrows, even the newer models of crossbows. As a lieutenant, she’d been placed behind these units, never requiring her to learn their art.

  Her heart sank in her chest at the sight of Kael standing between the two targets, holding a longbow securely in his hands, casual, leaning against a backboard positioned behind him. Of all things to start with! Why this? It did nothing to boost her confidence, though was a minor relief to her tired legs. Her nighttime excursion had kept her from her bed until shortly before dawn, and even then she’d been distracted beyond any hope of reaching sleep.

  “I thought we would start easy today,” Kael smiled. She hoped he couldn’t see the dread in her eyes as he handed her the bow. It was lighter than she anticipated. Still heavier than her arms were prepared for, drooping under the weight of the weapon. Kael chuckled quietly. “That is the lightest one I can find. Yew, so it’s sturdy. Little else matters at this point in your training. As long as you know the difference between the grip, limb, and string, I can teach you the basics.”

  This was going to be embarrassing. And she’d had such high hopes at impressing Kael with her skill. “If I was unable to tell the difference between a string and a piece of wood, then we would have more issues than simply whether or not I could hold this thing.”

  “True enough,” he nodded. Reaching behind him, he lifted up another bow, thicker in structure than her own. With confident strides, he positioned himself in front of the empty target, motioning for Leyna to follow him, putting more distance between him and the mark. “The basic concept to the bow is rather simple. Perfecting the art is the most difficult. It will take time, so I do not expect you to master it in a single day. Truth be told, I don’t even expect you to stick an arrow into the target at all today.”

  So much faith in her ability he had. What did it matter? She felt the same way. Though she doubted she would manage to lodge an arrow into the target within the month, let alone a week, or a day.

  Pulling an arrow from the leather quiver wrapped around his thigh, Kael positioned it on his bow, holding it out for her to see. “The arrow will load here, by the grip. You will place the other end here, against the string, but without squeezing it. If you squeeze it, you will never get it to go anywhere.”

  She could hear the tension in the bow as he drew the string back, the muscles in his arms and chest tightening under the fabric of his pristinely white shirt. When he released the tension, Leyna felt her muscles flinch instinctively, the bow falling from her hands to clutch at her chest. Painful images flashed through her mind at the sound the arrow made while cutting through the air, seeing herself back in the manicured yards of the Siscal palace, Sanarik archers creeping behind the pillars, each one of their strikes slamming into her flesh with frighteningly accurate precision and speed. It was all she could do to keep from crying out at the memory, the scars on her body almost burning at the thought.

  With a distinct thud, Kael’s arrow lodged perfectly in the center of the target, his eyes turning away from the shot to glance curiously at Leyna, confused by her sudden reaction to his demonstration. “You are white as a ghost, Eleni. What is wrong?”

  What an awkward moment this was. Since that day at the palace, she’d never come across anyone with a bow, nor anyone who had need to fire one. It was surprising to her that the sound affected her the way it did. She hadn’t even realized her mind retained the details so clearly from that tragic moment. If she’d known, she would have been better prepared to brace herself, allowing her to not make such a scene in front of him, sparking the inevitable question he had already asked. “Nothing, sir,” she said quietly, inhaling a deep breath to slow her racing heart. “I was caught off guard. I have never seen one of these fired before.”

  “That is odd,” he mused, bending over to retrieve her bow from the ground. His eyes stared deeply into hers as he handed it back to her, searching her expression for something. “That mark I saw on your chest looks like the entry wound of an arrow head. From my experience, at least. Same with the one on your left arm that is visible even now.”

  Damn. How could she have not expected him to know? An untrained eye might think them to be mere superficial wounds from a beating of some kind, but Kael, no – he was not a simpleton, and was far from untrained. He was a spy. Was it not his job to be able to spot such details?

  She covered her arm with her right hand, averting her eyes nervously to the ground. Did she dare admit to the lie? Or let him pry further? If she allowed him to continue pressing, she might be able to lure out whatever suspicions he’d drawn in his head without giving him any reason to think on what the actual truth was.

  The bow felt heavier in her left arm as she retrieved it. She didn’t want to move it. To take it in her right hand would again reveal the scar to him, and she didn’t want to risk that. It was best to keep it from his view until the matter had been spoken on. How much did he know about the fabled heroine of the Vor’shai? He would have been old enough to hear about it. But would he have enough information to pin the identity to her? She couldn’t imagine he would. The false name would be her savior – and the fact that he couldn’t verify anything about her origin other than that she had supposedly been a slave for years prior to coming here. A couple of scars couldn’t possibly be enough to undo all the lies already woven.

  “Your silence concerns me. Do not think you have any need to lie to me about what has happened to you,” he said comfortingly. “I will not think any less of you if you cringe at the memory of some injustice done to you.”

  Gently he pried her fingers away from her arm, exposing the scar there once again. She didn’t know what to say to him. The kindness in his voice only served to rekindle the guilt inside her for having lied about everything. He was genuine, his concern for her evident in his tone, and the soft glow of his green eyes. His line of work made him mysterious, suspicious almost, but he had been so good to her. “I should try to see if I can even lift this thing,” she whispered, tapping the bow against the ground.

  He continued to hold her hand, gazing thoughtfully into her eyes. The look on his face caused a shiver to course through her. In a pleasant way. He was so close, she wondered if he intended to kiss her. It was such a casual thought in her mind in comparison to that day at Malic’s when she was presented with the idea of kissing Feolan.

  The initial uncertainty about her first kiss was gone. And she was glad for it. No more fearful, childish worries, about whether or not she would do it right. There had been so little to do, and yet even in her confusion, Feolan appeared to have found her lips satisfactory. But would Kael? He seemed a more seasoned type with women. Rugged. Confident in his own good looks. What if she was less than adequate in his experience?

  The awkward fear was creeping back over her the way it had before. Part of her hoped he would look away. She wasn’t ready. He couldn’t kiss her now. Not yet. But that said nothing of her desire for him to. There would be no argument if
he did.

  “Well, first you must learn the proper technique to wielding it, like so,” he replied suddenly, pulling another arrow from the quiver at his thigh. Ah, she was safe for now. He had decided against whatever thoughts were going through that head of his.

  Stepping behind her, he assisted her left arm in raising the bow, positioning the arrow over the grip the way he’d shown her before, his own hand holding the arrow in place. Her stomach was fluttering. Did he have to stand so close to her? She liked it. But she knew she shouldn’t. It wasn’t proper. Then again, what exactly was proper about anything she was doing? Her most proper time in life had been under the hawkish eyes of Faustine, who never failed to give up an opportunity at pointing out how unladylike she was. This was no different.

  He kept hold on the arrow near the grip with his left hand, placing her fingers around the string of the bow. Her fingers looked so fragile next to his. They were nearly double the size, and certainly stronger than hers. She could feel the rough texture of his skin where it had callused under the string. It was clearly not a mere pastime for him to use this weapon. “Now, remember what I said about the hand on the string. Never squeeze the arrow. It has to be able to go without anything hindering it.”

  Most of the effort in drawing back the string was done by Kael. Her arm simply pulled under his guidance, having nowhere else to go but where he led it. She could feel the muscles in his chest tensing, flexing at her back under the strain of the taut string. He made it look so easy, and so good. Her frail arms would have difficulty managing the strength required for this weapon. She didn’t care if he stayed behind her demonstrating, however. You are starting to think like Maeri. She wanted to giggle. Keep your face straight. This is hardly the time to lapse into a fit of laughter like a silly girl.

  When he released the string, the arrow snapped forward under his well-trained aim, striking solidly into one of the circles surrounding the bullseye. Not quite perfect, but then again, she was there to hinder him.

  “Your turn,” he announced. Clearing his throat, he moved away from her slightly, offering her another arrow from his quiver. “See if you can do it on your own.”

  Place the arrow over the grip. Good. She had that much right. The other end by the string, resting between her index and middle fingers. How had he made the draw look so fluid? The string was taut enough without her applying any pressure to pull it back. It gave her a newfound appreciation for Kael’s well-conditioned muscles. No wonder he was able to carry her so easily up and down the cellar stairs. She was nothing in comparison to this.

  Awkwardly, she released the string, her eyes gazing ahead toward the target in wait of where it would land. To her dismay, it never reached her vision, having fallen harmlessly to the ground at her feet. He was laughing at her. Sure, it was funny enough for him. He hadn’t been locked up without hardly any food or water for two weeks. A single week back on a somewhat regular diet hadn’t been enough to recondition her muscles. Especially not after over a decade of playing a lady at Faustine’s.

  “You are squeezing the arrow too much. I told you, it will never go anywhere if you do not let it.”

  He was handing her another one. This was too entertaining for him. The sound of his laughter continued to ring through the courtyard, though he did his best to keep it muffled. She would show him. She wasn’t sure exactly how or when, but she would get it – and they would see who was laughing then.

  With a determined look on her face, she repositioned the arrow on the bow, straining to pull back on the string. Aim. That might be a good start. She hadn’t even considered the target before she let go of the last one. How could she have? All she could focus on was the pain in her shoulder from the tension of the draw. She was afraid the bow would break under the pressure, hearing the wood creaking with every tiny bit she managed to move.

  She’d watched the archers in the battles do this hundreds of times. How hard could it really be? The close range archers had been impressive to her then, but she doubted she ever truly appreciated the art behind their skill. It was harder than it looked, but she was a practiced soldier. If she could swing a sword and aim for an opening that was only visible for a brief moment on her opponent, then she should be able to easily lay a single strike to a target that wasn’t moving at all. Envision it. The imagination was a powerful thing, and the gods knew she had plenty of it.

  Ease up on the arrow – thankfully she caught herself. Another fumble like the first and she wasn’t sure she would be able to recover from the humiliation. She’d always been one of the top performers. Being set back as a beginner was more frustrating than she liked to admit.

  It was now or never. Her eyes were locked on the target, her thoughts praying silently for the arrow to at least move in the right direction this time. Even if it fell short of her aim, anything beyond her own feet would be an improvement. She couldn’t bear to hear him laughing at her again. This was hard. Did he not remember how difficult it had been for him when he first picked up the bow? There was no way he’d been so perfect from the start.

  Giving one last heave with her arm on the string, she set the arrow into flight, closing her eyes the instant it left her fingers on the string. She couldn’t bear to watch. A solid impact came like a dull thud to her ears. But what had she hit? The backboard? There was no laughter coming from Kael’s mouth. Through the silence she heard a mumbled curse word, sounding more like an utterance of amazement rather than dismay.

  Slowly, she lifted a single eyelid, peering through her lashes in the direction of the target. Her own breath released from her lungs in a shocked gasp at the sight of the arrow stuck into the target. Nowhere near the bullseye, but there, within the confines of the circles, and embedded there, solidly.

  Her fingers stung painfully, causing her to grimace. Holding up her right hand, she could see what looked to be a tiny spot of blood staining the skin where she’d been drawing the bowstring. On the release, the string had torn the skin clean from the surface, reminding her of the lack of conditioning her body had for this type of weapon. Her skin was not hardened to it the way Kael’s was. It would take some time for it to toughen up.

  One month. She had one month to toughen up. Her skin was just going to have to fall in line, or she would have to learn to ignore the pain.

  “I am speechless,” Kael murmured, stepping casually over to the target to inspect her arrow. “A clean shot. Straight through. Impressive, Eleni. Some take weeks to reach that point.”

  “They have weeks. I have one month. I can only hope that this is one of many miracles I might be able to pull off in such a short time.”

  “And that is why we are not going to get overconfident with a single success,” he nodded. In a fluid motion, he drew another arrow from his quiver, handing it to her expectantly. “The next several days are going to be very tedious and repetitive. I will not move onto melee techniques until I feel you are proficient enough with the bow to handle yourself if necessary.”

  Again? The stinging from the torn skin between her fingers was aggravating enough as it was without tearing off another chunk. Just the thought of drawing back on the string again was like rubbing salt in the wound. “Is it too much to request that I be allowed a pair of gloves? This weapon is not the most obliging to my feminine skin.”

  Kael settled his gaze on her, straight-faced, serious. He stood there silently, making no move to respond until a hint of a smile curled up around the corners of his mouth, his right eye winking at her playfully. “Gloves? I suppose, but a real archer shouldn’t require such a thing.”

  “When I am a real archer, then, I shall remove them,” she quipped, relaxing her hold on the bow. Her left arm burned from the weight of it. And she still had the rest of the morning and afternoon left to go.

  Chuckling to himself, Kael pulled a pair of dark leather gloves from the pocket of his trousers. “Fair enough, then,” he smirked, offering them over to her. “But if you miss the next shot, I am taking them away.�
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  “You are not funny, sir,” she chortled, snatching the gloves out of his hands. She’d succeeded in her goal too early in her practice. After seeing her ability to properly fire the weapon and lodge it in the target, it would be expected of her every time, her own confidence in that being possible dwindling low in her mind. The only thing she was sure of was that, with Kael as her teacher, it would be all about perfection of her technique, and improvement of her accuracy – and with her chest already sore and her fingers raw beneath the protection of the gloves – it was guaranteed to be a very long week.

  Just the sight of the practice yard made Leyna’s body ache. She’d spent almost every waking moment there for the better part of a week, stuck in a constant loop of loading and firing her bow. Her arms burned; fingers still raw despite the use of the gloves. It was beginning to feel more like torture than training. And Kael was loving every minute of it.

  She dragged her feet along the sand in the arena, her arms dangling heavily at her sides. The thought of lifting them was painful enough without actually doing it. If she had to shoot one more arrow, she thought for certain she was going to scream. To her delight, he wasn’t standing next to the targets the way he normally had come to be when she arrived to the courtyard every morning.

  “I think I have seen enough of your skill with the bow. It could still use some work, but there will be time for that later,” Kael pulled a wooden practice sword from a rack off to the right of the training area, offering it to Leyna hesitantly. “Melee combat is more difficult to learn. There are many different ways an opponent can strike at you; the combinations of maneuvers really are seemingly endless. It might be overwhelming at first, but after seeing how quickly you picked up the bow, I have faith that you will be able to master the sword in no time.”