The irony does not elude me. Here, I am but prey to a god. “Are you familiar with the bow?”
“My lady.” It’s as if the beauty of this immortal sharpens unexpectedly, like an intense beam of sunlight. “Am I not the Bringer of Spring? The bow wasmadefor me.”
One suddenly appears in his hand, and I gasp. Proportionally, it is flawless, smooth-grained wood carved with markings I cannot read. It is larger than what I’m used to, the string bearing a higher tension. My own bow remains in Edgewood, propped near the door of our cottage. I imagine it hasn’t moved since I left. “May I?”
He passes it into my hands. The maple has a good snap, excellent flexibility. When I pluck the string, the air hums pleasantly.
“It’s beautiful,” I concede, returning it with reluctance. There is nothing like the feel of carved wood in my hand. Without the need to hunt, I’ve felt untethered.
“Would you like to try it?” Zephyrus asks.
“Really?”
“Of course.” He steers us east until we reach a large clearing. “Why do you think I invited you?” He scans our surroundings. Light snowfall crusts the black branches of the trees at our backs. “See that boulder? Try to hit the stump at its base.”
The stump is an easy shot. I’m almost offended. “What about that tree?” I say, pointing to a small, crooked shape farther in the distance.
Zephyrus shrugs. “If you wish.” He passes me an arrow from the quiver that materialized at his back when his bow appeared. He uses goose feathers for the fletching, I’m pleased to note, just as I do.
With the string so tight, I had anticipated needing increased strength to draw the bow, but that’s not the case. It’s as if Zephyrus’ weapon adjusts to my size and capabilities. The arrow pulls back, fluid as water. When I release, it hits the tree precisely.
The West Wind nods, hands slipped into his pockets. “You are a fine shot.”
The compliment pleases me.
We spend the morning shooting at various targets. It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages. Zephyrus hits every mark, and he tells me stories about his home to the west, his childhood. The sun climbs to perch atop the sky’s bowed peak.
“I have a confession to make,” he says at one point, pulling one of his arrows free from a tree. “I didn’t invite you out here just to shoot.”
“Oh?” He returns to my side, offering me the arrow. Though I fit it to the string, I don’t draw.
“I came to ask for your help.”
I’m so startled I nearly drop the bow. “Myhelp?”
That fatigue I sensed earlier reveals itself, and I’m offered an even deeper glimpse, another layer peeled back, as the gravity of the situation settles. “My home is being destroyed by winter. It threatens my people, the peace I’ve worked tirelessly to maintain. I fear that unless something changes soon, I won’t have a home to return to.”
“You can’t talk to your brother about it?” I ask sympathetically.
A harsh, humorless laugh. “Boreas formed his opinion of me long ago, and I do not think it will change.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mistakes were made, and the past cannot be undone.” A brief shake of his head. “I have tried. Believe me, I have, but he is stubborn. If he were not so preoccupied with the Shade, he would have never let me come here. But he might listen to you.”
How absurdly misguided he is. And yet, don’t I understand how easily desperation can grow claws? He seeks to save his home. Why should I not help him?
“I’ll try,” I say, “but I don’t know how receptive he’ll be to my request. I wasn’t kidding when I said he threw me in a dungeon.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
And I wonder if there might be more to the story. What exactly does Zephyrus know of the Frost King’s past wives?
A breeze teases the ends of my hair, and I freeze. Woodsmoke.
“Wren? Hello?” Zephyrus waves a hand in front of my face. “Where did you go?”
“I thought I smelled fire.” At his quizzical expression, I explain, “The darkwalkers. They smell like woodsmoke.” The Frost King mentioned the forest disliking his presence. Could there be a connection between that and the darkwalkers’ presence? “We should head back. They generally feed in the evenings, but not always.”
