Here, the enormous tree’s branches hung low, forming a natural arch shading a swath of land. And beneath that arch was the Sylvanwild barracks. It wasn’t a building so much as a structure grown into being.
Thick boughs curved downward from the tree itself, twisting together to form a roof of interwoven limbs and moss-veiled beams. Vines climbed the supports like living banners, and the scent of oiled leather and pine clung to the air.
Weapons racks lined the outer edge, some carved into the very trunks that supported the structure. Dozens of blades gleamed in the filtered green light, ranging from leather-wrapped daggers to long, curved swords I didn’t recognize. There were spears with obsidian tips, axes with vines coiled around their hafts as if claiming them.
And then there were the bows, racks and racks of them, some as tall as I was, others delicate and compact, strung with fine gut or twined silver thread.
A floor of hardened earth was swept clean and stamped flat from years of footfalls, and on the far side, a small firepit glowed low. Around it, stools and benches were carved from living roots, shapedto cradle fae bodies at rest. No walls, no doors, just the forest’s embrace, and the weapons of those who lived in it.
Beyond the barracks, under the wide-open sunlight, stood an older blond man with a bow almost as large as me, an arrow nocked. He faced a target forty paces away, his back to us.
Dorian and I paused as he pulled the string taut.
“Watch,” Dorian murmured by my ear. “Watch his form.”
It was angular, perfect. He reminded me of my instructor from the guard, but then there was an unprecedented lethality to the way this man released the arrow with a snap. It whistled and hit the target dead-on before my eyes could follow.
The feathered fletching. It was white.
“I saw those feathers,” I said. “The night you brought me here.”
“You noticed?” Dorian sounded surprised.
“You do when someone tries to end you.”
Dorian started forward. “If I tell you it was this man, would it improve or worsen your aim once I put a bow in your hands?”
I followed. “Was it this man?”
He didn’t answer, just let out a two-note whistle.
The blond man’s head turned, and he lowered his bow. “You’re late.”
“The riding went long.”
We came under the shade of the tree, and I craned my neck. The branches above us were so wide around, I could barely take a single one in.
The blond man’s eyes were on me now. “Did she even mount the filly?”
“She did.” Dorian passed him, approaching a weapons rack holding short bows. “Once.”
The blond man’s eyebrows went up. His eyes, blue as a clear sky, were on me. “I expected nonce.”
Good. Better to be a pettifey in their eyes.
“I’m Eurydice.” I pointed at the target where his arrow still quivered. “Your shot was incredible.”
“Haskel,” the blond man said, as though surprised I had a voice. “And the shot was off-center. But it’s still early in the day.”
I eyed the target. The arrow looked dead-on to me.
“We need a child’s bow,” Dorian said, already scanning the racks. “At least to start.”
That wasn’t a barb; I could see in his face he was on business, just as he had been about the horse.
“It’s not about the size,” Haskel said to me, as if in apology. “It’s about your strength to pull the string taut.”
A fae, apologizing?
