“Don’t suck up to her,” Dorian said, bending to grasp a bow. He took up a quiver of equivalent arrows, their feathering black. “Kindness is anathema to that one.”
“For once he’s not wrong,” I said.
Haskel laughed. “Are you sure this one isn’t of Sylvanwild herself?”
“Aside from Rhiannon, Haskel’s the best shot in the court.” Dorian extended the bow and quiver to me. “You’re better off with his training, at least to start.”
I slung the quiver over my shoulder. The bow was light and the same size as the ones I’d trained with in the barracks. “Will you be in the trials?” I said to Haskel.
He straightened, chest puffing. “I suppose I do have the blush of youth still.”
“Irin’s breath,” Dorian muttered.
Now that I observed the older man, I saw the white laced through his blond hair and the lines around his eyes. He had the physique of a young man but the markings of a much older one.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Lies don’t become you,” Dorian said.
Haskel broke into a smile. “I do like her.”
“Is there an age limit for the trials?” I asked him.
Dorian set his hand on Haskel’s shoulder. “How many years since you passed the limit? Fifty?”
Haskel stuck his thumb under his front teeth and jerked it toward my partner. “Be glad I don’t rail you with a birchwood bow.”
Dorian smirked and backed away into the deeper shade of the tree, palms up for peace.
Haskel turned to me. “Tell me what you know of shooting.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
An hour of training later,I approached Dorian under the shade of the citadel tree. He had taken a seat against the tree’s trunk and had been reading a slim book, which now lay beside him, open, the lettering entirely foreign. And he had long ago fallen asleep.
His posture was deceptively relaxed—one leg stretched out, the other bent, his arms resting loose at his sides. But even in sleep, he looked braced. Like some part of him didn’t trust the stillness.
His head tilted slightly against the bark, dark hair falling over his brow in a way that made him seem younger, though not softer. His expression wasn’t peaceful. His mouth held the same faint downturn as always, and there was a line between his brows, as if his dreams refused to be gentle.
“Doesn’t he need to train?” I whispered to Haskel.
“He trains by night,” Haskel said from beside me. “Always has.”
“Night?”
“If you can fight at your best by moonlight, then you’ve got a leg up by sunlight.”
That sounded like something the regiment commander would say to us night guard.
“The daytime training is for your sake.” Haskel added, his hand warm on my shoulder. “Because of your sight.”
“My sight?”
“Human sight—it’s notoriously poor.”
I angled my face up toward him. “And you can see well at night?”
“Well, not so well now, but?—”
