Then the timid call of an owl split through the air, and she relaxed.
“Ian,” Robin whispered, looking toward Ulli. “He does not know the calls well enough yet.”
Lane kept his bow at the ready until Ian appeared through the underbrush a minute later.
Ian quickly raised his hands in a gesture of surrender as Ulli dropped the bow.
“Make the call sooner,” Ulli said.
Ian nodded, then turned to Robin. “I found a neutral place. There is an old monk who relocated to a hut further north up the shore. Onric and I visited him once, a few seasons ago. We can invite Zimri there.”
Robin nodded. That sounded like the perfect location. “Now to invite him there without raising suspicion.” She held out a long, thin strip of parchment, placing it against the flat surface of her satchel. “You know him best,” she said to Ian. “How would you communicate that to him in as few words as possible?”
Ian leaned over to look at the tiny slip of parchment, putting his face close to hers. “Let me write it,” he said. “I have spent many hours with Zimri writing down strategies on maps. He will recognize my hand.”
Robin nodded, handing the satchel over to Ian. Reaching inside the satchel, she located the small glass vial of ink that she always kept in the interior pocket. She handed it to Ian as well, along with a small, tipped feather.
She could have leaned away to give him space to write out the note. But she wanted to participate in what he chose to say, to make sure that it was vague enough not to arouse suspicion.
And the night was bitterly cold. Being close to him was warmer. So she stayed, leaning close enough to watch him dip the tip of the feather into the vial, but not so close as to block the dim lantern light he needed to write by.
“We know which room is his?” Ian asked, leaning closer to her. Perhaps it was an excuse to keep his voice low, or perhaps it was also to keep warm. Whatever the reason, she welcomed it.
“Yes,” Robin answered. “But we cannot guarantee that he will be the person to find the arrow, though it is most likely.”
Ian nodded.
Bringing the feather to the parchment, he wrote out a short note.
Z. Urgent matters to discuss. Tonight. Small hut northern cliff.
He did not sign it.“If someone else finds it,” he said, “they could still try to ambush the hut. But without my name, hopefully it has less weight.”
“Good,” Robin said.
Ian picked up the slip of parchment and held it out to her.
She shook it gently in the cold night air, encouraging the ink to dry. Then she, in turn, held it out to Ulli, who knelt on the other side of the lantern, arranging the fletching supplies from his own satchel.
Ian passed the satchel back to her. But even after she accepted it, he remained close to her, sharing the same space.
They watched quietly as Ulli wrapped the paper around the shaft of a partially fletched arrow and then used a hanging thread to combine the feather with the paper, weaving it seamlessly together.
After tying it all tightly into place, Ulli examined the arrow from all angles. “This should fly as true as it possibly can.” He held it out to Robin.
Robin lifted her hand, palm outward, to reject the proffered arrow. She pointed to her still-injured shoulder, but Ulli was already pulling the arrow back, as though he had remembered too late that she would not be able to draw her bow.
He nodded. “I can shoot it into the general’s window.”
Robin looked to Ian. “You can,” she confirmed. “But Ian is a better shot at that distance.”
Ian raised his brows in surprise as he looked back at her.
Ulli extended the arrow once again. This time to Ian. “Then he shall shoot it.”
“It is true,” Robin said, reassuring him. “Ulli is lethal if he is watching the road from a tree branch, but anything longer than our field at Lockwood and he quickly loses accuracy.”
“Then I shall shoot it,” Ian said, echoing Ulli’s words.
