Robin was too far away to hear what he was saying but, judging by the way Ian had reached out to examine the fletching on the arrows, Ulli was probably talking about his secret technique for binding feathers to the arrow shaft.
By the time she had approached the group, they were lining up to face the distant hay-filled targets.
Feeling mildly peeved but unsure why, Robin took her place at the end of the line, blaming her irritation on the emptiness in her stomach.
Ian stood beside her, facing her, his bow drawn. His eyes flicked to her for a second, noting her approach, but they immediately returned to the target, his concentration holding steady until he safely released the arrow.
It landed near the center of the painted circle. A good shot.
Lowering his bow, he sent her a smile. “Good morn,” he said.
She nodded in response, leaning down to twist her bow between her ankles as she slid the string into its notch.
“I see you still prefer the curved style of bow,” Ian said. “Although this is not the one I gave you.”
“The Etrarian warriors were right,” Robin replied. It was not until she had nocked an arrow to her bowstring that she realized she was referring to a conversation they’d had ten years prior. He would likely have no idea what she was talking about.
“So you have found it to be more swift and accurate?” Ian asked, picking up her reference immediately.
“Yes,” Robin replied. She held up her bow between them, twisting it to show him the carved wooden handle. “I worked with a bowyer to order a new one the last time I was in Etrar. It is perfectly sized to the length and strength of my arm.”
“It is truly beautiful,” Ian said. His gaze flickered from the bow to her face. “Let us see it in action.”
Robin raised her eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”
Ian gestured toward the target.
Robin repositioned the arrow and lifted the bow. Pulling back the bowstring against her left cheek, she rested the knuckle of her thumb against her cheek bone. She slowly exhaled, focusing on the painted target far across the field. She loved the moment when the bowstring was taut against her fingers. Holding an instrument in its most dangerous and powerful state forced her to forget everything else around her and keep her mind locked on her target. When her breath was gone, she released the arrow.
It landed with a satisfying thud, exactly where she had intended it to go.
Inhaling with pride as she lowered her bow, she looked at Ian.
“I wish I could tell you that your aim has improved,” he said, looking off to the distant target.
Robin stiffened for a moment at the insult; she had just made the perfect shot into the very center of the center ring. Then she saw the side of his mouth curve up into a smile. He was jesting. “Unfortunately,” she retorted, “you cannot improve that which is already perfect.”
“That is true,” Ian replied, looking back at her. “I hope you noticed that I have, in fact, improved.”
Robin looked at his previous shot, just off to the side of the center. “Not bad,” she said. “I will let you take another shot, to see who the true victor is.”
Ian nocked another arrow to his bowstring. “I said I have improved, not that I could best you.”
A shrill whistle sounded from the manor.
Robin quickly turned to look at the house in the far distance, as had every other bandit on the archery line. “That was Nele,” Robin said, answering the unspoken question on Ian’s face.
The whistle was the signal for urgency, not danger, but Robin could not help breaking into a light run as she made her way back to the house, her bow still in hand.
Rounding the corner of the house, she was relieved to see a large, canvas-covered cart sitting on the road in front of the house.
Nele stood near the front of the cart, chatting with the driver who was unyoking two mules from the front of it.
“Lady Robin,” the driver said. He was young, much younger than Robin, but the nervous expression on his face made him appear much older. “I am sorry for the delay—I had to wait out traveling groups of Chendas soldiers several times. They seem to be growing in number on every road.”
The shipment of food from Allys was now six days late. Reeve Alrud had continued sending a messenger each day to inquire after it. Robin had done her best not to send them home empty-handed, but the Lockwood larder could not feed all of Berwell.
“I am just glad to see you here and safe,” Robin replied, walking to the back of the wagon. “You have done well. Take yourself inside for a bowl of stew. We can care for the mules.”
