Ian lifted the bow to make his fourth shot. He aimed for the fourth ring. The couriers took a different route each night, but they still left and arrived from the same location.
He released the arrow. It hit the center ring.
The crowd cheered.
Ian raised his hand in the air, bowing his head but not fully turning to accept their excitement. Of course he would get a perfect shot when he was aiming for the fourth ring.
“Nice shot,” Onric said.
“When does the courier leave the castle?” Ian asked.
“Just before sundown,” Onric replied. “Tonight’s will either be a young man with a scar on his face or an older man who wears beads in his hair.”
Ian nodded, committing the words to memory. He shot his next arrow. This one hit the fourth ring. His final shot hit the eighth ring.
As they waited for the tally keeper to count the scores, Ian looked fully at his brother. “It was good to see you,” he said. “Keep yourself safe.”
“And you,” Onric replied. He lifted a hand in a familiar motion, reaching forward to grasp Ian’s shoulder like they often did. But, as if remembering they had an audience, he dropped his hand quickly. It would draw attention to Ian if they embraced.
But not if they clasped hands as fair and honorable opponents.
Onric held out his hand instead.
“Wait,” Ian said, reaching inside the inner pocket of his jacket to find the silver needle case he had brought with him. He reached out and clasped Onric’s hand tightly, transferring the needle case.
He held his brother for just a moment longer than was necessary, hoping that this was not the last time they would speak.
Onric accepted the case, sliding it carefully into his own pocket.
Then, with a nod, Ian turned away and left the field.
Chapter 29
Later that afternoon, Ian watched the busy road between the city and the castle for the messenger that Onric had mentioned. With the day’s festivities nearing a close, many townsfolk were moving down the hill away from the events in the field and back into the town to eat at a tavern or travel home.
Most of the travelers were on foot, but several nobles also rode down the hill from events in the castle.
Ian leaned his back against the stone wall of the storefront, keeping his face relaxed as he looked at every rider coming down the hill.
The messenger was easy to spot. He was not one of the usual Iseldis couriers, which made sense as Gareth would only use his own trusted men for certain communications. But the man clearly looked like a courier. He wore the perfect mix of comfortable, well-made travel clothing that was not soldier’s livery but still bore the seal of the king. But the simple clothes contrasted with the quality of the horse he rode. The couriers of the king were always given access to the finest and fastest horses in any stable.
And the man riding down the road toward the city hit all of those marks. As he drew near, Ian could even make out the defining scar that Onric had mentioned.
It was a crime punishable by a hefty fine to interfere with a king’s rider, but Ian stepped forward anyway. He looked across the road, catching Robin’s eye to let her know that this was the one.
From her place across the street, Robin nodded her understanding, then looked down to unfold the fabric package in her hands. Ian could smell the tantalizing aroma of fresh-baked pastry rich with apples, spices, and honey.
He looked back up the hill to the approaching courier. The road was too busy for the man to push his horse hard, but his sense of purpose still helped him to clear a path through the laid-back merrymakers.
Timing his step, Ian stumbled into the center of the street just as the rider approached, forcing the man to slow down and swerve his mount to the side.
Ian grabbed the horse’s reins as he pretended to stumble, righting himself and stopping the animal in one motion.
“Move, peasant,” the man said. He had extricated his foot from the stirrup and used it to kick Ian in the shoulder. Ian only clung harder to the bridle and rolled himself into the horse.
“I’m not a peasant,” he said, intentionally stumbling over his words as though he were drunk.
“A bite of sweetbread for a half coin?” Robin’s voice rang out cheerily from the other side of the horse.
