“We couldnae have been that long,” Hamish said. He tugged his mount’s head away from a tree branch, growling unintelligibly at the animal. “That’s enough of that, lass.” He urged the horse down the road with a firm nudge of his boot. Pine needles still hung out the mare’s mouth as she continued to placidly chew.
“An hour or so,” Gordon clarified. “It’s enough to see us still on the road come nightfall.” He bent over his horse’s shoulder to peer at the road. The ruts and holes forced them to remain in the middle or trudge along the dubious footing in what little strips sat either side of the road. Still, there was plenty of room for two horses to ride abreast. “The footing should improve the closer we get to a farmstead, but beyond that, we cannae risk the horse’s tripping in the dark. Zurron?” He shot over his shoulder. “Keep a lookout for any more rabbits.”
They rode on in silence, the rest of the men hesitant to relinquish their bows, especially after the third rabbit poked its nose out from the undergrowth. They halted briefly at a creek just around mid-afternoon, letting the horses drink and rest for a bit whilst they ate a meagre meal of crumbly, almost biscuit-like, bread.
Darshan eyed the trio of rabbits that’d been strung up by their feet in the low branch of a nearby tree. Hamish and the guards had taken their rest as an opportunity to field dress the animals, leaving the hides largely intact. Little in the way of blood had drained from the animals on account of each one having rapidly bled out when shot.
They had Hamish to thank for that. Every time there was prey, it would be his lover’s arrow that downed the animal. It didn’t matter the man was often the last to draw or even when the final of the rabbit trio had nipped back into the bushes at the last moment, Hamish still managed a hit. And each arrowhead pierced the heart in the exact same place.
He would definitely have to discuss the prospect of magical power within the man the next time they were alone.
The rest of their afternoon journey was somewhat less eventful. No more prey revealed itself for Darshan to witness another perfectly-placed shot. They slowed as the light began to wane, Zurron taking the fore as his elven eyesight enabled him to pick out details far better in the gloom. The elf peered at the roadside, seeking for a suitable place to camp.
Kneeing his pony into an amble in order to keep up with the two brothers’ far bigger mounts, Darshan cleared his throat. “That was an impressive display of archery back there.”
His lover twisted in the saddle, glancing at him over a well-muscled shoulder. Even if the possibility of the man possessing magic was true, only actual physical exertion could’ve sculpted that frame. “You’ve a little experience with a bow, then?”
“Very little,” he confessed. “My father rather insists on all his children mastering several types of weaponry beyond the magical.” But even with magic to aid him, he had been handier with a blade than any sort of projectile. The skill there went to his eldest half-sister. He’d a scar on his torso that could attest to the trueness of Onella’s aim. “Quite frankly, I am astonished you managed to hit, not only one but, all three rabbits directly in the heart, especially with the way they were bounding about.”
Hamish brushed aside the remark with a swipe of his hand. “I just got lucky.”
“You mean lucky again,” Gordon said, leaning across the gap between horses to clap a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He very nearly missed, leading to him waving his arm in search of purchase even as he hauled himself upright in the saddle. “Dinnae listen to Lord Humble here, ‘Mish has nae missed a mark since we were wee lads.”
“Never?” Even magic occasionally missed a target if the proper focus wasn’t applied.
“Nae even one.”
Darshan rolled the bottom tuft of the pony’s mane around a forefinger. Perhaps the man’s aptitude for a clean kill was merely skill. On the other hand, he had heard of extremely weak spellsters specialising in but a few abilities. If Hamish was one of them, then it would certainly be harder to prove. Perhaps starting at the beginning would help gauge the truth. “How young?”
“Seven,” Gordon replied. “It’s the normal age to begin training.” He eyed Darshan, seeming to consider his next words.
“This way,” Zurron declared before Gordon could speak further. The elf steered his mount off the left side of the road. “Wait here.” He dismounted and, chucking his reins at his fellow guard, swiftly vanished into the undergrowth to leave the rest of them waiting on the edge of the shadows.
“Since we were on the topic,” Gordon said. “When does your average spellster start training their magic? I assume you have to learn to control it.”
“That is what they teach at the cloister, correct?” Only healing, which took considerable years to perfect to the point where, like a physician, a spellster could be certain of not harming the patient through the attempt to mend.
The man nodded. A few shorter lengths of ruddy hair had escaped the cord confining the mass of curls at his nape, they gave an extra bob. Without a pause, Gordon huffed them out of his eyes.
“There is a touch of truth in those words, although some of the power is more instinctual. I cannot speak for other lands, but most of the spellsters in Udynea start at around the age of five.” There was the occasional late bloomer, typically discovering their magic at the far later age of nine, but they were few and often too weak to protect themselves from those looking to use
