“I did it!” Mac crowed, bouncing in a small circle and flapping his arms like a startled chicken.
Hamish frowned. “So, you did,” he murmured. But how? There was no logical reason the arrow should’ve reached the target, but the proof sat deep in the straw, trembling slightly in the cool breeze. “Good job, lad.” He absently patted his nephew on the back.
“That was awesome!” Ethan barrelled into his younger brother, almost knocking Mac off his feet. “Did you see the way it flew?” He clasped Mac’s head, his brown eyes wide as he pressed their foreheads together. “Can you do it again?”
“I dinnae ken,” Mac drawled.
“Seems like a fluke to me,” Sorcha muttered, prodding Ethan away from his brother with the end of her bow. She snatched up one of Mac’s discarded arrows and stared down its length. “Or a trick. Nae arrow flies like that. Have you been holding out on us, Maccy me lad?”
The boy hunched his shoulders, rubbing at one arm. “I—”
“Got a few extra skills up our sleeves? Or are you going to keep telling me it’s just more plain luck for the lucky duck?”
Hamish laid a hand on his niece’s shoulder, stilling her. “That’s enough.” Mac was clearly uncomfortable with his cousin’s line of questioning. And well he should be being that Sorcha was borderline accusing him of being a spellster. “We’ve all had our share of luck, lass. Doesnae mean foul play.”
“Some more luck than others,” she muttered. He didn’t blame her for being a touch bitter. Ever since her mother’s death, she had to fight hard to get her grandmother’s permission to train, to be seen as something more than the fragile and precious next in a long line of rulers. Even then, it’d taken her father threatening to train her in secret for her grandmother to relent.
“Aye, some people do get more.” His younger sister, Caitlyn, seemed to have copious amounts of luck allocated to her. At least, back before she had been forced to protect him from the bandits attempting to take both their lives. Decades later and he could still recall the furnace heat of the inferno her untrained magic had brought to their defence.
And it was true that the boys seemed to have the Goddess’ good fortune smile upon them a fair bit, especially when together. But the same could’ve been said of Gordon and himself when they were young.
Sorcha harrumphed.
Hamish fixed his niece with a stern glare. “Lass, are you questioning the Goddess’ judgement on who is worthy of what?” Even as he asked, he knew what her answer would be.
Her brows lowered as those big eyes glared right back at him, the inherited dual stubbornness of her parents sparking to light in their green depths. Then she glanced away and, with her lips barely moving, managed to mutter, “Nae, uncle.”
“Right.” Giving her a firm nod, he gently ushered his niece towards her previous position before the targets. “Back to it, lads,” he shot over his shoulder.
Mac scooped up another arrow and, with his chest puffed out, returned to his training. His brothers flanked him, no doubt trying to figure out how he had managed the last attempt.
Hamish also kept his attention casually trained on the boy. Sorcha was right; arrows just didn’t fly like that. But Mac was eight years old. Surely any sign of magic would’ve made itself known by now. From what he had heard about the cloistered spellsters, most had been around four or five.
Caitlyn had been found out at eight, but had shown some proficiency in what she had done, meaning she must’ve been of similar age when her magic manifested.
“So,” said a familiar musical voice, “is this how Tirglasians occupy themselves?”
Hamish turned on his heel to find the Udynean ambassador leaning against the range wall. “I thought you were meant to be negotiating with me mum?” Just how long had Darshan been there? Was his magic the reason the arrow had reached the target? That would explain things, not that it would help the boy in the long run.
“I was,” Darshan replied with the tilt of his head. “And we were, I believe, making some headway into it. At least, up until a man marched in blathering on about boars, some farmer and fences.” His brow lowered, twisted slightly in puzzlement. “Your mother went off muttering words I failed to catch. Your name was amongst them.”
Hamish winced. After meeting Darshan, he had forgotten all about Ewan and his fences. He had thought the steward would’ve seen to all the necessary paperwork required to compensate the man’s family. Apparently not. I’m going to get such a tongue-lashing. Especially once his mum learnt he had spent the afternoon wandering the city alone with the ambassador instead of tending to his duties.
He slowly became aware of the presence of small bodies behind him. The boys milled at his back, all eyeing Darshan with the same level of expectancy they had displayed at last night’s dinner. They nudged each other and whispered amongst themselves, their voices just on the edge of hearing.
“You ask him,” Bruce said, shoving Mac forward.
“You’re the oldest,” the other boy objected. “You ask him.”
Around the three of them went, badgering one another to step forward.
“I believe I told you lot you get back to your archery practise,” Hamish shot over his shoulder. They wouldn’t have much longer here before other duties called them.
Darshan chuckled. He leant to one side, peering around Hamish. “Seems like one of you better ask me soon before you lose your chance.”
Ethan stepped forward, blushing and clearing his throat as he clutched his bow before him like a shield. His chubby, brown face stared up in awe at Darshan. “Is it true that you’re a spellster? We heard that everyone in Udynea has magic and—”
The ambassador laughed. “Not every one, dear boy. Magic is a thing of bloodlines and breeding. It is not like your bows.
