In the middle of a frozen lake, a young boy lay alone. The black ice under his bare arms and legs didn’t burn with cold as it should, nor did the wind that ran over his skin. He stared at a bleak, overcast sky above, knowing that he should be shivering with cold, yet numb to it all.
Below his back, under the thick, dark ice, something stirred and shifted. He could hear slide and slither across the bottom of the ice, which creaked and cracked under its weight. The sound of the ice cracking was like a gentle thunder, echoing across the open landscape.
Beside him, a small, black eel shivered and writhed. He ignored it.
He sat upright, bringing a hand to his chest where he could feel his heartbeat. It seemed slow, weaker than he remembered. For that matter, had he always been able to hear it so clearly? To feel it pulsing in his chest?
His amber eyes blinked, more slowly than they should have. He felt strange, unlike himself. Something was different. Something had been different for some time now.
He looked around the frozen lake, the gently falling snow obscuring the distant treeline and horizon. It was hard to see where the grey clouds ended and the silhouette of the trees began, in some places. Why was everything such a fog? So cloudy, and out of focus? It felt hard to think. Even the questions in his mind came to him more slowly.
The thought that he should be concerned about it all rose in him, but he felt nothing. It reminded him of the times he was sick, and he’d been given medicine that made his head feel slow and sleepy. When his…
The memory slipped away, and for a moment, he felt sadness. Then that too was replaced only with the thought that he should feel sad.
The ice beneath him cracked again, and he closed his eyes, letting the sound soothe him. He could remember now, something else. Laying awake at night, listening to the sounds of a lake popping and cracking, and the yips and cries of the timber wolves calling at the moon. It was a peaceful sensation, closed in by warm furs and wooden walls, a gently burning hearth to keep back the chill of winter.
He opened his eyes as he remembered now, there were no walls around him. No fire, no furs, no warmth.
He mourned the loss of something he couldn’t remember, as the shifting darkness beneath the ice slithered and writhed once more.
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Matthaeus woke to the sound of hooves and wooden wheels, late into the evening as the sun had nearly set. He pushed all thoughts of his dream from his mind, sitting upright from his makeshift bed in the back of a carriage.
“I’d say mornin’, but we’re a wee bit late in the day for that, aren’t we?” A cheerful voice teased.
Matthaeus looked over at Reyland, who was leaning back lazily on the wagon bench across from him. Strangely enough, the wagon wasn’t moving, even though it was far too early in the night for them to have settled down to make camp.
“Hello,” Matthaeus said softly, covering his mouth as he yawned and blinked away the sleep. “Where… are we?”
Reyland grinned at him, and tossed him one of the small red fruits from a bag at his feet. Matthaeus barely caught it, blinking in surprise as he tried to figure out what exactly it was.
“Come’n see for yourself, lil’ tyke.”
Reyland hopped up from his bench, and Matthaeus followed more slowly after, pulling on his socks and boots first. Even before he had finished with that he realised something outside the wagon had changed. The smells of the woods were more distant, the sap of fir and spruce and pine no longer so pungent and laced with the gentle blanket of moss. Instead he could smell mud, horses, people and… bread?
He hopped down out of the wagon just after Reyland, and was greeted with the first sight of civilization he’d seen since Jurhal Keep. A small hamlet lay all around him, a dusting of snow resting on its rooves and the light of a hearth behind every window. Matthaeus’ eyes went wide as he took in the sight of the people walking about, not just the Ordained he had been travelling with but ordinary Arkasians.
A young boy about his age stared at him with wide eyes, pointing before his mother grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him away, putting herself between the boy and Matthaeus. She shot him a glance that didn’t seem friendly, and Matthaeus shrunk back, feeling hurt and more than a little confused.
Reyland sighed, and put his hand on the top of Matthaeus’ head, ruffling his hair.
“Right, sorry ‘bout that… forgot the locals don’t see Norlanders too fondly. Bit spooked on account of all the, uh, rumours n’ all that. Don’t take it too personally, aye?”
Matthaeus nodded, having understood at least most of what Reyland had said. His understanding of Arkasian was getting much better after travelling with the talkative apprentice, but he still rarely spoke up.
As they stood side by side at the base of the wagon, Matthaeus’ gaze was drawn upwards by the imposing silhouette of a mountain. For weeks now they had been travelling towards it, the dark, towering feature getting taller and taller with every passing day. Now, Matthaeus had to strain his neck back to see the top, where it faded away into the sky at a seemingly impossible height. Somewhere in that mountain range, which stretched as far as the eye could see to the left and right, was Castle Arrenhal, home of the Order of Alexandros. And it was there, in those distant clouds, that was their destination.
“The trek up the mountain’s right miserable, let me tell ya,” Reyland said, joining Matthaeus in staring up at the peak. “We spend a few months at the start of training just runnin’ laps up and down a few parts of the mountain… ‘builds character’, the masters always say.”
Reyland grinned down at him, golden eyes sparkling in the evening light.
“Makes ya sorry for the poor horses pullin’ the wagons, aye?”
Matthaeus cracked a smile, as Reyland chuckled to himself.
“We’ll be starting the journey in a few days, the Knight Commander wants to let the men and steeds rest for a wee bit after the last few weeks. Can’t say I’m gonna complain though!”
Matthaeus nodded along, then started to follow as Reyland strolled casually into the hamlet. It was surprisingly busy for how small of a town it was, with the inclusion of a full company of Ordained taking shelter here it seemed positively bustling. A tavern was loud with music and voices, a market was open with canvas topped stalls propped up along either side of the road as villagers and Ordained alike browsed the wares. Matthaeus took it all in with wide eyes, seeing for the first time in his own memory a town that wasn’t abandoned or stricken with an unknown illness. The sheer volume of voices and animals and music pounded against his ears uncomfortably, and the eyes of every passing stranger made him shrink down and wish to hide even further behind Reyland’s cloak.
As if sensing his discomfort, Reyland reached a hand down to him and held it open. Tentatively, Matthaeus reached up and grabbed it, feeling Reyland give a comforting squeeze as they walked through town.
Soon enough, Reyland had led them into the market area. In the bustle of the crowd, Matthaeus felt himself nearly growing dizzy with the number of people around him.
“Oi, Reyland!” A familiar girl’s voice called out.
Matthaeus and Reyland looked over to see a bright red head of hair pushing its way through the crowd, as Maeve appeared next to them. She was smiling brightly in a way Matthaeus had never seen before, and carrying with her a bag filled with breads that smelled fresh from the bakery. Matthaeus’ mouth started to water at the sight of the slight glimmer of steam rising from the loaves.
“Finally decided to drag yourself out of bed?” Maeve asked teasingly, brushing a few locks of hair out of her face. “Took ya long enough. It’s what, now… an hour past supper?”
Reyland tsk’d and wagged a finger.
“So nearsighted, Maeve. Supper time is relative, my friend. Your evening is my morning, don’t you see?”
“All I see is a lazy bum who can’t be bothered to crawl out of bed til it’s nearly dark. Oi, Matthaeus, don’t let this oaf rub off on ya, aye?”
Matthaeus looked back and forth between the two, confused as to just what a bum or an oaf was.
“Least I’m not a cheapskate who’ll wave fresh bread in front of starving friends without offering so much as a morsel,” Reyland said, staring at the bag of bread just the same as Matthaeus had been.
Maeve huffed, rolling her eyes at the nearly drooling boys in front of her.
“Fine, then. Let’s find a table, yeah?”
A few minutes later, the trio was seated on a bench a ways from the market, just close enough to still be in earshot but far enough to be undisturbed.
“Here, take it and stop bothering me about your poor stomachs,” Maeve said, tossing them both a loaf of bread that seemed almost woven together and had a flaky crust. Matthaeus grabbed his quickly, tearing off a massive bite before Reyland had even picked his up. The Ordained looked at him with amusement as he tore through his entire loaf, swallowing it all before either had taken so much as a bite.
“Did ya even taste it, lil tyke?” Reyland asked with an amused grin, as Maeve tossed a second loaf of the bread to him.
Matthaeus nodded furiously, even as he ravenously tore into the second loaf. It tasted slightly sweet, almost like apple.
“Hard to believe the journey’s nigh over now, isn’t it? Leeman’s called for a full day’s rest tomorrow, then we make for Castle Arrenhal the next morn. As rough as the trek can be, it’ll still only be two more days on the road til we’re at the castle,” Maeve said, tearing a small chunk off of her own loaf.
“Mmph,” Reyland replied, his mouth full of bread.
Maeve’s eyes narrowed as she flicked him on the forehead.
“Swallow, then speak. I don’t want Matthaeus picking up on your ruffian ways.”
Matthaeus innocently chewed away at his loaf, watching quietly.
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“What? As if he wouldn’t want to grow up to be a charming, handsome vagabond like me?”
Maeve nearly choked on her bread as she stifled a laugh.
“What?” Reyland asked, mock offence in his voice.
“You think you’re charming? With manners like those?”
Reyland smirked, putting his chin on the palm of his hand as he leaned forwards.
“Maybe not charming, but you didn’t deny that I’m handsome.”
Maeve’s palms slapped the table abruptly as she finished swallowing her bread, and she coughed loudly to clear her throat.
“I was thinking we should get Matthaeus something at the market,” Maeve announced.
Matthaeus looked back and forth between the two in confusion. Had he missed something in the conversation? And he’d thought his Arkasian had been getting better, but maybe he was mistaken…
“Maeve? Are you… ill?” Matthaeus asked timidly. “Why are you red?”
“Oi, brat…”
“I think a gift is a lovely idea!” Reyland said, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. “Not like we’ll have shops around up at the castle, aye?”
Maeve cleared her throat again, shaking her head and sending her locks of red hair bouncing around.
“C’mon, Matthaeus. Let’s find you something nice, yeah?” Maeve said, standing up from their bench. Matthaeus finished his (now third) loaf, and stood after her, brushing the crumbs from the corners of his mouth.
The trio made their way back to the market stalls, brushing past the shoulders of Ordained and townsfolk alike as Matthaeus was flanked on either side by Maeve and Reyland. He hunkered down low between them, hiding behind the folds of their cloaks and looking up nervously at each passing face that towered over him. Most people paid him no mind, and most that did see him looked away almost instantly. But was it because he wasn’t of note? Or did they hate the sight of him? The itch of feeling like he didn’t belong, and like he was constantly watched, wouldn’t quite leave him.
They took him to many stalls, showing him foods and treats and toys, but nothing caught his eye. He could tell they were trying, though he didn’t know why. Was there a reason they were trying to be nice to him?
As the sun fell behind the horizon and the last rays of light streaked across the sky, Matthaeus stopped in front of a small building at the edge of town. Unlike the stalls they had been looking at, this one had no customers and no crowd in front of it. It was a log cabin, longer than most buildings yet quite narrow, with an open front door and light behind only one of its front windows.
Yet, there was something about it that seemed almost familiar to him. A smell that came from inside that tickled something in the back of his mind, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.
He found his feet walking towards the building, as Reyland and Maeve made a startled noise and chased after him a few moments later.
Matthaeus paid them no mind, following his nose into the dimly lit building, breathing deep as he entered. It smelled of wood, sap and something else, that ever familiar, ever out of reach scent.
Maeve and Reyland entered the building behind him, both blinking a few times to adjust to the dim lighting inside. Matthaeus walked slowly, moving further into the building.
The sound of a carving knife scraping against wood met their ears, and Matthaeus’ eyes fell on the back of an old, hunched over man sitting on a bench. He worked away at something in his lap, and around his feet were long, curled shavings of wood.
“A bowyer’s?” Reyland asked aloud, scratching at his head with a frown. “Didn’t know this town had one of these, though I guess it makes sense.”
The old man stopped his work, turning to face the trio as they came to a stop in the middle of the workshop. He had only one eye, the other hidden behind an old rag that was wrapped around his head. Wrinkles adorned his skin and his scraggly beard barely covered his chin, which was still less bare than the top of his head. What little hair the man had was wispy and white, and looked so frail Matthaeus imagined it would pull apart like a spiderweb if touched.
“Ehh? Newcomers, I see? What brings you to these parts?”
Matthaeus paused, looking around the room nervously as he tried to find the words to say.
“We were lookin’ for a little gift for the tyke,” Reyland replied. “Don’t know why he came in here, but we just followed along.”
The ageing bowyer looked Matthaeus up and down with his one eye, before rising from his bench and resting the half-finished bow on the table next to him. He knelt in front of Matthaeus, who recoiled a bit as the stranger sized him up with a narrowed eye.
“Scrawny lil’ brat, isn’t he?” The bowyer said. “For a Norlander, especially. Them folk are usually built o’ sterner stuff than this. Sure he can ev’n handle a bow?”
Matthaeus felt a flash of indignation in his chest, as he pulled his shoulders back.
“I can do it,” he said back with a huff.
The bowyer’s eyebrow rose, and he grunted.
“Got some spirit, at least. ‘Ere, son, give this one a try.”
The ageing man pulled a small, slender shortbow from one of the many racks of completed works around the shop, casually bending it behind his knee as he strung it. He plucked a small, feathered arrow with a simple broadhead tip out of a pile of identical arrows, and handed them both to Matthaeus.
The second Matthaeus’ hand wrapped around the handle, it felt wrong. His hand moved to grasp it a certain way, and the handle under his palm felt lumpy and uncomfortable. It felt too light when he raised it, the limbs of the bow too short and thin. He frowned at it, resting his right hand on the string without drawing and mimicking the motions of aiming down the length of the arrow.
“Well, I’ll be…”
Matthaeus paid no mind to the voice of the bowyer, as he searched around the room for a target. There were hay bales stacked near the back of the long workshop, some 30 paces away. A canvas had been draped over them with painted circles to make a cheap target, and he rolled his shoulder before drawing.
His right hand brushed against his cheek as he aimed, then loosed the arrow. It sang through the air slower than he had imagined, dropping its arc too soon and missing the bottommost rung of the circle by a hair. He almost stomped his foot in frustration, for once not caring about the eyes he could feel burning into the back of his head. Reyland whistled softly in the silence that followed.
“Try this un, lad,” the bowyer said, his voice raspy yet excited. The small, thin bow was taken from his hands and a slightly heavier recurve bow was placed in his hands instead. It felt just as uncomfortable, the handle too thin and with limbs even shorter than the last one. A second arrow was placed in his hands and he drew back without a thought, every fibre of his being focused on the feeling of tightness in the string.
His second shot went high, hitting the outer ring of the target though it was farther right than Matthaeus had wanted.
There was chatter coming from behind him now, but it all faded into background noise. He frowned down at the bow in his hands, disappointed in missing once again.
The bowyer moved excitedly to grab him another, and the next twenty minutes was spent testing no less than a dozen different child-sized bows. It seemed the shop had a near endless supply of them, stacked unstrung in piles or sticking up out of barrels, yet none that the bowyer handed him ever seemed to fit.
“Gotta say, I expected his shoulder to give out by now. Your lil’ tyke has some grit to ‘im!” The bowyer said, grinning as he rummaged for another bow.
“I’ll be expectin’ a discount for your insult to our boy here at the start! Still wet behind the ears, an’ he’s already made of sterner stuff than half the folks we take in at the Order,” Reyland said cheerfully. He’d started making a game of Matthaeus’ shots, making bets with the bowyer over how accurate each shot would be.
“Matthaeus, if you’re starting to feel tired, we can take a rest…” Maeve said more quietly, ignoring the two men as they continued to bicker.
Matthaeus, determined frown on his face, had started his own search through the wares. Currently, he had climbed halfway up a wooden shelf in the middle of the floor, and was digging through a pile of bows that were definitely too large for him.
His fingers came to a stop as they brushed against a bow made from a wood so pale, it seemed nearly made of bone. It stood out so sorely from the rustic, rich reds and browns of the others that Matthaeus was surprised he hadn’t seen it immediately, even as buried as it had been on the shelf.
He pulled it from the shelf, turning it over in both hands to inspect it closer. The grain was a darker grey, creating flowing streaks along the length of the bow that gave it a near magical sheen. The wood was smooth and polished, still well oiled and looked after like every other bow he had seen in spite of its inconvenient location.
Matthaeus hopped down from the top of the shelf, drawing a frown from Maeve which he promptly ignored as his boots slapped the floor. He held the bow out with his left hand, letting himself feel the shape of the handle. For the first time, it didn’t feel wrong. Not perfect, not what his hand expected… but not uncomfortable.
It was round in cross section, unlike the flatter bows he had been mostly testing. He’d seen many like it on the shelves before, but each of them towered over him as a full adult-sized bow. This was the first one that seemed a somewhat manageable size.
Its drawstring was wrapped around the length of the bow, which he quickly unwound before looping over the bottom limb. Then he threaded the length of the bow behind his knee and over his shin, using his upper body to bend it down until he could thread the top limb as well. It strained a bit, and he had to push with more force than he expected, but in a moment the bow was strung.
Maeve watched him closely, a small frown playing at her lips.
Paying her no mind, Matthaeus looked around until he found an arrow longer and heavier than anything he’d used so far. A bow this tall would need a longer arrow if he wanted to draw it properly, after all.
As Reyland and the bowyer continued to bicker, now haggling over prices for a bow they hadn’t even found, Matthaeus breathed deep and took aim. He had to strain with all his might to drag his hand back to his cheek, and he struggled to keep the bow steady.
The arrow whistled through the air and struck just an inch to the left of the bullseye. Matthaeus exhaled in frustration, lowering the bow to a rest. The extra draw weight had caused his left arm to shake right at the last moment, throwing his aim off just a hair.
Reyland whistled again, looking at the target and what had been the best shot yet. Then he and the bowyer looked over, and both sets of eyes widened.
“A longbow? And not one fer a child that size, either. I made that one fer someone a few years older, a few inches taller…”
The bowyer continued muttering under his breath as Reyland smirked at him.
“I think we’ve found our special stick, eh Matthaeus?” Reyland called out. “How much, old man.”
The bowyer shook his head.
“She’s made o’ a specialty wood, boy. I don’t even keep her on display since none of the villagers’ll even consider buyin’ her. Twenty crowns, an’ another ten fer the arrows.”
“Bullshite I’m payin’ twenty! Ten crowns, and toss in a quiver with the arrows if you’re gonna gouge a poor sap so!”
Matthaeus zoned out as the haggling continued, his eyes seeing only the bow in his hands. It still wasn’t what he expected, it wasn’t… perfect. But it would do. And maybe, in time, he’d grow more used to it.
“Fine then! Seventeen crowns, and I’ll toss in the quiver. But not so much as a ring less, or ya can find yourselves another bowyer!”
Reyland tossed seventeen silver coins onto the table, a grin from ear to ear on his face. He roughly shook the grumbling bowyer’s hand up and down, tipping an imaginary hat to him.
“Pleasure doin’ business with you, good sir!”
“Take it elsewhere next time!”
Then with a flurry of curses and insults, the trio was ushered out the door which then slammed shut behind them. Matthaeus blinked a few times, a stunned expression on his face as he clutched his new bow and arrows to his chest.
“Well, a successful night in town, I’d say!” Reyland said.
“I don’t reckon we’ll be too welcome back,” Maeve said with a sigh.
Reyland shrugged.
Matthaeus ran his fingers along the length of the bow, tracing the wood grains.
“Happy with it?” Reyland asked, looking down at Matthaeus. He looked back up at him and nodded sincerely.
“Good! Then it was a worthwhile trip. Say, Maeve, you still got any of that bread left over?”
“You ate half an hour ago.”
“What? That don’t mean I can’t be hungry again, right Matthaeus?”
As they walked back through town, the sun now set and night truly upon them, Matthaeus stayed just a step behind them, clutching his new bow. For some reason, he was already feeling reluctant to part from it. The weight just felt natural to him, in a way that only his dagger could compare to.
They found the tavern in town, and settled in for a late supper at Reyland’s request. Matthaeus ate quietly, only half listening to the conversation as he tried to avoid the eyes of the many patrons in the building.
Though, there was one set of eyes he couldn’t avoid. Throughout the night, Maeve snuck glances at him when she thought he wasn’t watching, and he pretended not to notice the suspicious light in her eyes.
He wasn’t sure what, but he felt as if he’d done something wrong and like a chastised child, kept his head low all night. Even still, he gently played with the unstrung drawstring of his bow, his fingers already itching for the chance to use it again.