“Follow me,” the guild master turned and set off towards the rear of the building as Jack was struggling into his spanking new boots.

He led them through the entire building and into an enclosed area behind it. Archery targets of various sort were scattered about at varying ranges from what appeared to be a firing line. He moved directly to a small shed, opening it to reveal a fairly large array of bows.

“Choose one,” he ordered, standing aside.

Jack looked them over. He dismissed the crossbows out of hand. Yes, they were powerful, but they were also slow. There were no compound bows at all, more’s the pity. He’d gotten pretty good with the couple he’d owned at home. Also, they were capable of being wielded with higher draw weights than regular bows for the same effort. Where he’d probably top out at a fifty-five or sixty-five pound simple bow, he could easily handle an eighty or ninety pound compound bow.

The long bows would most likely be what he’d end up choosing from, but he moved past them to the row of recurves. In the various games he’d played, recurves were higher level weapons as a rule, but why limit himself because of preconceived notions? After all, how many other things on this world had subverted his expectations already?

The bows were all labeled, not that he could read the labels. “Tiarraluna?” he asked.

She moved down the line, pointing to each in turn. “These are listed draw weights, Jack San. Thirty. Forty. forty-five. Fifty. Fifty-five. Sixty. Sixty-fi—”

“That’ll do,” he smiled, withdrawing the bow from the rack. He quickly strung it and tested the draw length a couple of times. He suspected, his draw was a little longer than would be average here, based on the people he’d seen so far. If the bow didn’t break, he’d be drawing an extra couple of inches, and the weight would be a little more than the advertised sixty-five pounds.

His next problem was arrows. They all looked kind of short. He typically used thirty-one inch shafts. What he was seeing looked more in the twenty-four to twenty-eight inch range. While that wouldn’t normally be a problem, if he got into a hurry it wouldn’t be entirely out of the question for him to overdraw one and shoot himself in the freaking hand.

“This it for arrows?” he asked, looking over to the guild master.

“What’s wrong with them?” the man wondered.

“They’re kind of short for my draw,” Jack explained, wondering why he’d need to.

To his surprise, the guildmaster smiled. He was nodding to himself as he came over and opened another of the shed doors. More bows and more arrows. Some of them very long. Jack had to revise his opinion of the stature of the people of Mund. There were eight foot bows on these racks, and forty-eight inch arrows.

“How many will I need?” he asked.

“Twenty ought to do it,” the guildmaster explained.

Nodding, Jack moved to the first door and grabbed a quiver. Back to the second door, and he counted out twenty-two of the proper arrows. Done, and the quiver hung from his belt, he pulled out a twenty-third and faced downrange, nocking and drawing fully, holding the draw for twenty or thirty seconds. Yeah, these would work.

He released the draw slowly, glancing contemplatively at the rack of bows. This one felt kind of light and he wondered if he might try a heavier bow before proceeding. Then he shook his head and turned back to the guildmaster. This wasn’t the time to get too full of himself. He had no idea what sort of testing he was in for, after all. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t grab a heavier bow when it came time to purchase one for himself.

“That was the first test, huh?”

The man nodded. “First, second, and third,” he said. “You’d be surprised how many fail them.”

The first course consisted of no more than standing at the line and plunking away at targets, starting with the nearer and working his way out. Four in each, with the farthest target around eighty yards out. Pretty serious range for a sixty-five pound bow to hit with any authority.

The second course had him mixing ranges. The third had him doing that and doing it for speed. Still, he wasn’t doing too badly.

The fourth course had him moving and shooting, which was a thing he’d never done before. The movement added a whole new level of complexity. And then, as he was drawing near the final firing stage, an unexpected target leapt up from the grass to his right and nearly at his feet. He twisted and went to a knee, but managed to loose his arrow into the soft wood at around groin level. Almost, he stopped to rest, but then he remembered. He still had one last target. Rolling quickly on his rump, he slid one of the three remaining arrows clear of the quiver, nocked it, and let fly. Forty yards or so. He didn’t exactly hit it clean, but he hit it.

He was running sweat at this point, and none too steady. He hoped there wouldn’t be a fifth stage.

“How’m I doing?” he asked as he trudged back to the main firing line after collecting his arrows.

“Fine so far,” the man said as he threw Jack a rough towel. “You need to rest before the next stage?”

* * *

A circular patch of air some forty or fifty feet from the cottage doorway began to shimmer, waves of translucent energy lapping about the plane of its surface. A second or so later, an arm poked through, followed by the rest of the wizard Mohrdrand. The circle collapsed in on itself the instant the trailing edge of his heel cleared it.

Rosaluna Galbradia seemed almost not to notice, remaining where she’d been, in the same chair she’d occupied on the day her granddaughter and Jackson Grenell had left. On the table beside her were a tea pot and two saucers, one of which held an empty porcelain teacup. Precognition wasn’t supposed to be one of her talents, but some days that was easier to believe than others.

“Rosaluna,” he bowed slightly as he approached. “And how are you this fine summer’s day?”

She looked up at him at last, as though only just noticing him, and he noted that the perennial sadness of her features seemed etched more deeply today than when last he’d seen her.

Mohrdrand, she nodded. And what brings you to my humble cottage so far from the bustle of civilization? Belatedly, she waved him to the other chair flanking the small table.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Simply returning your wandering bird,” he replied, producing a small cage from within which a brightly colored bird slightly smaller than a pigeon looked out upon the world through large, star-flecked eyes.

Indeed? She wasn’t convinced. I’d wondered where she’d gotten off to after having delivered my message. And why did you not simply allow her to return on her own once you’d retrieved it? I’m quite sure she would have had sufficient mana remaining for her return journey. Wandering around time is her species’ gift, is it not?

He didn’t bother answering as he walked past her and into the cottage. He returned a few moments later, sans cage, and took the seat she’d previously offered, taking up the cup after filling it from the pot. “I’ve had some interesting visitors,” he ventured after a sip.

Have you now? Despite having both sent them and warned him of their impending arrival.

“Indeed,” he nodded. “And in our talks, I began to wonder a thing.”

And what might that be? She was looking out into the trees again.

He looked over to her across his freshly filled teacup. “Rosaluna...” he cleared his throat. “Rosaluna, why do you hate that boy so?”

Hate? Her eyes widened as she turned to give him her full regard. Hate, Mohrdrand, she frowned. Is not, perhaps, the correct term. A short, uncomfortable silence followed. Resent, perhaps, better describes my feelings. Yes, she nodded. Resentment sums it nicely.

“And what has he done to deserve that?” he wondered, taking a sip of tea.

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, turning to stare once more out into the forest, her eyes losing focus.

You have met him, yes? She asked after awhile.

He snorted. “Of course I have. And I’ll agree he can be a bit of a trial. Yet, I ask you.”

You know that I am... less than happy with my life, she sent after another long silence. And still, I confess to a certain... contentment. Another silence, followed by a glance in the old wizard’s direction. A peace, of a sort. Out here with the beasts and the trees and the forest spirits. With few reminders beyond my work of... of losses... suffered.

“Mm hmm,” he nodded slowly, watching the tears form.

And yet, her sending took on an underlying bitterness. The gods.... In their infinite wisdom.... in their cruel disdain.... she paused to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief she’d taken from a sleeve.

Why, Mohrdrand? She pleaded. Why would they do this to me? Why, after all of these years...? to inflict another of those maniacs upon me? What more can I give, Mohrdrand? What more can they ask? Have I not given enough?

“Ah,” he understood now.

And now he’s taken my Button, her mental voice was uneven. I never should have—

She bit off whatever she’d been about to say and raised her eyes to regard him again, tears streaming freely. Perhaps, Mohrdrand, she admitted finally. Perhaps I hate him a little.

* * *

The fifth stage consisted of running a variant of the fourth, but with projectiles coming back at him. Blunts, fortunately. He had no idea how the guildmaster was managing it. His first run, Jack managed to come away unscathed, but he was growing weary. The second run through, he caught a projectile in the arm. The guildmaster called a halt, and Jack slowly gathered his spent arrows. The third run through, he took a grazing hit to the thigh, but no halt was called.

“Well and good,” the man told him. Then, to Tiarraluna, “that’s a dead draw at rank eight,” he said. “I’m impressed. You want to try for higher? I’d advise against it.”

“Does that grant the rank or no?” she queried.

“Grants,” he allowed, "but at threshold and with no bonuses.”

“Jack san?” she called. “Are you content with your performance thus far? The guildmaster has granted you rank eight with the bow. Would you like to continue with more difficult stages?”

He thought about it as he ran the towel over his neck and down beneath his tunic. “Nah,” he shook his head. "I’m good. I think that last one about showed me my practical limit.”

“Good,” the guildmaster nodded, smile growing. “So, he has sense, too. Ask him if he’d like to begin at this rank for the staff stages.”

* * *

“You could have sent him off fully equipped,” Mohrdrand pointed out, gesturing with the stem of his pipe. “It’s not like you haven’t got the gold to spare. Or the treasure.”

I could say the same of you, she returned. I take it, then, that you have not?

He shrugged. “I almost offered,” he admitted. “But Button glared me down.”

She glanced over from her perusal of the trees. I suppose she did, she sighed. By the gods, Mohrdrand, she insisted. Had I known this might be a possibility, I would have kept him here until I was able myself to escort him, regardless of how long that might be. I never should have summoned her. It was just so painful to have him about, do you see?

“As to that,” he drew on the pipe. “Couldn’t you have simply drawn him a map and sent him on his way?”

She sighed again. I could have, she admitted. I probably should have. It would have solved a great many problems, looking back. I simply didn’t anticipate the attack on the road. How could I have? I’ve lain so many wards so thickly over that way down through the years that a great dragon would struggle to pierce them. And yet these creatures managed somehow. Better for him to have faced them alone, I think, than to have drawn Button into it.

He took some time to digest that. “You think he’d be dead, then, and the problem thereby solved?” his face closed down into a deep frown. “And what of the folk of the world he’s supposed to be saving?”

She waved a hand. People die, Mohrdrand, she sent. I am far too familiar with that fact. Time would pass, and eventually the gods would send another. They always do.

Something about the way she was— “You want him here!” he accused, straightening in his seat. “You wanted to give him a head start, but not enough to carry him to the capital.

“The troubles!” he snapped his fingers. “You would use him—”

Thus is the path of the hero, she sent quietly. Is it not? She allowed a small, secret smile to peek from behind her veil of sadness. Still, she allowed. Had things gone to plan, Button would have conveyed him to your door and been done with him. If not for that damnable attack on the road.

“Such a thing has that much power?” he wondered. His path to wisdom had lain along different lines. He’d been a military mage, and while he’d fought many, many battles through many, many campaigns, he’d never once directly followed a hero.

Now she looked to him, her eyes steady, her face grim. He fought for her, Mohrdrand, she sent. And she for him. He bled for her, and together they vanquished powerful foes. She delved into his being to heal him. With such as he, these things are a powerful, compelling force.

She looked back to the forest and rested back into her chair. The fact that he is strong and handsome will have played a small part as well, I suppose, she sighed. Button is still a young girl for all her mastery of magic.

“You needn’t worry about that,” Mohrdrand assured her. “Jackson considers her a child, and will allow himself to harbor no such feelings.”

She snorted, nearly going into a coughing fit. Believe that as you will, old friend, she laughed croakingly. But it means nothing. Kenji felt the same about me at the beginning.

Mohrdrand didn’t answer. He hadn’t had much faith in his assurance himself. He’d seen the children together.

“And so,” he refilled his pipe. “What are we to do about them now?”

How can I know, she sent back, when you have not yet told me what is happening with them?

“She’s taken him shopping for proper attire and equipment,” he told her. “And then to the adventurer’s guild.”

She raised an eyebrow, though she didn’t turn back to him. And this will aid them how? And he with no crystal?

He cleared his throat. “I, ah... I wrote him a recommendation, based on his experience along the road, and suggested Jonkins allow him entry, despite his handicaps.”

I see, she narrowed her eyes. I suppose it is for the best. He cannot address the crisis without credentials, regardless of how powerful he might be.

“As to that,” Mohrdrand began.