By the Light of the Moon [Sample]

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The sharp smell of hemp tickled Moira's nose, made her nostrils flare against the bowstring. It was still too rough and inflexible and it detracted from her focus. She had left her bow with the arms master to restring after it snapped just above the knock point a few days before, but wished now that she'd done it herself, had spent time massaging oil into the hemp and gently rubbing it to a finer touch like the master bowyer in town did. The arms master up in the castle was a coarse man who dealt in swords and the occasional crossbow. He also had little patience for a woman who played with weapons.

Her biceps quivered as she held the bow drawn, the tight string just touched the curve of her lips. She breathed slowly and calmly, forcing her mind to release all tension into the bow. There were days where she managed this almost easily, where the pathways forged by years of practice allowed her to let go of all concerns, but as hard as she tried, she couldn't find that place of clarity that day. Her lack of sleep had sapped strength from her muscles, made them shiver and shake uncontrollably—and she was too angry, too enmeshed in feeling miserable to balance it out.

Squinting, she released the arrow and she didn't have to check to know that her aim wasn't true. It had lodged itself somewhere in the padded wall behind the circular target and this time, Moira's nostrils flared in anger. Her shoulder twitched and the remaining arrows rattled in her quiver. In a swift motion, she drew again, this time releasing without attempting to quiet her mind. The arrow connected with the outer rim of the target and Moira threw her head back to look up at the gray autumn sky.

She didn't make a sound, not here in the courtyard where anyone could hear, anyone could see, but she tensed and spread her fingers, then tightened them to fists. One more time, she straightened her spine. She set her foot carefully on the rough grass mat, laid out to allow for purchase on the usually muddy ground.

Nocking the arrow, she drew it back, took aim and stared at the bright red spot at the center the target. From where she stood, she knew the angle she had to assume, had studied the arch of flight in long sessions that had left her arms sore. Tilting the tip of the arrow two finger's breadth upwards, she released a breath through puckered lips. She was still grasping for focus when she heard the sound of shuffling steps on the courtyard behind her.

"I wonder," the old man said, "are you imagining Sir Lisle's face on that target or your own?"

Not turning around, Moira loosened her hold on the string for a moment as she relaxed her bow arm, and then drew it back and released.

Bull's eye.

The old man behind her cackled quietly. His white hair blew in the wind and his face was a maze of wrinkles when he smiled like that. Moira regarded him, looked him up and down from the tattered leather shoes to the top of his head, where his hair had thinned enough to reveal a pinkish-yellow spot of skin. Old Brock was her tutor, the castle's physician and generally regarded as a person of wisdom. Anyone else would have been punished for a comment such as that, but nobody else would have dared it and that seemed to render her response moot. He was right, as always.

"What have you heard?" she asked, slinging her bow onto her back and pulling at her archery glove.

"Nothing, my Lady." As so often, the formal address rolled over his tongue with a sense of sarcasm. During their lessons, she was his pupil and he called her by her given name but outside of them the address varied. "Would you like me to hazard a guess?"

Moira narrowed her eyes at him, but then shook her head. She turned to walk back inside, but slowed her feet enough for him to fall in step beside her, hobbling over the empty courtyard.