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Kenneth sighted along the arrow, his attention fixed on a stone dangling from a thin twine two hundred yards away. The night wind jostled it, swinging it about like a pendulum. He set his jaw, held the arrow at anchoring point just below his right eye, and took in all of the variables affecting his shot. His mind quickly collected and applied wind direction and strength, distance, bow and string attributes, and the arch of the target's movement. His arm quivered from the tension of holding the bowstring taut, but he took as much time as he needed before loosing his arrow. He released two more immediately after the first. If his timing was off, he hoped the other two arrows would find their mark.
The first arrow was shy by mere inches, the second missing by more, and the third was feet wide. Kenneth gritted his teeth and resisted the potent urge to splinter the bow across his knee. The weapon was of good quality, from fine southern yew, and he would regret ruining the tool. A hundred draws, and he had not struck the target once. He was not applying the distance and speed of the arrow appropriately to the equation, resulting in miss after miss. He let out a slow, patient breath. What was it that Sammie had said? "The path to success is paved with failure," he reminded himself.
"Lots of it!" A woman's voice chimed over the storm.
Kenneth spun, startled, his hand reflexively reaching for the arrows nestled in the quiver between his wings. The winds gusting through the brush had disguised the sound of her approach, and Kenneth nearly had the arrow notched before he recognized Sammie's fiery hair and hazel eyes.
"Oh!" Though the aim had never been lifted from the ground, Sammie's eyes rounded quickly in realization.
"You surprised me! I could have shot you!" Kenneth turned a little away to heave a few steadying breaths and returned the arrow to the quiver. When his heart had calmed some, he looked back at her. "What are you doing out here?"
She was huddled in a cloak far too large for her lean frame. The Greywolf Crest, a silhouette of a howling wolf's head over a full moon, was clearly emblazoned over the right breast. Sammie's face was pale, her cheeks and nose flushed, and her damp hair was tousled and riddled with forest debris. In spite of the seriousness of what had almost happened, Kenneth barely stifled a chuckle at her extremely disheveled appearance.
"I stopped by the general's office to give you some cookies I baked earlier today, but he said you were out here." She squinted across the clearing, unable to make out his target in the dark. "What are you doing? It's going to storm!" She wasn't carrying a lantern, and she certainly wasn't dressed for the cold, damp air of an early fall storm.
Kenneth shook his head and sighed, wrapping a large red wing around her. "In spite of exhaustive practice, my aim is still only mediocre," he explained. "I have half the draw strength of the other men, half of the accuracy, and my maximum range is just over two hundred yards." He shook his head, disgusted at his lack of advancement. "Aside from that, the gusting winds of the Desolate Plain will prove a real obstacle. I was trying to calculate a pattern to the resistance of unsteady wind patterns, and derive a style that would provide more overall success."
She stared at him for a moment, then laughed brightly. "You're doing math to improve your aim!"
Kenneth bristled a little at her amusement, but couldn't fault her for it. "What's wrong with that?" he asked, only a little miffed at her laughter. He frowned down at her. "You're trembling. You should get inside before it begins to rain." Kenneth slung the bow over his shoulder, and turned her back toward the city, using his other red wing to shelter her from the rising winds while his white wings parted branches and shrubs for them.
"Well, most bowmen practice until their aim becomes instinctual," she pointed out. "In fact, most archers begin training their bodies at a very young age with shorter bow lengths."
"True, but practically speaking, that takes a lifetime. I need to understand how unpredictable wind affects my arrows as soon as possible, so I can apply the solution," he argued. "I may even derive a method that can be passed on to the other bowmen in the infantry." Sammie laughed again, and Kenneth sighed in irritation.
"Oh, relax. I'm not laughing at you. I just think you're amazing. Everything you do, you do well. You study, analyze, and drill until you're flawless. I think it's quite admirable." She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "It's just that . . . sometimes the way you talk, so formal and analytical, it's oddly endearing."
Rain suddenly dropped from the sky in heavy, drenching sheets. Kenneth hunched, and flexed the power in his velveteen wings to create a barrier that would keep the rain from soaking into the fine hairs. The torrential downpour was so dense it blinded them to their surroundings. If Kenneth hadn't walked the path thousands of times before, he would never have been able to lead Sammie back. Signet was one of the largest cities in the human territories, and the streets were usually bustling even at that late hour. The rain had driven most indoors, leaving Kenneth and Sammie alone on the wide stone streets for the long walk back.
The rain was cold and persistent, cutting through Kenneth's protections and sapping his strength. The approach of winter was hard on Kenneth. Being a fae of the element of fire, he needed sunlight and open flame to keep his energy stores up. The more depleted he became, the weaker and more ill he felt, and the greater he was affected by a chill wind.
When they reached the general's office, Kenneth slipped inside with Sammie, shaking as much water as he could from his wings. In spite of his efforts, they had become so sodden and heavy that he could barely lift them without using his arms. His mottled blond hair was plastered to his face and neck, and he was shuddering from the cold and beginning to feel unwell.
"This time you're the one trembling, hero," Sammie said, her eyes shining in the darkness of the entryway. "I can make it home from here. I order you to get inside and soak up a healthy dose of hearth fire." She kissed his cheek and dashed back out into the rain. "Thank you for walking me back! Let your father know I will return his cloak tomorrow!"
For a long minute, Kenneth watched where she had gone, smiling to himself. His teeth were chattering when he made his way into his father's study and to the reenergizing warmth of the flame.
"She's really something," Greygor commented without looking up from the correspondence he was writing. Even hunched over the desk, he was an imposing man, broad of chest and shoulder and muscular. "She ran out into the night, knowing there was a storm coming."
Kenneth nodded and opened his wings in front of the hearth, taking in the fire's energy to replenish his own stores and to dry. "Yes. She does seem to lack the common sense most people posses that encourages them to avoid situations of discomfort and bad fortune."
Greygor laughed, shaking his head. "She was looking for you," he pointed out. "Don't think for a moment that that woman is lacking for anything. She's fair, smart, and crazy about you. She's a good woman, and it's getting time that you consider taking a wife."
"What?" Kenneth yelped, spinning to face his father, throwing droplets of rain halfway across the large study. "Marry? Sammie?" He shook his head. "No, no, no," he quickly answered, horrified. With his adoptive father's words, Kenneth's image of Sammie had changed in an instant. For the briefest moment, she wasn't the obnoxious and stubborn friend who listened to him like no other. She was the beautiful and quirky woman who accepted him and made him feel alive, or at least something other than anger. He shook his head to clear the thought. "Even if I wished it, there is too much to be done."
"Don't start thinking like that." Greygor looked up, frowning through thick brows peppered with gray. "Life is about living. Think about that for a long while." He clasped his large hands under his beard and smirked at the young fae. "I'm not saying you have to marry if you don't wish it; I'm only saying she's a good match and a very healthy age to bear children."
Kenneth gaped in disbelief at the general. He didn't think about Sammie like that. He didn't know if he ever could. And even if he could, he would never discuss it with the general. "Father, don't be absurd!"
"I hope your objection isn't that she's human, and you're not?"
Kenneth shook his head to dispel any impression of prejudice; it was reasonable to assume most any woman he met might be human where he lived. "I would be happy if you changed the subject," he numbly requested. "Please."
Greygor laughed and re-inked his quill, returning to his work. "Very well. Just thought I'd give you something to meditate on besides warfare." Greygor grinned at the still-horrified stare of his boy. "And I wish to see you happy again, son. The only time I've seen you smile in the four years since your uncle's death was when you were with her."