Archery: A Place in the Sun

When he was alone, ensconced on either side by an empty corridor, Balin indulged in his one luxury of late – a deep breath.  It was not that the lesson was simple, because nothing here was ever as easy as it appeared at first glance.  Rather, he took the breath because he needed the fortification.  Shooting a bow was not new to him, but the tremendous pressure of eyes on him from each side, assessors and the potential scorn of those who were in charge of a system he was now dependent upon without completely understanding – that was new.  Impressions had never mattered to a simple country man who used his bow primarily for food: if one had accompaniment while hunting, that partner was expected to be silent, armed, and prepared to carry his share of the field-dressed carcass, nothing more.  The time and noise of praise were unaffordable: there were more mouths to feed than backs that required patting.  Here, the opposite seemed true, and Balin reflected on that as he ruminatively stroked the glue-stiffened goose feathers of the quiver he had been handed.

But rest reflected badly on the students: one spotted resting when someone had called a start to something – a meal, a lesson, a chore – was found, and while Balin was uncomfortably aware that more work could be coaxed out of the body than seemed possible, he was also cognizant enough to realize that it was a fool’s paradise at best to drop one’s guard long enough to catch a Gaidin’s eye.  That left all the students seeking the most surreptitious ways to stretch themselves further, last longer, and while some of the students had gone to great lengths to hide stolen naps, all Balin allowed himself was that deep intake of breath.  It couldn’t take the place of unbroken sleep, but it was all he had.  How had he ever thought he could manage this?  Balin al’Brennan, a Warder?  Light, he was no hero, merely an ordinary man who was slowly crumbling under extraordinary pressure.

Cerawyn would be heartbroken.

He lifted his bow with a half a dozen others, as a whistle sounded to clear the alleys that led to the parade of targets beyond.  Smoothly, he teased out a single arrow, using one finger to keep its sisters in the quiver when the wider base and its feathers snared against others.  The arrows were finely sanded, better than those he had used at home: he had made those himself and thought them fine.  Good balance, he decided, fitting the slitted end to the string with his longbow tilted for access.  There would be little room here for the kind of errors that came from amateur arrows shot from amateur bows.  Lifting the bow, his stance smoothly fluid, his knees loose rather than locked, he felt his chest expand, fancied he could feel the bow as an extension of his arm.  He drew, his palm brushing his cheek, and the arrow sped forward.

Not allowing himself to look, he drew and fired again, drew and fired a third time.  Letting his arm fall, he leaned forward, studying the easel-backed target.  He had defaulted to the left of the center, twice, and once he had clipped the center ring.  Having had experience with hunting, he knew his problem was the dominant hand: most men used the right, and he preferred the left for most things that he needed to do.  It had been a surprise to find that he had a small advantage in swordplay because of that, but even that hadn’t been enough to prepare him for the grueling reality of fencing.  Stifling a groan at how his abdomen ached, not to mention his back, shoulders, and thighs, he lifted his bow again, sliding into the stance he had long ago adopted.

His next three shots were closer to center, but still skewed to the left.  Frowning, he adjusted his stance yet still more, trying to compensate for the flaw he perceived.  This time he was skewed to the right: still not the result he wanted, and rather uncomfortable to achieve, besides.  Letting the bow rest against the wooden framework beside him, he scowled at the target.  At least the instructor was nowhere in sight -  he could think on this skew of his without being chided for seeming laziness.  Which, he reflected, glumly, was what the instructor had asked for – although, it was strongly likely he’d expected Balin to think with a firing bow.  Sighing as he shouldered the construct of string and wood yet again, Balin knew the only correction for his trouble was time – that was the only reliable way of fine-tuning what mastery he might possess.  He already practiced daily, but he had learned enough here to strengthen his own training regime.

He shot the rest of his arrows in rapid-fire succession, waiting for the all-clear to step into the alley, beyond the swinging wooden gate, and pull them from the target.  As they were good arrows, he was unsurprised to retrieve most in excellent shape: good arrows did not snap or break on impact, although he had read of techniques for barbed-head arrows and the like that were designed to do so.  But if a plain, broad head killed a deer, what more use did a Deven Ride man have for a new kind of arrow?  Quirking his lips, he realized that in time, he might be allowed to pursue those designs he’d once read of.  It was a terrible sort of trade, the kind you would expect in a gleeman’s tale: he could study anything he liked, but he’d rather be turning out thousands of plain heads for the village’s bowyers.   And, he thought, erasing his thoughts of home with vicious ease born of long practice, it wasn’t as if he could leave Cerawyn here in good conscience.

Also, he liked what he was doing, when he let himself dwell on it.  That was the worrisome part: how easy it was to learn to like this regimented lifestyle.

Clearing his mind with a shake of his dark head, Balin signaled the Aes Sedai, who was already occupied.  He waited idly until the woman appeared.  They were nearly of a height, with him the victor by a few fractions of an inch.  Moving targets were difficult, part of the reason that Balin had never relished hunting birds as some young men did, although he had often been able to predict the run of a hare well enough to bag it.

She started on the right, with a low plate: he managed that one, but missed the next two, his arrows skipping away from them.  A high plate shattered as his arrow claimed it, but a plate at medium height soared serenely out of his lanes.  Nonplussed by his seeming lack of skill, he tried to keep his own spirits up: most of the people around him had missed more than they had hit.  Random, moving targets were difficult, and even some master bowmen had trouble with them.  Alisse Sedai, for the most part, was unreadable: her unruffled calm as she stood a few hands away from him was admirable, but not at all, in his eyes, complimentary.  He managed to break two plates that followed close trajectories, and missed another: stifling a sigh, he knew this was not the time to ask for a break.  She was in demand all around the training range, and so he had to respect her time.

Even if it meant losing his own meager store of self-respect!

His last few shots were as varied as the first: he did best, he noted, with shots arriving from the left and moderately high.  She did not offer him many of those: after he nailed two, she moved to the other angles.  Her pleasure seemed to be breaking the thin clay targets by herself, or so it seemed.  Soon enough – but not as quickly as some of the other students seemed to demand – his twenty shots were spent.  Waiting until the next all-clear, he moved quickly to recover the arrows, sliding them back into the quiver that he wore over his shoulder.  When he’d found all he could, including a pair that had broken when he had shot wildly, he stepped back, searching for Talaban.

There was a small knot around the Gaidin, and so Balin took up a position on its fringe, waiting to be debriefed and sent on to his next chore.