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Authors: Malinda Lo
Tags: General, Juvenile Fiction
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said, observing her latest failed attempt. She reminded him of a young bird flapping her wings, unable to gain the lift needed to take off.
“What do you mean?” Kaede’s arm and shoulder ached, and the bowstring had snapped loudly and painfully against her left forearm enough times that she was sure it would leave a red welt there.
“If you think about it too closely, you will choke the energy of the arrow. Your body—and your thoughts—are getting in the way. Try to let go of your thoughts when you shoot. You do not have to force the arrow to fly; it wants to fly.”
His words reminded Kaede of her teachers’ instructions at the Academy, but hearing them applied to archery was like hearing those lessons in a different language—one that was maddeningly familiar but as elusive as a slippery fish.
Pol saw the growing frustration on her face, and he took the bow from her and showed her, again, the smooth rhythm of the draw, the arrow in flight, his hand in the air. “Stand like this,” he told her, spreading his feet wider. “Put your hand here.” He moved her left hand down on the grip.
Bit by bit, the bow began to seem less foreign to her, though she knew she was far from being as skilled as Pol was. By the time Tali came out to the stable yard to fetch their breakfast supplies, Kaede was sweating and famished, her right shoulder aching, and still the arrow had not struck the target.
Pol said, “We’ll practice every morning—how about that?” He seemed excited by the prospect.
“Delightful,” she said, smiling weakly, and he laughed at her. But she handed the bow back to him with some reluctance.
Before she left the stable yard, she couldn’t resist unsheathing her dagger and tossing it at the tree, just to remind herself that she wasn’t completely inept. It flew out of her hand so easily—she didn’t have to think about it—and struck the tree with a solid thunk. She flexed her fingers thoughtfully. Her hand knew what it was doing. Perhaps it was her body that needed to learn this new language, not her mind.
She went to retrieve the dagger from the scarred tree trunk and went inside for breakfast.
Chapter X
T wo days after they left Cathair, the road curved east as it followed the bend in the river Nir. In better times, fishing vessels trawled the river, but now there was little to catch, and what could be caught was better left uneaten. Word had spread through the roadside hostels of a fisherman who had brought in a giant carp—a rarity in any season, but especially abnormal now—only to discover that the fish’s belly housed hundreds of tiny stinging eels.
There were other rumors, too. One traveler, a thin man with a nervous black horse, told them he had seen a strange creature lurking behind one of the riverside taverns: half woman, half animal, with a fox’s red-gold tail and sharp teeth. A young man had been found dead nearby, his body bruised and bitten.
“All of this trouble comes from upriver,” the thin man said, jerking his thumb toward the Nir. He ran his eyes over the group of travelers and their gear—their wagon still full of supplies, the fine workmanship on their horses’ saddles—and suspicion flickered over his face. He glanced at the burly, gray-haired man, who was clearly their leader, and asked, “Where are you headed?”
“To Jilin,” Tali answered, his tone not inviting further questions. Jilin was at the southwestern edge of the Great Wood, where the Nir originated.
The thin man eyed the group’s wagon; the wheels were especially well made. There weren’t many travelers heading north, and even fewer who were so well outfitted. But a kind of unspoken camaraderie had developed among travelers on the King’s Highway in the last two years, for dark times gave cover to dark deeds, and it was better to pass on one’s news without learning too much about anyone else. So the thin man said only, “I’ve heard that something’s not quite right at Ento.
“What do you mean?” Kaede’s arm and shoulder ached, and the bowstring had snapped loudly and painfully against her left forearm enough times that she was sure it would leave a red welt there.
“If you think about it too closely, you will choke the energy of the arrow. Your body—and your thoughts—are getting in the way. Try to let go of your thoughts when you shoot. You do not have to force the arrow to fly; it wants to fly.”
His words reminded Kaede of her teachers’ instructions at the Academy, but hearing them applied to archery was like hearing those lessons in a different language—one that was maddeningly familiar but as elusive as a slippery fish.
Pol saw the growing frustration on her face, and he took the bow from her and showed her, again, the smooth rhythm of the draw, the arrow in flight, his hand in the air. “Stand like this,” he told her, spreading his feet wider. “Put your hand here.” He moved her left hand down on the grip.
Bit by bit, the bow began to seem less foreign to her, though she knew she was far from being as skilled as Pol was. By the time Tali came out to the stable yard to fetch their breakfast supplies, Kaede was sweating and famished, her right shoulder aching, and still the arrow had not struck the target.
Pol said, “We’ll practice every morning—how about that?” He seemed excited by the prospect.
“Delightful,” she said, smiling weakly, and he laughed at her. But she handed the bow back to him with some reluctance.
Before she left the stable yard, she couldn’t resist unsheathing her dagger and tossing it at the tree, just to remind herself that she wasn’t completely inept. It flew out of her hand so easily—she didn’t have to think about it—and struck the tree with a solid thunk. She flexed her fingers thoughtfully. Her hand knew what it was doing. Perhaps it was her body that needed to learn this new language, not her mind.
She went to retrieve the dagger from the scarred tree trunk and went inside for breakfast.
Chapter X
T wo days after they left Cathair, the road curved east as it followed the bend in the river Nir. In better times, fishing vessels trawled the river, but now there was little to catch, and what could be caught was better left uneaten. Word had spread through the roadside hostels of a fisherman who had brought in a giant carp—a rarity in any season, but especially abnormal now—only to discover that the fish’s belly housed hundreds of tiny stinging eels.
There were other rumors, too. One traveler, a thin man with a nervous black horse, told them he had seen a strange creature lurking behind one of the riverside taverns: half woman, half animal, with a fox’s red-gold tail and sharp teeth. A young man had been found dead nearby, his body bruised and bitten.
“All of this trouble comes from upriver,” the thin man said, jerking his thumb toward the Nir. He ran his eyes over the group of travelers and their gear—their wagon still full of supplies, the fine workmanship on their horses’ saddles—and suspicion flickered over his face. He glanced at the burly, gray-haired man, who was clearly their leader, and asked, “Where are you headed?”
“To Jilin,” Tali answered, his tone not inviting further questions. Jilin was at the southwestern edge of the Great Wood, where the Nir originated.
The thin man eyed the group’s wagon; the wheels were especially well made. There weren’t many travelers heading north, and even fewer who were so well outfitted. But a kind of unspoken camaraderie had developed among travelers on the King’s Highway in the last two years, for dark times gave cover to dark deeds, and it was better to pass on one’s news without learning too much about anyone else. So the thin man said only, “I’ve heard that something’s not quite right at Ento.
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