Page 2 of The Archer’s Wish

Liam considered replying that he no longer wished to be involved with archer activities, but he’d been the archers’ leader and felt a responsibility to them.

“At Tokavaig, there is a group of seven lads who are on the verge of manhood and two older ones, who I’d been training in archery. They’ve shown great skill, and I am sure will be more than willing to fill the gaps for those who can no longer…” A lump formed at the thought of those fallen, who’d either died or, like him, would never return to serve the laird.

Liam continued, “I suggest they start with wall duty, it would free up the more experienced archers.”

The slamming of Alexander’s hand on the tabletop jerked everyone’s attention to the laird, who grinned. “That is why Liam is an invaluable leader,” the laird called out. “Dedication even when no longer a warrior. I am sure those lads and young men will be well trained,” he said with a firm nod.

The laird’s compliment took Liam aback. In his new role, he’d not considered himself part of the leadership team, nor had he considered that he’d be able to contribute anything to it. If he were to be honest, a trickle of pride filtered into his chest. He quickly pushed it away. Words, that is all he’d contributed. It was nothing compared to the ability to contribute in more able ways.

“Take note,” Alexander said, turning his attention to Liam. “Write down what ye just said.”

Liam let out a grunt and the other men chuckled. For a short moment, the divide created by his injuries vanished.

The afternoon slipped away and before Liam realized it, the great hall was buzzing with voices as one clansman after another stepped forward to bring their troubles to the laird. Liam recorded each grievance in the ledger, watching as Alexander handled every complaint with steady patience and a respect that never waned, no matter how small the matter. At his side, Alexander’s brother, Cynden, and their cousin, Knox, alternated seats, offering counsel when needed, the three men working in seamless rhythm. The village council only made the journey to the keep once a week, which left the lion’s share of everyday concerns resting squarely on Alexander’s shoulders.

By the time the last petitioner stepped away and the hall fell into a much calmer murmur, only a handful of people lingered. Those visiting kin or those waiting for the evening meal before returning home. The sudden quiet felt like a sigh.

Alexander rose first, stretching his arms overhead, joints popping softly. “Ye should get up more often and stretch that leg of yers,” he said, giving Liam a pointed look.

“I should,” Liam replied, though he didn’t move. “I’m nearly done with this.” He tapped the ledger before him. “Afterward, I’ll take my daily walk. Plenty of stretching then.”

But the walk was little more than an escape. A way to slip from the courtyard before the guardsmen and warriors grew uncomfortable under the weight of what they didn’t ken how to say. Once, they’d sought him out with questions, jokes, or boasts from training. Now, their conversations stumbled, their glances skittering away as if his injury might leap across the space between them. Their talk of drills and duties was no longer his world, and he had no desire to pretend it still was.

He would take his walk, because it allowed him to breathe away from the pity, away from the awkward silence, away from the reminders of everything he’d lost.

There was always the option of returning to Tokavaig. As the miller’s son, Liam would never be without a roof or honest work should he leave the keep. But the coins he could earn helping his father grind grain would be meager compared to what he once made as one of the laird’s trusted leaders. Even now, serving as scribe, Alexander paid him the same wage he’d earned as a warrior. A kindness Liam accepted but could not quite swallow. Although his coffers were full, Liam was more frugal than ever. Because every coin he saved would be needed on the day he would no longer be of use to the keep, a future he dreaded even as he prepared for it.

He followed the quieter corridor along the far end of the great room, his footsteps echoing off cool stone. The kitchen lay empty save for the lone cat napping in the lingering warmth from the hearth. Liam crossed to the long counter that stretched the length of the wall, wrapping a heel of bread in a square of cloth before tucking it into the leather pouch slung across his chest. A strip of dried meat followed, then a firm apple, its skin cool beneath his fingers.

Beside the kitchen entrance, a narrow door offered quick passage for servants hauling water. Liam slipped through it, stepping out into the courtyard and toward the promise of open air. He intended to walk into the woods, a small respite of solitude he allowed himself each day.

A faint chill clung to the breeze, but the world whispered of spring. Tender blades of green pushed through the thawing earth, stubborn and bright. The air carried the scent of pine and damp moss, undercut by the smoky sweetness of a bonfire burning closer to the main grounds, where several people gathered in easy conversation.

Only a handful of folks moved through this quieter corner, mostly servants hauling buckets from the well, their chatter soft and distant. No warriors with their curious glances.

Relief loosened his shoulders.

Turning away from the courtyard, Liam began his walk toward the forest. His gait was steady but uneven, each step a reminder of the injury that had carved a new, unwanted path through his life. Still, the trees beckoned, quiet, familiar, and blissfully free of prying eyes.

“Liam.”

The voice, soft, feminine, unmistakable skimmed down his spine like the brush of a feather.

“May I speak with ye?”

He kept walking, pretending he hadn’t heard her, hoping the forest ahead might swallow him whole in mercy. But her footsteps quickened, light and determined, closing the distance with far too much eagerness for his liking.

There would be no avoiding her now. Best to hear her out and quickly continue on his planned walk.

He stopped and turned.

Beitris.

The mere sight of her punched the breath from his lungs. She had always been lovely, but somehow she seemed to become more so with each passing day, as though spring itself had chosen her as its favored blossom. Her flame-red hair spilled past her shoulders in careless waves, catching the sunlight like embers stirred by a breeze. A faint flush warmed her oval cheeks, freckles dusting her nose like a constellation he should not be admiring.

And her lips… they were soft and full, with that faint upward curve that made her look like she kept deliciously wicked secrets tucked behind them.

Her too observant bright blue eyes lifted to him beneath long dark lashes. “Ye are trying to avoid me.”