Jeffrey Quyle - The Healing Spring

Kestrel selected the arrow for his last shot. The shaft was warped; the fletchings had a gap on one side, and the head was wobbly loose. He’d never gone into a competition with such awful arrows before, and once he finished his shot he’d go in search of better arrows for his next round of competition. Always be prepared, one of his instructors back at Elmheng had told him, and he regretted that he hadn’t followed that advice for this competition.

He tinkered with the arrow, then placed it on the string, and drew the string back. He tried to guess how the shaft would deviate from a true flight, and then adjusted his aim. With one last moment of delay, he pulled his fingers off the string and released the arrow.

The shot tried to stay on course. He could see that the arrow wanted to fly towards the center of the target. It seemed to jump and swoop through the air as it pulled itself back into the path it needed to fly. Then just before it found the target it lurched downward and struck the target just below the center. The group behind him let out a collective groan, and then Kestrel released his own breath noisily. He was out of the competition. Just like that. He thought about all the things that could have changed his fate — if he had shot his first arrow competitively, if he had brought better arrows, if he had practiced before the competition, but mostly if he had brought better arrows.

Someone slapped him on the back. “Shoot like that in the consolation round and you’ll have a chance,” a voice said, and then the group wandered away.

Kestrel walked up to the target and collected his arrows, then returned to pick up his bow and quiver. “When will the consolation round begin?” he asked a proctor.

“In about a half hour, over where the green striped flag is flying,” the proctor answered.

Kestrel began running towards where the green flag was waving in the breeze, scanning the field in search of vendors with arrows for sale. He spotted a table with a collection of arrows strewn across it, and veered in that direction. He jostled through the crowd in front of the table and examined the assortment of shafts closely. He picked up two arrows that seemed of the highest quality, looked along their lines, ran his fingers long the feather fletchings, and tugged at the bindings.

“How much for these two arrows?” he asked the woman who stood behind the table.

“They’re not for sale to you,” she said bluntly. “We don’t sell to the likes of you. Now move along and let the paying customers handle the merchandise,” she ordered.

Kestrel felt himself turn white as the blood drained from his face. It was a situation he had faced before, and he knew he had no recourse. He put the arrows back down on the table with a mixture of anger and remorse, then turned away from the table and began to stalk towards the green and white flag. He’d only gotten fifty yards away from the arrow vendor when there was a sudden eruption of screams from the table.

“It’s a sprite!” he heard someone shout. He turned and saw a flash of blue momentarily, then the sprite disappeared. A second later there was a noise behind him and he turned as he felt the sprite stuff two arrows into his quiver, while the elves around him began to shout.

The sprite disappeared once again, as Kestrel whirled around in a full circle, confused by the noise and commotion that surrounded him. He looked in all directions trying to spot the sprite — he’d only had a momentary glimpse of the small blue body, but he had no doubt that it had to be Dewberry, who for some reason had tracked him to the elven festival.

There was no sign of the sprite any longer amid the chaos in the field. With a shove of his shoulder, Kestrel broke through the crowd that surrounded him and ran in a beeline towards the field where the consolation contest was about to begin. The number of competitors was numbing, he admitted to himself as he arrived and took a spot along the line of archers. Only one winner would be taken from the whole field, he realized, knowing that he had to achieve his best effort in order to capture this second chance.

He began looking through his quiver, examining the two arrows that Dewberry had hastily deposited there. They were the exact two arrows he had wanted to buy from the bigoted arrow vendor, beautifully straight shafts that promised to fly through air on a true and reliable line to the target. Together with his other good shafts he now had seven good arrows, enough to let him be competitive in the upcoming challenge.

There were directions being shouted by a proctor at the far end of the line, but Kestrel couldn’t understand the words that floated down to his group of competitors, many of whom were busily chatting with each other, ignoring the proctor.

“What is he saying?” Kestrel asked the woman next to him in line.

“The usual: ten arrows, top score wins,” the woman replied.

“Thanks,” Kestrel replied, worrying anew at the realization that the greater number of arrows negated the sprite’s kind deed. He knew he would still have to rely on faulty arrows to succeed in this win-or-go-home competition.

A loud drum sounded, and a dozen arrows flew at the target. Kestrel calmly aimed his first arrow and let it fly, scoring a solid center score, then he took one of the shafts that Dewberry had given him and shot it as well. The sound of its flight was a silent whisper that was pure pleasure, and it flew in a straight trajectory that ended in the center of Kestrel’s target. He shot two more bolts from his stock of good arrows, and both went comfortably into the center. So far he had taken four shots and scored four direct hits in the center; looking down the line he saw only two others who had done so well.

He pulled out the other shaft that the sprite had pilfered on his behalf, and sent it directly at the center of the target as well, landing so close to his first shot that the shafts touched one another. He fired his last two reliable shafts as well, and then stopped to evaluate his position.

Kestrel had scored seven out of seven in the center of the target; he saw no one else with more than six center hits. That gave him an advantage, but the advantage would disappear once he had to start trying to adjust and anticipate the unpredictable behavior of his secondary shafts.

“There! Him! He’s the one. The ugly one that looks like a human stole my arrows,” a raucous voice shouted nearby.

Kestrel turned to see the vendor from the arrow table stalking towards him, with a pair of local constables.

All the contestants nearby stopped their shots to watch the unfolding drama.

“He sent the sprite to steal my arrows,” the vendor said as the trio reached Kestrel’s position.

“I did not send a sprite to steal any arrows,” Kestrel replied.

“Really? You dragged us over here to accuse someone of directing a sprite-based criminal ring?” the senior constable asked the vendor in an ominously low voice.

“Do you want to have her put in the cells for demeaning your name?” the other constable turned to Kestrel and asked.

“You can’t be serious!” the vendor screeched. “You can’t let a human half-breed get away with this thievery!”

“Lady, put a wad of leaves in your mouth and stop interrupting this match,” the first constable spoke sternly. “We apologize to all of you for bothering your competition,” he said as he began to drag the arrow seller away.

Rattled and relieved, Kestrel turned and faced the target, his face blushing a bright red. He kept his head down, aware of the scrutiny that was centered on him. He selected the best arrow he had left, then rose and tried to focus on the target.

His shot flew wildly towards the target before it finally hit the outer ring weakly.