Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 by Mark E. Cooper

should make his own arrows from now on? No, he would examine each one before filling his quiver. There were thousands in the armoury. It would be quicker to choose the best from among them than to make his own. With that in mind, Jihan went through the arrows remaining in his quiver. He snapped three in his annoyance at finding them flawed also. He dropped the arrowheads next to the first one and went back to his practise.
    Thock!
    Jihan smiled. He fired and fired maintaining an even rhythm between shots. The fourth arrow drove home and obscured the target. He retrieved his arrows and made his way to his final position. At two hundred yards, the centre of the target was smaller than a Gold. Jihan knew that it was, but he couldn’t see it no matter how hard he strained. The white outer circle was his only guide this time. One shot only would obscure the target. He held his breath for a long time. The moment was fleeting. More than once he felt it approach then recede. He waited but it didn’t come. He relaxed his quivering arm and panted.
    Jezy was cropping grass and hadn’t seen his failure.
    Jihan wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and breathed deeply. The sun was well up now flooding the clearing with its light. Birds were singing in the trees and he knew the fortress would be awake making ready for the judgement. He scowled at the thought of Athlone’s justice.
    “The man wouldn’t know justice if it rose up and bit him!”
    Jihan raised his bow. The target beckoned almost demanding that he release the shaft. He delayed waiting for the right moment. In his mind’s eye he saw Athlone appear before him. The moment arrived at the same instant and he released his shaft.
    Thock!
    Jihan walked to the tree and smiled grimly. At least Athlone was good for something. The arrow was embedded dead centre of the target.
    Jihan rode back to Malcor thinking about the judgement and wondered how he could avoid it. Maybe he should pretend illness. No, that wouldn’t work. He was never sick. Perhaps he could just be unavailable. Malcor was large—easily big enough to hide from the guardsmen. Jihan scowled at the thought. He would not be a coward. He would stand with Athlone in judgement of his people and hope for the best. With that settled, he urged Jezy to a canter.
    Once inside the fortress, he saw Jezy stabled and rubbed down before going to his room to change. He did not often wear his padded coat and armour inside. Not since Yannis and Cowan had left had Jihan felt the need to go fully armoured through the halls. He took a quick wash and changed into lighter clothing. He felt much cooler in his silk shirt. He took a moment to settle his weapons back into the sash around his waste. His sword and dagger went everywhere with him of course.
    Jihan left his room and prowled the halls waiting for the appointed time. Any other day he would have stayed away from the fortress until well after midday, but not on Tenday. This day of all days he could not afford to anger Athlone. If he did, Athlone might well set a punishment to rival all others he had ever set.
    Jihan prowled the corridors in silence. He ignored everyone, and pretended not to hear them. The whispers followed him everywhere, but he gave away nothing of his thoughts. He had long since learned to apply his father’s coldest mask to his own features. It had the benefit of halting flapping lips—at least to his face, but it distressed him to resemble his father in anything, even in so small a thing as his expression.
    “He makes me shiver to look at him—”
    “…not cross him, no way—”
    “Just like his father—”
    The last one hurt, and Jihan nearly snarled something back. He managed to abort the instinctive urge to whirl on the girl. He kept walking at his normal pace as if he hadn’t heard her. He was nothing like his father! By the God, couldn’t they see? Obviously they could not, or they would not say such things. Perhaps the differences between them were