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“I would like to add,” said Master Giron, his high, piping voice filling the council chamber, “that the yew wood we received last year was entirely unsatisfactory. It was warped and damp. The bows are unusable.”
Thranduil looked down the table at him calmly. At his right hand, Legolas had obviously not even heard the complaint. Dressed in a formal silvery-grey tunic instead of his usual field browns, he looked every inch the King’s heir. He also looked extremely bored. He was staring into his untouched winecup, clearly wishing to be anywhere rather than here.
At Thranduil’s left hand, Arbellason, High Commander of the army, met his eyes and shrugged. Master Giron was infuriating – but he could not have more than two or three dozen years left. They would not have to endure him much longer.
“The bows are unusable,” Master Giron repeated. “I insist on a reduction in the price.”
Lady Celephindeth, who had been dealing with Master Giron’s demands for the past fifteen years, said from her place on Legolas’ other side, “You object to the yew, Master Giron?” She nudged Legolas’ boot with the toe of her delicate slipper. “Prince Legolas, is that not the same wood the King’s archers use for their bows?”
“Of course, my lady,” Legolas said smoothly, and exactly as though he had been listening all along. Celephindeth hid her laughter by bending over the scroll opened out on the table before her and writing something in the margins. “Indeed, Lord Norgalad asked me to inspect the last shipment, after the complaints we had earlier. The wood was good. Perhaps Master Giron’s bowsmiths erred in the tillering.”
“Perhaps,” Master Giron sniffed, “the Elven-prince is not sufficiently accustomed to archery to judge what sort of wood makes a good bow.”
Arbellason choked on his wine.
Celephindeth made a large blot on her scroll.
Legolas, who had commanded the Elven-king’s archers since Master Giron’s own great-grandfather had sat in that chair, met his eyes with the imperturbable good humour he had inherited from his mother. “That is entirely possible, Master Giron,” he said. Then, turning to Thranduil, “If the King pleases, we could summon the captains of the archers for a consultation?”
Thranduil suppressed a groan. Legolas’ sense of mischief had come from Lindariel, too; Thranduil had not tormented his own father like this. That would create exactly the kind of circus he would much prefer to avoid in the council chamber. “The King does not please,” he said, through gritted teeth. Then, reflecting that there were places in the stronghold other than the council chamber and Legolas had really been asking for trouble, he went on, “Ten minutes. I must have some fresh air.” He added in a low voice to his son, “Since you seem determined to cause chaos, Legolas… be careful what you wish for.”
Leaving Legolas looking satisfactorily startled behind him, the Elven-king left the council chamber.
Thranduil went outdoors, through the courtyard, past the green, into the archers’ hall. It was empty save for a few novices fletching arrows by the far window. They all leapt to their feet at his arrival, shafts, feathers and staves rolling on the ground.
“Legolas is not here, my King,” one of them squeaked.
Thranduil himself had been present when these novices had been inducted – at the beginning of spring. He noted with some amusement that it had apparently taken mere months for their senior commanding officer to become “Legolas” to them.
“I am aware of that,” he said crisply. “Who is the duty officer?”
“Saeldur, my King. He is on the far ranges. Shall I fetch him, my King?”
“At once, please.”
The novice scampered out, returning a moment later with Saeldur. Rochendilwen, another of the captains, was with him.
“My King,” Saeldur said formally, bowing. “You should have sent for me. There was no need for you to come here.”
“Come with me, Saeldur,” said Thranduil briskly. “You as well, Rochendilwen.” He led them outside, looked around, and found a quiet corner near a clump of beeches. “I did not summon you to the council chamber because I wanted to speak to you here – out of Legolas’ hearing.” Anticipating and just managing not to laugh at the scowl that immediately creased Saeldur’s brow, he went on, “Do not worry. I know your beloved commander has your absolute loyalty. I have no intention of testing it. I do intend to test Legolas.” He waved behind him. “There.”
There was the narrow field behind the archers’ hall. Unlike the main archery ranges, it admitted no more than four archers at a time, and the far end was rigged with scaffolding and ropes that hung between two trees, allowing the archers to set up pulley systems.
“You want to test Legolas on the moving target arrays?” Saeldur asked, his scowl disappearing in his astonishment. “But he has no difficulty with them. Last week he bettered my speed by a full three seconds. Do you mean a demonstration, my King?”
“A test,” Thranduil said firmly. “Not a demonstration. That is what he gets for attempting to disrupt my council chamber. It is going to be a test for Legolas, and the two of you are going to organize it. Blindfold him, if you want. Tie one of his wrists to the fence so he does not have the room to pivot. Make it as difficult as you can. If Legolas objects, tell him you have my authority. When Lord Giron leaves this realm, I want him to do so in absolutely no doubt that my son is more capable than any of his clerks of judging exactly what sort of wood is needed for a good bow.”
“My King,” Rochendilwen said carefully, “does Legolas know about this test?”
“I will leave it to the two of you to tell him, when I bring him here. You have half an hour to set up the test.”
The King returned to the council chamber with a supremely satisfied smile that worried Celephindeth.
“Master Giron,” Thranduil said, “I have spoken to the captains of the archers.” Celephindeth saw Legolas’ eyes snap to his father in sudden alarm. “They are preparing to show you the yew groves where they get the wood for their bows, so that you may examine the trees yourself. In the meantime, Legolas, perhaps you will provide the Master of Laketown with some information on what characteristics he should be looking for in the wood?”
Legolas looked, for a moment, as though he could not believe his ears. Indeed, neither could Celephindeth. Thranduil wanted Legolas to lecture the Men of Esgaroth on bow-making? Why?
“Go on,” Thranduil murmured, too softly for his voice to reach the Men. “Keep them occupied for thirty minutes, Legolas.”
Legolas glanced from his father to Master Giron, shrugged, and began in fluent Westron, “It is very important to understand that the yew consists of two separate layers. The sapwood, the outer layer, is naturally white. The back of the bow must follow one single growth-ring.”
“The back of the bow?” enquired Master Giron.
“The side facing away from the archer,” Legolas said calmly, and not at all as though Master Giron was a fool for not knowing that. “Fail to do this, and your bow will shatter the first time you attempt to draw it.”
Master Giron, who, to Celephindeth’s knowledge, had never learnt to use a weapon in his life – he relied entirely on his guards, while he was famed for cowering in his hall at the slightest hint of peril – evidently judged Legolas by his own standards, because he demanded, “What would the son of the King know about what will make a bow shatter?”
Legolas – who, Celephindeth had to admit, looked very much the pampered Elf-prince as he leaned back in his chair with his golden hair, unbound from its usual warrior braids, falling about his face – only shrugged. “You do not have to take my word for it, Master Giron. The captains of the archers will be happy to give you any information you wish. Now, it is also very important that you should remember to balance the curve.”
Master Giron’s lips were in a thin line, as Legolas continued to instruct him.
When Legolas wound down half an hour later, having expanded on the art of carving the bow around the knots of the grain instead of shearing the wood through them, Thranduil said, “I believe the captains will be ready for us now.” He got to his feet, prompting everyone else to rise as well, and swept out of the room. Legolas followed, and the courtiers and visitors trailed behind.
Celephindeth held Arbellason back for a moment to whisper, “Do you have any idea what he is planning?”
Arbellason’s eyes were mirthful. “Thranduil is bored, and that fool has insulted Legolas’ bowmanship at least four times in a single morning. You know how he feels about people affronting his son. I do not know what Thranduil is planning, but I fully expect to enjoy it.”
“You may say so,” muttered Celephindeth, as they followed the group of visitors from Esgaroth out of the room. “You will not have to spend the next three seasons smoothing over Giron’s ruffled feathers.”
In retrospect, Legolas felt like he should have known what was coming the moment his father guided the party from Laketown in the direction of the archers’ hall. It was not the quickest way to get to the yew grove. It was not the quickest way to get anywhere, except –
Thranduil walked calmly around the hall to the range behind it, where Legolas could see that adjustments had been made to the target rigging.
Rochendilwen and Saeldur stood on the field, watching the King – who nodded at them. Then he turned, and ushered the Men towards the railing separating the field from the forest beyond. When they had all gathered, Thranduil gestured at the rigging.
“We will,” the King announced, “have a demonstration first, so that we can judge the quality of the bows made from the yew wood. Under the circumstances, the demonstration will be by an Elf who, as we have heard this morning, knows nothing at all about what might make a bow shatter.”
Legolas opened his mouth to protest – he was dressed for court; he did not have his bow in any case; the wind was starting to howl through the trees; he was completely unprepared for this – but before a sound could come out, Saeldur and Rochendilwen were on either side of him, seizing his arms and practically dragging him down the field to the shooting line.
“What are you two doing?” Legolas hissed.
“Following the King’s orders,” Saeldur said brightly. “And, as it happens, making our own day more interesting. Come along, Legolas. What will our visitors think of us if the captains of the archers cannot enforce archery range discipline on an Elf who knows nothing about bows?”
“Yes, speaking of bows, I do not have mine –”
“I did not neglect to think of that, my pampered little prince. I have brought your bow.”
“If you refer to me as a pampered little prince again…” Legolas growled, making his friends laugh.
Saeldur and Rochendilwen pushed Legolas into place on the shooting line, and Saeldur thrust his bow into his hands, followed by a quiver full of arrows. Legolas looked at them and exclaimed in exasperation – Saeldur had obviously rooted through the racks for the flimsiest, most poorly-made shafts he could find. Some of them even had misaligned fletchings.
“What is this?” Legolas demanded. “Where did you get these? I had no idea arrows such as this existed in Eryn Galen.”
“No, because I remove the worst disasters of the novices’ handiwork before they ever reach your eyes,” Saeldur said. “I have been saving them in the rear weapons rack for precisely such an occasion as this.” Then he raised his voice. “Archer ready!” He stepped back to the boundary fence. “Your command, Rochendilwen.”
Legolas was just aware that the King, his guests, and the courtiers had ranged themselves behind the railing. Already, despite his exasperation at his friends’ tactics, his focus was narrowing to the target line.
“As you can see,” Rochendilwen said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “We are beginning with a simple drill – stationary targets.” She waved at the eight targets she had set up at the fifty-pace line. “Are you ready, Legolas?”
Legolas irritably pushed his hair out of his eyes. The wind was beginning to whip it about his face. If these two idiots had warned him, he could at least have braided it back.
“Draw!” Rochendilwen snapped.
Legolas pulled an arrow from the quiver – it felt as though Saeldur had greased the fletchings; behind him, Saeldur’s snicker confirmed it.
“I am putting you both on dawn patrols for a month,” Legolas muttered under his breath.
“A price I will pay gladly,” Saeldur said cheerfully.
“First volley, Legolas. Eight shots, one in each target. Loose!”
Flimsy arrows or not, misaligned fletchings or not, the newest novice could make these shots. Legolas drew and released, barely bothering to aim, trusting his instincts to read the wind and judge the distance.
“Very good,” said Rochendilwen, when he was done. “For the next volley, split each of those shafts. They are no good anyway. We could not have used them again… Wait a moment.” She paused, a wide smile on her face. “Saeldur, the prince’s hair appears to be in his eyes.”
“The newest novice knows not to step onto the archery range without making certain his braids are secure.” Saeldur stepped forward, a glint of mischief in his dancing grey eyes. “Allow me to help you remedy that oversight, my Elven-prince. You cannot possibly shoot with all that golden hair whipping about your face.”
Saeldur reached up – and calmly tied a black blindfold over Legolas’ eyes.
“There,” he said, and Legolas heard him step back. “Now your hair is not in your eyes. I am certain you are much more comfortable.”
“You are enjoying this far too much,” Legolas growled.
“It is my duty to keep my prince sharp.” Then, raising his voice, he called, “Archer ready!”
Legolas could hear the smile in Rochendilwen’s voice. “Split the shafts, Legolas. Draw!”
Legolas took a deep breath. The excited muttering from the onlookers faded away, as did Saeldur’s laughter from the fence. The wind was helping him now: he could hear it bouncing off the targets, making the fletchings of the embedded arrows quiver.
Legolas loosed the first arrow.
He did not need the sound of splintering wood or the exclamations of the onlookers to tell him he had split the last one. He relaxed as he went through the volley, pivoting smoothly to hit the targets down the line. At least this was better than being trapped in the council chamber while Master Giron droned about trade levies.
Legolas heard the last arrow thud into its target, reached up and pulled off the blindfold.
“Are you satisfied now?” he asked Rochendilwen.
She scoffed. “Why would we bring you here to be satisfied with two volleys at stationary targets? You must think we have no opinion of all of the legendary skill of the Elven-prince, to suggest such a thing. You have spent too long sitting in that council chamber. Enjoy the fresh air. Malen,” she called, to a novice archer who was standing by, “into the tree. As soon as I drop the targets, you are to shake the rigging.” She took a step away. “After all, enemies in battle do not come in a smooth line.”
“I think we should adjust your stance, Legolas,” Saeldur said unexpectedly. “It is entirely too loose.” He reached out to pull Legolas back to the fence. Legolas turned startled eyes on him – adding another two paces to the distance hardly mattered. But then Saeldur unwound a leather strap from the fence post. “You absolutely do not need to pivot to hit all the targets, as your novice drills should have taught you. What would you do if you lacked the room? I shall remove any temptation.”
He looped one end of the strap around Legolas’ left wrist, tightened it, and tied the other end to the fence. Legolas pulled against the strap. He had just enough slack to hold his bow before him for a straight shot, but not enough to turn.
“Fletching detail,” Legolas growled. “Both of you. Tonight!”
“The pampered little prince is growing irritable,” Saeldur said. “Perhaps we should do more to occupy his mind.”
“We will, Saeldur, before we have finished with him,” replied Rochendilwen. At Legolas’ murderous glare, she added merrily, “The King’s orders, Legolas.” She moved to the lever that would set the targets sliding across the rigging ropes. “Archer ready! Your command, Saeldur.”
Saeldur was watching Malen. As soon as he had reached the ropes, Saeldur nodded to Rochendilwen, who pulled the lever. Down dropped the targets, but Malen, who appeared to be enjoying himself as much as the two captains, shook the branches violently, making the targets dance on the ropes.
For a moment, Legolas considered stepping around to the other side of the strap, which would give him room to move. Then he shook his head. Apparently it was amusing Saeldur and Rochendilwen to torment him like this. He might as well let them enjoy themselves.
“Draw!” Saeldur commanded.
Legolas raised his bow. He could not pivot himself, but if he timed it, the wind would pivot the arrows for him.
He loosed the volley.
Dust rained down from the trees as eight clay targets shattered.
“Are we done now?” he demanded.
“Aeroniel and Colfind will be sorry to have missed this,” Saeldur said in response. “We should do it again when they are here.”
“Listen to me, you two insufferable fools –”
“The King’s orders, Legolas,” Rochendilwen said smoothly. “Saeldur, were you satisfied with the prince’s stance?”
“Not in the least. Still too loose.”
Saeldur stepped back to the fence and rapidly took in the slack in the strap, pulling Legolas’ hand back until he could not even raise the bow enough to sight the target.
“How do you expect me to shoot like this?” Legolas said in exasperation.
“That is for you to worry about, my Elven-prince. I am certain you will find a way. Rochendilwen, be ready to drop the next set of targets.”
“On your order, captain.”
“Archer ready!” Saeldur said.
Legolas drew a deep breath and dropped to one knee. It made the angle near-impossible – but at least he had room to put an arrow to his bow.
“Oh… and one more thing,” Saeldur said calmly.
Legolas looked at him suspiciously. “What?”
“You are taking entirely too long to line up your shots. We cannot have the finest of the Elven-king’s archers growing lax. This will be a sudden-snap drill. I will call the release for each arrow – and you will release on my word, not a moment before or after.”
Legolas readied his first arrow in his hand. “I will remember this.”
“Of course you will. Draw!”
Legolas drew – but he could not hold the bow still this time. He had to move it, adjusting his grip on the bow, the angle of the arrow, the tension of the bowstring every moment so he was ready to loose on Saeldur’s call. Saeldur took his time calling the first one – Legolas began to think he never would – then –
“Loose!”
Legolas barely had time to get the second arrow on the string before Saeldur said again, “Loose!”
When the volley was done, Saeldur came and loosed the strap from Legolas’ wrist. Legolas got to his feet.
“Am I free to go now?”
Saeldur only smiled. “Your hair is in your eyes again, my prince.” He held out the black silk blindfold. “Perhaps you would like to deal with the problem yourself this time? I trust you not to cheat.”
Legolas groaned, slinging his bow over his shoulder to tie the blindfold over his own eyes.
“I am quite certain that no commander in the history of Arda has been tormented like this by his own captains.”
“I quite agree. Are you not fortunate? Imagine how bored you would be by now if Rochendilwen and I had lined up rows of stationary targets for the entire demonstration.” There was movement. “I am going to the target line with the clay balls, Legolas. Try not to make holes in my tunic.”
Rochendilwen’s voice was beside him. “I believe you did not like your arrows, my prince.” She removed the quiver Legolas had and replaced it with another. He could tell from the weight that she had replaced the flimsy shafts with bodkins. ”Perhaps these will be more to your liking.”
Naturally those two fools would pick this moment, with Legolas blindfolded and Saeldur standing at the target line, to replace the lighter shafts with arrows that could actually cause damage. Naturally.
“I wish Aeroniel had been here,” Legolas muttered. “She might have restrained your worst impulses.”
“Who can say?” Rochendilwen said cheerfully. “She might have had even more interesting ideas. Saeldur, call the shots. Archer ready!”
“Archer ready is the command to get off the target line,” Legolas complained. “Not to stand at it like a lunatic.”
“I will be certain to review the commands with Saeldur afterwards.”
“Draw, Legolas!” Saeldur called. Legolas could hear the bell inside the first clay ball jingling as he pulled it from the bag. “Now!”
He tossed the ball into the air. Legolas’ arrow caught it at the peak of its arc; he heard the ball shatter and dust rain onto the field.
“Too slow on the draw,” Saeldur called teasingly. “You have been neglecting your blind drills, my prince. I should put your name down for additional training next month.”
He tossed the next ball up while he was speaking; Legolas shot it out of the air as soon as it had cleared Saeldur’s shoulder.
There was silence.
“Well?” Saeldur said. “Are you not going to shoot?”
“You have not thrown the ball.”
“I am not going to.” There was a faint jingle. Judging by the direction, Saeldur was holding the ball at chest height. “Go on. Draw.”
“Indescribable, legendary idiots,” Legolas growled, as he calibrated his draw. Just enough tension in the bowstring to reach the clay ball; not enough to go through it into Saeldur. “I refuse to believe the King authorized this insanity. If we had some ghastly accident before his visitors, that would be a greater crisis than some Mannish complaints about yew.”
“We know,” Rochendilwen said smoothly. “That is why we put you at the shooting line instead of one of the novices. And the King gave us leave to do anything we liked. Go on.”
Legolas loosed. He heard the ball shatter, and the arrow fall harmlessly to the ground at Saeldur’s feet.
“That jingling is insufferably loud,” Saeldur said. “We need something smaller.” There was a pause, and then he said, “Perfect. A copper coin from Esgaroth.” Legolas heard his footsteps crossing the gravel of the range. “Master Giron,” he said smoothly, “as our distinguished guest, would you like the honour of holding up the target for the final shot of the afternoon?”
There was a stifled squeak.
“No?” To the Men Saeldur would have sounded merely surprised; Legolas could hear the undercurrent of mischief. “Really? Are you quite certain? Very well then. I shall do it myself.”
Saeldur’s boots crunched on the gravel as he walked back to the target line. “Whenever you are ready, Legolas.”
Legolas closed his eyes behind the blindfold. He could hear the wind in the trees – the clanking of the target rig – Saeldur’s boots shifting on the soil, sixty paces away from him –
And another, whisper-soft sound that it took him a moment to identify. Saeldur’s thumb. Flicking the coin into the air and catching it again. Flick – one – two – thump. Legolas counted out the seconds. Saeldur was obviously flicking it low enough that it was not even clearing his chin. If he mistimed this shot – if he had a hair too much tension in the string –
Flick – one – two – thump.
Legolas drew, and aimed his arrow straight down the range towards his friend.
There was another squeak from the watchers.
“Go on, Legolas,” Saeldur called, and Legolas could hear the amusement in his voice. “Finish this, and we can all go and get some rest.”
Flick –
Legolas loosed.
Ping.
Saeldur laughed in sheer delight. Legolas pulled off the blindfold in time to see him pick up the arrow that had fallen to the ground at his feet, its tip embedded in the tiny copper disc.
“Another perfect shot,” Saeldur said merrily. “Praised be the hand and eye of the Elven-prince.”
As Saeldur came down the range to wrap his arm around Legolas’ shoulders and lead him off the range to the fence much more gently than he had been shoved onto it, Legolas heard Master Giron say, “Who was that idiot at the target line?”
“That idiot,” came Celephindeth’s easy response, “is my younger son.”
“Your son?” Master Giron squeaked. “And you stood and watched?”
Celephindeth, crossing the archery field with Master Giron, caught Legolas’ eye and smiled. “It made me nervous the first time, but I am accustomed to it now. The archers have a tradition, Master Giron. If they have a perfect showing during the summer and winter archery trials, they can end the evening by putting their commander and his second in the field for any tests of synchronization that they choose. And if they have had a record of no disciplinary reports in the three months before the spring and autumn festivals, the captains will put their commander on the shooting line and torment him for the archers’ amusement… as they did today, for yours.”
“Their… commander?” Master Giron asked.
“Legolas. The King’s son. Who, I can assure you, knows exactly how to make a bow.”
Left alone with Saeldur and Rochendilwen, Legolas said aloud, “I hope the two of you enjoyed yourselves.”
“Immensely,” Saeldur assured him. “And I am certain that the Master of Esgaroth knows better than to doubt your skill again. I hope you remember the autumn festival is in three weeks.”
“It is, and twice as many disciplinary reports have crossed my desk already, so you have not a hope.”
“We might consider making an exception,” said Rochendilwen. “To make up for the archers’ inevitable disappointment at having missed this display. Are you returning to the council chamber?”
“Certainly not.” Legolas pushed his hair irritably behind his ear again. It would serve the court right if Legolas appeared in field gear the next time. “I think I have amused the King’s court enough for one day. I am going to my room to change into normal clothes. And then I am going to set the two of you a week of dawn drills.”
“I will come with you,” Saeldur said, leading the way down the path. He added, “If we agree to those dawn drills, will you agree to take the field for the festival?”