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December 12th, 2007/Change Year 9<br />
The girl drew carefully, using the shoulders and body as much as the arms. The yew bow bent …<br />
"Bull's-eye!" Mathilda Arminger whooped as the shaft thumped home in the circle behind the wooden<br />
deer's shoulder.<br />
"Not bad, Matti," Rudi Mackenzie said. "Not bad!"<br />
It was late afternoon going on for evening, and overcast. The sudden chill and wet mealy smell in the<br />
fir-scented air meant snow coming soon, rolling down the heights from the wall of mountains eastward.<br />
Rudi finished another round of practice and then looked up and stuck out his tongue; sure enough, the<br />
first big flakes came drifting down, landing with a gentle bite and a somehow dusty taste. Snow was rare<br />
in the Willamette, where winter was the season of rain and mud, but Dun Juniper was just high enough in<br />
the foothills that it could get heavy falls sometimes, though they rarely lay for long. This would be a big<br />
one, by the way the air tasted and felt.<br />
The two children were the youngest in the crowd at the butts; they'd both been born in the first<br />
Change Year, and were shooting up with a long-limbed, gangly grace. Rudi was the taller by an inch or<br />
two; the hair that spilled out from under his flat bonnet was a brilliant gold tinted with red to her dark<br />
auburn-brown, and his eyes somewhere between blue and green and gray to her hazel, but otherwise<br />
their sharp straight-featured faces were much alike as they began to shed their puppy fat.<br />
"Willow!" one of the assistants called to a round-faced girl of ten. "Don't hop and squint after you<br />
shoot. It won't help."<br />
The girl flushed as classmates snickered and giggled; she shot again, then did the same<br />
up-and-down-in-place hop as before, squinting with her tongue between her teeth and the wet turf<br />
squelching under her feet. Today Chuck Barstow Mackenzie, the Clan's Second Armsman, had dropped<br />
in to observe.<br />
Which made everyone a little nervous despite the fact that he lived here, even if it wasn't as<br />
momentous as it might be at some other dun. Now he silently reached over and rapped her lightly on the<br />
head with the end of his bow; she flushed more deeply, hanging her head.<br />
The rest of the crowd at the butts ranged from nine or so to thirteen, children of Dun Juniper's smiths,<br />
stockmen, carpenters, clerks, schoolteachers and weavers, and of the Clan's small cadre of full-time<br />
warriors. Their work was overseen by a dozen or so elder students in their later teens, walking up and<br />
down the line offering advice and helping adjust hands and stances, and four Armsmen oversaw them;<br />
archery was very much part of the Mackenzie school syllabus, and much more popular than arithmetic or<br />
geography or even herblore.<br />
"And Otter, Finn, don't laugh at Willow," Chuck added. "She shoots better than you do most of the<br />
time. Someday you'll have to stand beside her in a fight, remember." He cocked an eye at the darkening<br />
clouds. "All right, it's time to knock off for the day anyway; everyone unstring. Carefully!" he added,<br />
keeping a close watch on the process, as did the teachers and their helpers, lest cold-stiffened fingers<br />
slip.<br />
There were a couple of quick corrections to those doing it wrong. Rudi braced the lower tip of his<br />
bow against the top of his left foot, stepped through between the string and the riser, and pushed down<br />
against the bow with his thigh while his right hand held the upper part of the stave steady. That let him<br />
slide the string out of the grooves in the polished antler tip—carefully!—with his left hand. There were the<br />
inevitable throttled yelps and a few tears from those who'd let go too early or put their stave hands too<br />
far up, and so pinched their hands between string and wood even through their gloves, but no real<br />
accidents. Even a light child's stave could be dangerous if the wielder let it get away from them, and the<br />
tip of a grown-up's war bow would rip through flesh and bone like a spear when it slipped just wrong.<br />
That was why you always kept it pointed away from your face when stringing or unstringing, something<br />
he'd learned years ago.<br />
"You're getting pretty good, Matti," he said.<br />
"I always had a bow," she said. "Not just here."<br />
"Not a bow like that, I bet," Rudi said, grinning.<br />
"Yeah!" she said enthusiastically. "It's great. We heard about Sam's bows, even, you know,