Page 23 of A Game of Veils

Three, it turns out, as I watch with a clammy sweat beading on my back. One by her left arm, nearly level with the first. And one so close overtop her head that her curls ripple around it.

Rochelle’s lips purse tight in the same moment, as if she’s clamped them against a shriek.

The imperial heir beckons her back to our side of the room. “Well done. Since Lady Cadenza has been eliminated, it’ll be Lady Giralda’s turn next.”

As the buxom brunette hustles over and a servant collects the knifes for His Imperial Highness, Rochelle returns to my side. A slight tremor runs through her tall frame.

I give her forearm a gentle squeeze to steady her. But the trial isn’t over yet even for her.

There’s still that damned bow resting against the table next to the quiver of arrows.

“Slow, even breaths,” I murmur to her. “Unfocus your eyes if you can, so you don’t even really see him, and picture something calming in front of you.”

She nods and flicks her hand down her body in a hasty three-fingered tap.

If the gods notice her gesture of the divinities, they don’t seem inclined to intervene.

I follow my own advice even now, knowing there are several more ladies to go before it’s my turn. If I can sink into a meditative state before I even step in front of Marclinus’s blades, it’ll be all the easier to maintain the detachment.

Unfortunately, Lady Fausta decides to take the opposite tactic, now that it’s clear what the trial entails.

With a flick of her scarlet hair, she eyes the noblewoman who’s positioned herself in front of the panel and tsks her tongue. “I don’t think she really does trust you, Your Imperial Highness. Look how her hand trembles.”

Giralda tucks her fingers closer to the gauzy drift of her skirts. Her chin, which had been set firmly, quivers instead.

Marclinus twirls his first knife between his fingers, apparently unbothered by Fausta’s attempt at sabotage. “I suppose we’ll see.”

He flings the knife without warning. Giralda flinches as the blade slams into the wood by her shoulder. Then she stiffens her posture even more.

“Let’s have a little more faith than that,” the imperial heir chides teasingly.

Fausta shakes her head, her bright green eyes flashing with triumph. “Such a shame she faltered right from the start.”

My own hands clench against the desire to march over and smack her across her cruel mouth. As if this test isn’t horrible enough without one of us adding to the anguish.

It goes on like that through the procession of potential wives: each displaying herself in front of the increasingly notched panel, Fausta heckling them to rattle their nerves, Marclinus tossing his knives. I descend as deep as I can into my well of inner calm.

Elox watch over me. Help me remain at peace and show no fear.

When it’s my turn to stand before the imperial heir, Fausta lets out a disdainful laugh. “The wild princess looks like she’s marching into battle. I don’t see any loyalty at all.”

Ignoring her, I will my stance to loosen, my expression to stay placid. I gaze straight toward Marclinus, his tall form blurry before my unfocused eyes, and picture the statue of Elox in our main temple back home. The way the godlen’s kindly face tips toward the lamb nestled at his feet. The willow bough draped across his shoulder.

Loyalty. Faith. I have plenty of them, just not for the man with the knives.

The first two blades hit the wood on either side of my upper arms. My breath barely catches. Distantly, I hear Fausta’s voice take on a sharper tone, as if she’s peeved that her previous remarks have had no effect.

“Frigid as those northern cities. Who would want to marry a woman that cold?”

I simply breathe.

The last knife soars over my head. As I step away from the panel, Marclinus smiles. “The princess isn’t easily shaken.”

Fausta can’t say much about that, because it’s her turn now. She approaches the panel with her chin high and endures the onslaught of knives without the slightest wince, although of course it’s easier when no one’s picking at you at the same time.

Then Marclinus reaches for his bow. “Lady Rochelle, we return to you.”

I give her a quick squeeze of her hand and a murmured reminder. “Focus on your breath.”

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