Page 24 of A Game of Veils

The imperial heir waves us back with him several more paces so he has more room to shoot. He aims his arrows much as he did his knives—one on either side and one over the head. But the twang of the bowstring and the warble of the fletching through the air make the process all the more unsettling.

Fausta resumes her heckling, but thankfully my coaching appears to have helped Rochelle stay centered. She shivers briefly when the arrows smack into the wood around her, but nothing you could even call a flinch.

And so it goes through the same order, until a willowy lady named Timille approaches the panel.

Her steps are already shaky, her knuckles white where her hands are balled at her sides. Fausta pounces on the visible weakness with malicious glee.

“Look how she’s quaking. How can you stand there and make any claim on our great Imperial Highness when you’re practically falling apart in front of him? He should have you put down right now.”

I’ve held my tongue during her previous jabs, not wanting to provoke her further and fluster the other ladies even more. Now, seeing the gleam of tears welling in Timille’s eyes, I can’t keep silent.

I pitch my voice as soothing and serene as I can while letting it carry across the room. “You can do this. You’ve seen what excellent aim he has. Those arrows won’t touch you.”

Fausta’s head snaps around with a searing glower, but I don’t care. Timille draws in a ragged breath and appears to gird herself at my words.

As the first arrow flies, Fausta lifts her voice again. “You barely belong here in this court, let alone at an emperor’s side. What a pathetic display.”

A tear trickles down Timille’s cheek, and Marclinus makes a scoffing sound. My throat constricts.

“You’re making it through,” I tell her in the same calming tone. “You know you can. Focus on that and not her.”

Emperor Tarquin has shifted his gaze toward me. I don’t glance over at him, but his attention burns into my skin.

Is my intervention a mark in my favor or against me?

Even if it’s the latter, I can’t regret speaking up.

After the third arrow has landed above Timille’s head, she hustles back to our cluster of ladies, swiping at her eyes but uninjured.

My opposition has clearly soured Fausta to me even more. When it’s my turn, she starts up her sneering commentary before I even have a chance to move forward.

“Here comes the ever-so-generous princess. I don’t think she really wants you if she’s so eager to help the rest of us, Your Imperial Highness. She’s probably hoping you’ll send her back to her backwater country since there’s no way she’ll survive here.”

Her jabs bounce right off. I don’t give a shit what that viper thinks of me.

One arrow whines through the air to pierce the wood by my right arm. Marclinus gives a low laugh, but I can’t tell whether he’s mocking me or Fausta for her failure to rattle me. He pulls back the string again?—

Just as he’s releasing it, a sudden crash shatters the quiet of the room.

I’m lucky the imperial heir is as skilled a marksman as he is. The din makes his stance twitch, but the arrow veers only an inch to the side of where he would have been aiming.

The pointed head carves a line through my sleeve and the side of my arm before digging into the wood behind me. Pain flares through my bicep.

I stifle a gasp with a hiss of breath, clamping my jaw tight. The pain flares hotter as blood seeps into my sleeve, dampening the fabric against my skin.

Every particle of my body wants to yank away from the arrow, from the panel, from this whole wretched game. I lock my legs in place, waiting for the imperial heir’s—and his father’s—response.

Marclinus has swiveled to peer toward the source of the noise. My gaze finds Prince Raul standing farther back in our audience, lifting his hands in a gesture of apology, the feral glint in his eyes turning it into a lie. “Forgive my clumsiness, Your Imperial Highness. I knocked over one of the wine trays.”

His threatening words from last night come back to me. If they don’t tear you apart quickly enough, we’ll give you a good shove.

I don’t for one second believe that was an accident. The prince is making good on his ominous promise.

Uneasiness curdles in my stomach, but when Marclinus turns back to me, there’s a gleam in his eyes that might be appreciative. I’m not sure Raul’s gambit harmed my chances the way he was hoping.

“The court certainly can’t complain that you haven’t endured this trial with more fortitude than the other ladies required,” the imperial heir says in a wry tone. “One more shot, without any further disruptions please, and a medic will see to your arm.”

No apology from him. Not the slightest sign of regret that his absurd test could have ended with that arrow through my heart.

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