Page 22 of A Game of Veils

My pulse drums behind my ears as servants carry a procession of equipment into the room. First, a wooden panel some ten-by-ten feet that they lean against the wall. Next, a large, lacquered box of uncertain contents. Then comes a huge longbow and a leather quiver stuffed with arrows.

Other servants have pushed the nearby chairs and tables off to the sides of the room. Marclinus stands in the middle of the open space, swiping his hands together as he peers at his assembled court with apparent satisfaction.

His father has positioned himself off to the side with a clear view of the goings-on. Emperor Tarquin’s mild expression and glinting eyes give away nothing about the test he and his son are about to inflict on us.

Is the imperial heir planning on evaluating our archery skills? Is having a wife who’ll join him competently on a hunt of particular importance to him?

It very well might be. Who knows how varied his priorities are?

I flex my fingers subtly at my side, remembering the feel of the bows I’ve practiced with. As one devoted to the godlen of peace, I don’t have much taste for killing animals for sport, but we held annual hunts by the capital where every creature the nobles brought down was donated to families with little to put on their tables.

I’d hardly call myself an expert markswoman, but I can hit a target well enough.

Lady Rochelle eases up beside me and shoots me a nervous smile. I tip my head to her in return, hoping she finds the gesture reassuring.

If she spends most of her time managing her family’s affairs on an estate farther abroad, surely hunting has come up in her education?

Once we hear exactly what the imperial heir has in mind, I’ll pass on any strategies that occur to me. Rochelle is the only person here who’s shown me any kindness. If I can see her through this trial alongside me, I will.

Marclinus takes his time preparing, pulling on a pair of supple leather gloves and opening the wooden case. A hint of a smirk plays with his full lips, lifting the small scar near the corner. I think he’s enjoying drawing out the tension, making us wonder and worry.

What will it take for him to recognize the horror of this ridiculous competition? Or at least to get bored of it, which might be easier to accomplish?

He draws something slim and shiny from the case. As he flips it in his hand, the metallic surface flashes in the sunlight.

My gut tightens in recognition. It’s a throwing knife.

Is he testing our abilities with blades as well? They’re hardly typical courtly weapons. I’ve certainly never seen one used in a hunt.

The imperial heir turns toward us, holding the knife at a seemingly careless angle. He cocks his head, his cool gray gaze sliding over us clustered ladies.

His voice comes out in its typical laconic drawl, if a touch curter than usual. “Yesterday many of you spoke of trusting me to lead our empire to greatness. Today you’ll get to prove just how far your trust extends. Each of you will present yourself in front of this wooden panel. I will demonstrate the accuracy of my throws and later my bowmanship. I expect you will not flinch or cower, since naturally you have complete faith that I can avoid wounding you.”

Marclinus gives a brief grin like a baring of teeth. I stare at him, his words sinking in slowly.

He can’t possibly mean?—

He waves his knife toward us. “We’ll go in the opposite order from yesterday, for fairness’s sake. Lady Rochelle, that means you get to do the first honors.”

Rochelle’s face goes sallow, but to her credit, she doesn’t hesitate. I’d imagine she’s no surer than I am whether the imperial heir would take any delay as a sign of doubt and penalize her for it.

She strides over to the panel by the wall.

“Right in the middle,” Marclinus calls over, positioning himself about twenty feet away, directly across from her. “Arms at your sides. Looking straight at me. Stay perfectly still, and you’ll be fine.”

And if she doesn’t?

As he readies himself with the knife, my fingers curl. The nails dig into my palms with tiny nips of pain.

Great God help us, let his aim be as good as he’s boasting. Let my new almost-friend keep her cool.

The room has gone completely silent. I hear the rustle of Marclinus’s sleeve as he jerks his hand forward, the thin hiss of the blade whipping through the air.

The point thuds into the wooden boards just an inch shy of Rochelle’s right elbow. Her expression tics at the impact, and then her jaw clenches.

Marclinus’s grin widens. “Very good.” He selects another knife from the case.

How many of those things is he going to hurl at her?

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