Page 11 of The Last of the Dark Lords

Grandmother kissed me gently on the forehead. “Think on it. I know you’ll make the right decision.”

I didn’t have a response. I stood up straight and kissed her on the cheek. I looked into her eyes, wondering if I would see regret or sadness, but there was only love and determination. Turning, I walked out the door of Prime Hall.

The sound of footsteps followed me, and when I reached the antechamber I turned to find my brother. He leaned against the doorframe, a cocky sneer on his face.

“I’ll have to think long and hard about who should succeed you as Commander of the Archers.”

He was already planning my exile, of course. What an ass.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going,” I replied.

“Dont be an idiot, Skye. You’re going. You always do the dutiful thing. You might torture yourself for a few days, but you love to be the martyr.”

I felt rage churn in my gut. Why was he like this? Ever since we were teenagers, he’d made every interaction some kind of obnoxious sibling competition. I remembered those first few years after our parents’ deaths, when he’d been the perfect older brother, the only one who understood what I’d been through. The one person I trusted above all else. What had happened to him?

“What is wrong with you?” I spit back the question at him. “Why do you have to make everything so hard?”

Athard strode forward and bent his face down to mine. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching.

“Becauseyoualways have it easy. Little Skye, Grandmother’s favorite child. So good at archery, so fast and agile, and so handsome! Pretty, even, with your pale brown hair and your perfect skin. The perfect leader.”

“You are theheir! What more could you possibly want?”

“So virtuous. Well, now you’ll sell your virtue for our peace. Do you think the Dark Lord will be gentle when he takes you for the first time on your wedding night? Or do you think he’ll use you for his pleasure and throw you away?”

I’d never lost control before, never let my rage supersede my rational thought. But before I could stop it, my fist flew, and Athard hit the ground with a thump.

I stepped back in shock at my own actions. My brother sprang back up, rubbing his chin and glaring at me.

“When I am Prime, Greatfalls will not welcome you.” His voice had a malevolent finality to it. “All you will have left of home will be a fading memory. When Grandmother is gone, there will be no one left to coddle you.”

His words stung, but the true pain was at my own violence. Why had I allowed him to get to me?

Seeing that he was unharmed other than his bruised pride, I turned and charged out of the building.

By now dusk had fallen, turning the forest of Greatfalls into a web of shadows. I didn’t want to see Jelenna. I didn’t want to speak to anyone. I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t do that in my small, barely furnished cottage. Instead I took off toward the denser part of the wood, where the trees were close enough together that there were no buildings or people.

I reached the foot of the giant oak and jumped up to grab hold of a limb for leverage, pulling myself up and shimmying up the trunk. I pulled myself up to the higher branches, where I found my treasure.

It was still there, if a little worse for wear. A hammock, a ragged remnant of my childhood. It had been my refuge during the years after my parents death. When I fought with Athard, or I was simply overcome with anger and sadness, I escaped to this perch, hidden among the boughs.

I lay on my back and watched as the gray of dusk gave way to the deep navy of night. One by one, the stars peeked through the thick darkness, until the sky was a field of white sparks.

As I drifted off to sleep, I thought not of dark lords and arranged marriages, but of my mother’s smile. My memory of her had faded as the years went by, a tapestry worn away by time and the elements, but her smile stayed clear and bright. I imagined how she might have been dressed on my wedding day, in maroon or turquoise maybe, her brow adorned with flowers.

Her kind face blessing my future.

Chapter 4

I woke up wet. The morning dew had soaked my undergarments. The first light of morning brightened the sky and flickered through the filter of the canopy above. Everything was less ominous than the night before.

Despite my damp clothes, I didn’t go back to my cottage. I could tough it out. I slid down the trunk of the old oak slowly, taking more care than the night before not to scrape my skin or put holes in my shirt.

I arrived at the training range as the archers were starting their morning routines. Most of the soldiers were in the mess tent, grabbing a meal and getting ready for the day. Alone on the field, I chose the farthest target of the bunch.

I let my arrows fly, one after another, until the repetition became hypnotic. Draw the arrow from my quiver. Notch it in the bow. Release it. Draw. Notch. Release.

I was about to step out to shoot through my quiver for the ninth time when a hand rested on my shoulder.

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