Chapter 18 #2
Soldiers don chainmail as they string bows with blunted arrows and aim to shoot at a line of carved wood targets.
Many miss. I watch as servants wearing thin armor scurry to retrieve arrows from the tree line behind the targets.
The “forest” stretching around the training grounds is human-fortified.
No wildlife lives there. But it’s highly possible that certain training happens in the thick of the trees, as many wars happen in the woodlands of Aldorin.
Marchus leads me to a rack of wood bows, carved and polished by a talented craftsman. His initials are etched above the notch and along the curve of the leather handle.
J. L. P.
He hands me a vanilla-colored bow and takes a darker one for himself, looping the string onto the slit at the top. I’m not used to such bows, but hooking the string into place is easy enough.
I throw my shoulder back to allow the bones to snap into place—it’s been a few days since I’ve used them for anything other than cleaning—and set my feet before twisting my body. My third and fourth fingers pull the string to my jaw, and the brush of the pheasant feather teases my ear.
The crack of a whip explodes across the grounds.
I startle, my arm reflexively loosing the empty string, and it thwacks into my forearm, burning a red rash into the skin from my elbow to my wrist. I bite my lip and grunt from the pain, then drop the bow and massage the wound.
Marchus’s attention is behind me, entranced.
I suck in a breath and turn to see what the fuss is.
The line of soldiers has retreated to ranks, each holding a fist to their chests, and each wearing an expression of fear.
At the front of the ranks, brandishing a whip with several spirals of thin leather at the end, is a figure cloaked in black.
I can’t see its face, nor hear whatever orders it’s giving to the soldiers, which is strange, considering I should be able to hear everything in the sudden quiet.
Moments later, though, the soldiers relax at once and continue their training. Only one, I notice, falls to his knees, breathing heavily. The cloaked figure strikes him again, says something inaudible, then disappears behind the colossal stone wall of a sparring arena.
“Ever since our battalion’s leader was defeated in battle, our stand-in colonels have been the king’s clergy of mages,” Marchus explains when I raise a brow at him.
Then, with a sigh, he strings his bow and steps next to me so he’s aligned with a target.
It’s about twenty feet out, and not many soldiers seem adept at hitting close to the center.
“Have you encountered many mages in your few days in Arioch?”
I watch him closely. The way his fingers tense around the string, drawing the wood nock of the arrow to the corner of his lip.
If this were Ramiel, how might I go about correcting him?
Though there’s nothing to adjust in Marchus’s posture or method, I wonder how I could use this as a teaching moment.
His arrow thwips through the air, spinning slightly as it flies just outside the painted bull’s-eye. The target jostles slightly, teetering to the left and right before settling into the grass.
I might’ve been impressed if it wasn’t for the wicked grin Marchus directs at me immediately after making the shot. Instead, I roll my eyes and bend down to pluck my bow from the pebbly grass.
“I haven’t spoken to them, if that’s what you’re asking. But I think I may have seen one or two around,” I say, remembering his question.
He nods, inspecting the feathered fletching of a different arrow while a servant struggles to yank the other one from the wood. As he notches the arrow, he closes one eye to check his aim again.
“That’s probably a good thing, then. Mages are unpredictable people…
Well, not exactly people, more like creatures .
It’s best to stay out of their way. Their magical abilities are unstable.
No one is sure why the king keeps them around.
I’d guess for his safety, but I’ve never once felt safe in their presence.
I’m sure others feel the same.” He rambles, watching the servant with concern.
The boy is still attempting to remove the arrow.
So far, he has tried prying it using one hand, then two, and now uses both feet to ground himself against the target. All to no avail.
Marchus whistles to get the boy’s attention. He waves him away with a shake of his head, and the servant bows apologetically before he runs to the side, leaving the arrow behind.
“Anyway, they’re mysterious. I’m willing to bet they’re plotting something against the Aldorin forest. Magic against magic.
Like the War of Undying, but impossibly more murderous,” he says nonchalantly, as though the thought of a war between the species wouldn’t bring about the end of my world.
I gulp down a gasp, eyes widening at him.
Don’t look at me. Don’t sense my fear. Don’t hear my truth.
He doesn’t glance at me as he looses his arrow and it pegs the target a little to the right of his previous arrow—a worse shot.
“But what do I know?” he chuckles, popping his shoulder and massaging it with a hand. “I like to speculate about castle affairs. Prince Xavelor used to do it all the time, and encouraged us too. Helped with strategy to ponder enemy movements.”
I glance away to clear my throat and shoo him with my hand. He smirks, obediently making room for me.
“I’m not one to judge conspiracy theories,” I say, rubbing my fingers together. The leather quiver slung around the corner of the stand is soft against my calluses as I reach in for an arrow. “I have a few of my own.”
“Oh?”
I smile slightly, notching the arrow into place. When I lift the bow and pull the string, I can sense Marchus’s focus as it rakes over my form, over my practiced movements, and I silently curse myself. Is it too late to pretend I don’t know what I’m doing? Perhaps.
With a sigh, I loose the arrow and it hits the bull’s-eye.
Marchus doesn’t seem surprised. He squints and smiles as though this one shot confirms his suspicion.
“One conspiracy I believe in,” I say, grabbing for another arrow, “is that Arioch has more secrets than it’s willing to admit.”
“That’s not a conspiracy,” Marchus says with a frown. “That’s just facts.”
I shrug, pulling the string back again. My arm aches from before, but I ignore it, even though it’s becoming harder and harder to not notice.
A redness has spread along my skin, bumpy from the string’s burn.
With a breath, I focus on the center of the target.
My fingers tense, and energy pulses into the bow, momentarily connecting me with the wood.
Aldorin wood.
My fingers twitch, and the arrow flies, the energy dissipating along with it. A sudden and deep emptiness severs the connection.
I don’t look to see where the arrow hits the target, but now Marchus breathes softly into my ear, so no one else hears the damning words he has for me.
“He told us not to question you, but I can’t keep quiet anymore. I know who you are, and you can’t hide it.”
I don’t get a chance to respond to Marchus’s bold declaration, because one of Bernadette’s handmaids beckons me to return to the servants’ quarters. I hesitantly return the bow to Marchus, grimacing at the triumphant smile lifting one corner of his mouth.
He makes me almost as irritated as Ronan does; only a little less, because he isn’t a fairy.
I also don’t acknowledge his words. I won’t give him anything to be so triumphant about.
The maid mutters an introduction and hurries me through the servants’ entrance, down narrow halls to the launderer’s room, where Bernadette sits, folding clothes into neat piles.
She lifts her head groggily until she notices my presence, which makes her stiffen, alert. Her hands slide to her apron as she stands, mumbles her thanks to Brigid, then pulls me next to her.
Her rising panic makes me anxious too.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask.
Bernadette laughs nervously as though she doesn’t know how I’ll respond to what she has to say.
Before she can speak, though, a knock sounds on the door and the frame scrapes along the floor. Marchus pokes his head in, still gloating after his statement.
If I could freeze time to smack that grin off his face?—
“Now is not the time, Sir Marchus. I have something important to discuss with Ether.” Bernadette’s voice sends chills down my arms.
“If it concerns her safety, I’m obliged to know,” he remarks, unwilling to obey the old woman.
“Leave, soldier. This does not concern you. And Ether is perfectly safe.” Her tone thickens with authority, and Marchus pales before nodding sheepishly, shutting the door behind him.
Though she says I’m safe, I’m not sure how much I believe her, because the gravity of her words only puts me more on edge.
She turns to me, taking my hands in her own. Hers shake, though I can tell she’s trying to remain calm. Her gray eyes wrinkle around the edges as she blinks away tears.
Is she crying?
“Ether,” she says, patting my hands, “I’m not sure why this is happening, but you must stay level-headed when I tell you this news. As you can see, this old maid has trouble doing so herself.” She laughs, but the sound is strangled as tears dip over her cheeks.
My fingers curl into fists, and her hands flinch.
“Have I been found out?”
Bernadette sniffs, shaking her head. “No, I’m certain that isn’t it. But…the king is suspicious of Ramiel. He wishes to hold an audience with you. That is, he wants to meet you. To…to question you.”
I open my mouth, then shut it. There is no escaping this.
“Get changed, and as much as I know you’ll hate it, remove any weapons too. He’ll probably have you searched. You’ll meet him tomorrow at dawn, before the rest of the servants make their rounds. An escort will meet you outside to take you to the throne room. You’re to serve him tea.”
She sniffs again, then releases my hands to twist and grab a pair of freshly laundered plainclothes the handmaids wear. She sets the squares on my lap.
“I won’t be accompanying you, and unfortunately, neither will Sir Marchus.
This is a situation in which we must be extra careful to keep your identity a secret.
” With a smile, she reaches forward to cup my cheek.
The feeling is strangely familial, and for a moment, warmth spreads from where her hand touches me.
As soon as it’s there, though, she pulls her hand away and stands. A shaky sigh breaks from her lips.
“Practice making tea tonight, and be careful not to burn it. You’ll need it to be perfect if you’re to convince the king you’re worthy of being Ramiel’s handmaid.
” She turns, gesturing to chipped, old wooden cabinets lining the far wall of the servants’ quarters, near the wash basin.
“You’ll find old tea leaves there. They won’t taste great, but they make for good practice.
Steep the tea for five minutes exactly. Then remove the leaves and taste. If it’s bitter, it’s burned.”
My mouth dangles open, lacking the words for and comprehension of my new task.
Bernadette’s cheeks are still wet from tears, but stubborn lines have creased around her mouth.
“Do take care of that burn too, dear,” she whispers, her eyes drifting to the redness on my forearm.
I’d nearly forgotten about it. “It will only serve to make him more suspicious of you. Any magic you’ve been saving, I’d use it on that.
Ramiel should be back soon with whatever you need. ”
I nod, but a panic has taken me over, sending shivers down my spine and arms again and again.
“Don’t worry, all will be well. After all, you’re one of my maids. Remember that,” she says with a smile. Her strides to the door are quick and smooth. I follow her with my eyes, speechless.
She offers me a small nod, then slips through the opening, closing the frame smoothly behind her.
My gaze shifts to the cabinets, but my body remains rigid, unable to accept this reality. I’m not supposed to meet with the king. He’s not supposed to care about my existence.
But he does.
Why else would he want to meet with a mere maid?
This is not good.