She narrowed her eyes on the target, took a deep breath, and let her arrow fly.
It landed smack in the middle, a perfect bull’s-eye.
She spun toward her sisters, no longer bothering to hide the grin spreading over her face. Beatriz and Sophronia both cheered, rushing toward her and throwing their arms around her in a flurry of silk and ruffles and lace. When they pulled apart, though, Daphne’s eyes searched for her mother, longing to see her approval.
Instead, her mother’s expression was stony as ever, the corners of her mouth pulled into a frown.
“Sir Aldric,” she said, turning toward the man. “Tell me, how did this outcome make you feel?”
For a moment, Sir Aldric looked surprised at the question. He glanced at Daphne, then back at the empress. “There are many tournaments, Your Majesty, one cannot expect to win them all. The princess has a good arm and a good eye.”
“That wasn’t what I asked,” the empress said, her frown deepening. “How did the outcome make you feel?”
Sir Aldric shrugged, considering the answer. “No man likes to lose, I’ll admit.”
“Of course not,” the empress said, looking at Daphne, even as she continued to address Sir Aldric. “My daughter bested you—quite soundly, I might add. What do you think of her?”
“As I said, she has an admirable talent,” he said carefully.
“She does,” the empress said—exactly what Daphne longed to hear, but not in that voice, not said like a curse. Daphne held her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But you don’t love her for it, do you?”
At that, Sir Aldric looked even more bewildered, and Daphne wanted to sink into the ground beneath her feet. Just moments ago, she had been proud and victorious; now she had never felt more like a failure.
“She doesn’t entice you,” the empress continued, pacing toward Daphne. “You have no desire to impress her, to woo her. You don’t want her in your bed.”
The words landed like punches. Sophronia steadied Daphne with a hand on her arm, giving her a reassuring squeeze, but Daphne barely felt it. All of her focus was on her mother, whom she had managed to disappoint once more, this time by succeeding.
“No,” Sir Aldric said after a moment. “I suppose not, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Sir Aldric,” the empress said. “And the rest of you. You may leave us now.”
As the men filed away, the air went still and silent.
“It was a tournament,” Beatriz said when they were gone. “Daphne won. What’s wrong with that?”
“There is only one tournament, only one prize,” the empress said, her eyes still on Daphne. “If you hope to control your princes, you must remember to be what they want you to be. And no man wants a woman who emasculates him.”
Daphne frowned, trying to wrap her mind around the lesson—and it was a lesson. Things with her mother always were. But this…The empress had spent years grooming them, training them, making them the best they could be. Now she wanted them to be less impressive, to dull themselves to protect a fragile ego?
“Sir Aldric is a sore loser,” Beatriz continued, shaking her head. “All men aren’t like that.”
“If you believe that, you’re more naïve than I thought,” the empress scoffed. “And you forget—these aren’t men we’re discussing. They’re princes—spoiled boys who are used to getting everything they want. If you don’t understand your opponent, you’ve already lost. Do you understand, Daphne?”
Daphne looked up at her mother and forced herself to nod. “I understand, Mother.”
—
In the week since Daphne’s theft of the king’s seal, she’s begun to spend more time exploring the castle grounds. It started with the stables, and the stable hands there are always quick to saddle a horse for her.
Her morning rides are refreshing—she hadn’t realized how much she had missed riding until she started again. And it has allowed her to explore more of the grounds—the thicket of woods to the north, the meadow to the south. In her mind, it doesn’t compare to Bessemia. The trees are mostly skeletal, and even though it’s only fall, there is already a thick blanket of snow covering the ground. But fresh air is fresh air, and Daphne will take it however she can get it. Her happiest discovery on these rides has been the eastern field, set up with large straw targets, not so different from the ones she used to use for archery practice.
When she got back to the castle after that discovery, she asked a maid for a bow and arrows, and a set appeared at the foot of her bed that evening, polished and new, carved from wood so dark it was nearly black. It was different from the one she’d left back home—stiffer, less accustomed to her grip—but the second she got onto the field and lifted the bow in her arms, pulling the string back, part of her felt comfortable for the first time since she’d come to Friv.
It’s been months since she’s shot an arrow, not since that lesson of her mother’s, which left her embarrassed, furious, and brimming with something she could only describe as shame. She was so out of practice she didn’t even hit the target the first few times. But as the days pass, it slowly comes back to her, and she remembers why she loves it, the feeling of the bow pulled taut in her hands, the flex of the muscles in her arms and back, making her feel strong and capable and sure. The feeling of releasing the arrow, like letting out a heavy sigh.
Just a few days after she started practicing, and she’s already getting back to where she was before. Her arrows usually find the target now, and they are making their way closer and closer to the bull’s-eye. It feels good, to see her progress, to feel like she has proven something, even if there is no one else around to see it.
She nocks a new arrow and lifts her bow again, focusing on the bull’s-eye. She takes a deep, steadying breath and—
“Drop your shoulder.”
She spins toward the voice, in the process accidentally releasing the arrow and sending it just past Bairre’s left ear.
He doesn’t flinch, instead keeping his eyes on her and merely raising an eyebrow.
“If you’re hoping to kill me, you need to work on your aim.”
“If I were hoping to kill you,” she tells him, nocking another arrow, “poison would be far less conspicuous. Less messy, too.”
She turns back toward the target and aims again. After a second, she realizes Bairre was right—her shoulder is so tense it’s almost touching her ear. She forces herself to relax it before letting the arrow fly.
It isn’t a bull’s-eye, but it’s solidly in the smallest ring around it. She drops the bow to her side and turns back to Bairre.
“Did you come out here to accuse me of theft again?” she asks him.
“I apologized for that,” he says, shaking his head.