The Heir and the Spare

by Kate Stradling

  “Yes, and I was terrible at it.”

  Denoela slid her an amused glance, as though she didn’t believe this, and tugged her toward where the others clustered.

  The Caprians had deferred to Lisenn for first pick among the bows. She blushed and shook her head as she paced the line, claiming she didn’t know how to choose. Jaoven helped her settle on an appropriate weight, and she selected the bundle of red-fletched arrows to go with it.

  “You should get yours next,” Denoela said, pushing Iona forward.

  She dug in her heels. “I don’t—”

  “It’s only a bit of fun. No one cares if you’re terrible at it.”

  The words, though aimed at assuaging her doubts, only heightened them. One look at Lisenn testing the weapon in her hands sent an odd flurry rushing from Iona’s stomach up her esophagus. The arrows were tipped with narrow field points, and she could well imagine an errant shaft flying in her direction instead of toward Lisenn’s designated target.

  That her sister was pretending to know nothing about how even to hold a bow made such an “accident” even more plausible.

  Nevertheless, Denoela dragged her forward, and together they selected their bows from the stock, along with the necessary wrist guards. Denoela chose white-fletched arrows, and Iona claimed the only natural color available, a black-speckled brown.

  She took a position as far from her sister as possible, on one of the end targets while Lisenn occupied the middlemost position.

  As the others filled in the rest of the places, Lisenn projected her voice to sweetly ask, “Are we imposing a penalty on the worst shot?”

  Iona jerked, wide-eyed. The coy look her sister wore boded ill to come.

  “Why not a tournament?” Elouan said. “The lowest score drops out each round and has to fetch everyone else’s arrows for the next round, until we find our champion.”

  Lisenn’s smile turned strained as the other Caprians agreed with this plan.

  They each had seven arrows. Iona, loath to cross the firing line at all, concluded that going out in the first round was her best choice. True, it would require collecting the most projectiles, but that was the only point that all arrows would be on the field.

  Thus, driven by paranoia, she shot a horrible round.

  Not horrible enough, however. When all the shafts had flown, all of Clervie’s arrows stuck in the ground between the firing line and her target. She bounded out onto the field, her long dark hair bouncing with every step.

  “She hates archery,” said Denoela beside Iona. “Probably more than you do.” She eyed the spread of arrows around the endmost target. Only three had struck.

  At the central target, the arrows clustered around the bull’s eye and Lisenn was cheerfully claiming beginner’s luck. Jaoven and Elouan had both outshot her, however, with most of their arrows dead center.

  Clervie collected them all and returned bearing the arrows like a sheaf of barley in her arms. She tossed her yellow-fletched arrows aside and handed the orange set to Neven. Elouan had green and Jaoven blue. By the time she arrived at Iona’s station, with only the speckled-brown arrows in hand, she wore a sly smile.

  She proffered the final bunch. “Did you pick the brown to match your dress?”

  Iona glanced down in confusion. “No. It’s a completely different shade.” Her dress had chestnut undertones, while the arrows leaned toward the gray end of the spectrum.

  “Are you genuinely bad at this, or do you just dislike the competition?”

  “I’m genuinely bad.” She plucked the bunch from the other girl’s lax grip, annoyed. The others were already nocking. She fit one arrow to her string and dropped the rest to the ground.

  Clervie only hummed. As the second round began, she wandered away to chatter with the servants that lingered to tend to their needs.

  The rest of the tournament passed without incident. Iona dropped out at the second round, Neven the third, Denoela the fourth, and Elouan the fifth, though his failure was obviously contrived. As Jaoven and Lisenn squared off to determine their champion, the others congregated safely behind them.

  Denoela tutted when Lisenn’s first shaft hit the bull’s eye. “Beginner’s luck?” She shifted skeptical eyes to Iona.

  Loath to reveal her sister’s affinity for anything remotely dangerous, the younger princess merely shrugged. In truth, she and Lisenn had spent such little time in the same household—and usually only the winters, when such outdoor sports were impossible—that she didn’t know the extent of her sister’s prowess, only that she had more experience than she pretended.

  It surprised Iona not one whit that she should excel at any pastime that could inflict pain on others, however.

  By some miracle, Jaoven took the final round. Lisenn, her lips tight, started onto the field, but he waylaid her, offering to fetch the arrows himself, and she let him.

  After this, Elouan proposed a distance tournament, in which the targets moved back ten feet each round.

  Jaoven won this one handily. Lisenn, the very image of graciousness, complimented him on his impressive strength. All the while her eyes glittered, her bitter humiliation boxed so that none but her sister recognized it.

  The crown princess of Wessett did not like to lose.

  “Of course he would win,” Iona murmured.

  Denoela, close enough to overhear this remark, said, “Did you expect otherwise? War demands far more accuracy than a hay target. Your sister seems to take her defeat with good humor, at least.”

  Iona only hummed, neither agreeing with nor contradicting this observation.

  The smile on Lisenn’s face persisted, but when the party broke up, she headed into the castle first—a deviation from her behavior at all their other gatherings.

  “You may have blundered, Jove,” Clervie said as the crown princess disappeared from sight.

  A scowl flashed across the prince’s face. “She can’t have expected to best me with a bow.”

  Iona, on the fringe of their group, couldn’t hold back a derisive snort. Five Caprians turned on her, their brows arched.

  Hands raised, she said, “Don’t look at me. I don’t know what Lisenn expects.”

  But she did. Her sister expected the world to fawn over her, to lick the dust off the soles of her shoes if she demanded it. If the prince of Capria wanted to keep her favor, he would need to learn his place.

  Not that Lisenn would destroy their treaty negotiations over a lost archery match. The throne of Capria presented too tempting of a prize for her and King Gawen both. No, she would swallow her disappointment now, suppress it to the deepest recesses of her soul, and let it fester there until the time came that she could unleash it upon him without losing her greater goal.

  She would make his life miserable, eventually. And perhaps he would do the same to her. They were both pretending, after all.

  Iona’s disavowal of knowledge earned her a handful of skeptical stares. Jaoven actually sneered, his congenial mask for the moment slipping out of place. It served as a stark reminder that, despite the hours they had spent together over the course of this week, these were not her friends. Thus, with a semi-mocking tip of her head, she left the group as well.

  There was at least an hour of golden daylight left, perfect for painting her current still life. She flexed her hands as she wandered toward her studio, thankful she had dropped out of the archery tournament early instead of straining her grip all afternoon. She turned into the back hallway, her destination ahead.

  As she passed an open doorway, a faint rustle sounded. Fingers buried into her hair, and yanked her sideways. Gasping, Iona lurched into the dim room, her head at an angle to alleviate the sharp pain.

  Lisenn gripped as though she would tear her sister’s scalp from her skull. “Did you enjoy that, you festering pustule? I hope you did, because you’ll never see me lose at anything again.” She thrust her free hand toward Iona’s face, but the younger sister screeched and fended off the sharp fingertips.


  “You didn’t lose! You beat almost everyone there! Lisenn, don’t—!”

  The grip on her hair jerked sideways and released. Iona hit the floor in a pathetic heap, and a kick to her ribs quickly followed.

  “I should gouge out your eyes for your impudence,” her sister snarled.

  Iona only curled in on herself, protecting her head and bracing for another kick.

  It didn’t come. Instead, the crown princess stood rigid, breathing heavily but otherwise controlling her temper. When Iona ventured to peek past her defensive arms, she discovered a livid stare upon her.

  Lisenn planted a beaded slipper on her body and leaned close. “You think you’re so clever, secretly laughing up your sleeve at me. If you ever do it again, I’ll make you wish I ended your pathetic existence tonight.” She thrust her foot then, shoving Iona upon the stone floor. In a swish of skirts she abandoned the storage room, leaving behind a trembling sister.

  Several minutes passed before Iona could cobble her senses together enough to move, before it was clear Lisenn would not return. Eventually, she crawled toward the doorway, her hair half-tumbled from its knot and hanging over one shoulder. She peered through bleary eyes upon a deserted hallway where the afternoon light was already weakening.

  With quiet, scrambling limbs she retreated to her waiting studio. Bina found her there an hour later, amid deepening shadows. The maid, bringing dinner, uttered a mild oath and set the tray aside. She joined her charge upon the worn couch and wrapped her in a careful embrace.

  “My poor dove. What did that monster do this time?”

  “She lost at archery to Prince Jaoven,” said Iona, her voice pitched an octave too high, “and somehow it was my fault.”

  “That devil.” Bina stroked her head, gentle as she loosened the pins and ties that yet half-bound the princess’s hair. “Not a drop of humanity runs in her veins. Would that they would hurry these negotiations. Wessett will be gladly rid of her.”

  Iona silently agreed. If she could fall asleep and wake up two weeks from now, after the negotiations had resolved and the wedding was over, she would have.

  Her maid remained with her until her nerves had calmed She coaxed her to eat and to sketch and teased her hair into a soft, loose chignon while she worked. When Iona set the sketchbook aside, Bina asked, “Time for bed?”

  She shook her head. “You can go ahead. I’d like to practice.”

  A flash of protest chased across the maid’s face, but she didn’t speak it aloud.

  “I’m better now, thanks to you,” Iona said. “Please, I think some music will set me right.”

  Reluctantly the woman left, conscious of her charge’s preference for solitude when it came to her instruments. In the dim light of the oil lamp that Bina left behind, Iona selected her lute from its corner beside the scarred clavichord and set about tuning its courses.

  The nature of this instrument allowed her to slouch, resting supine on the sofa with her aching head perched on the arm. She picked out a couple of folksongs, her eyes closed and the glow of the lantern dim against the backs of her eyelids.

  The whole world seemed at peace. Almost she could imagine a world without Lisenn—a world that might exist for her soon enough, if only she could endure that long. Her fingers stilled upon the strings, the vision before her overwhelming every other sense.

  “How many instruments do you play?”

  She jolted, sitting upright and searching around her for the source of this question. The doorway was empty. At the far window, however, a figure stood with arms perched upon the sill. Jaoven met her stunned gaze through the dimness.

  When their eyes connected, he grunted a laugh and hoisted himself onto the ledge. “I startled you.”

  It wasn’t an apology but a statement of fact, as though he were proud of himself.

  “Shouldn’t you be at dinner?” Iona asked, quickly pulling her wits together. She set the lute aside and arranged herself in a more ladylike position, grateful for the gloom that must hide the blush burning upon her face.

  “That ended half an hour ago. Your sister was out of sorts, so there was no reason to linger.”

  Her lips thinned. “So now you’re skulking around the gardens looking for people to scare?”

  “I happen to like music,” said the prince. “No doubt that comes as a shock, but I follow it whenever I hear it these days, if I can. Your stableboys play the pipes, and one of the gardeners has a viol he breaks out around this hour. When I heard a lute strumming, I expected to find a scullery lad holed up with his evening meal.”

  “And you found my studio instead.”

  He swung his legs over the sill and planted them on the floor, though he didn’t venture into the room. “Just so. Is it difficult, the lute? There are so many strings that I don’t know how you keep track of them all.”

  She glanced to the instrument, relatively simple with only eight courses fitted across its bridge. Some instruments had twice as many, but she liked the slimmer neck this number allowed. “It’s only a matter of practice, just like anything that seems difficult at first glance.”

  He hummed, as though digesting this information. As silence stretched long between them, he tipped her a wry smile. “You don’t have to stop playing on my account.” At her instinctive scowl, a laugh erupted from him. “All right. I knew it was improbable, but it didn’t hurt to try.”

  Every muscle within her body itched for her to throw the instrument at his head. It would have been a waste of a good lute, though. “Do you need something?”

  His expression sobered. “I need you to stop laughing at me behind my back, for starters.”

  The rebuke, so close to Lisenn’s accusation earlier in the day, set her nerves on edge. “I am doing no such thing.”

  “Oh, not a literal laugh, I suppose, but you know things I don’t and you’re enjoying my ignorance. That’s plain as day. You knew your sister would be so out of sorts after that stupid archery match. She was a regular ice queen tonight, her smile with all the warmth of a winter wind.”

  So he was observant enough to recognize the edges of Lisenn’s charismatic veneer. Perhaps because his own had slipped a degree.

  “She doesn’t like to lose,” Iona said.

  Jaoven bucked his head. “Second of seven is hardly losing. I don’t mind throwing a chess game or a round of cards, but I’m not going to pretend to be a poor shot. That strains belief.”

  Her scalp throbbed where Lisenn had yanked her hair. Memory of that assault kept her somber and aloof. “I’m not sure what any of this has to do with me.”

  “Do you want this treaty to succeed, or are you hoping it will fail?” he bluntly asked.

  She couldn’t very well tell him of the blissful future that awaited if only he would sweep away her harpy of a sister. If she seemed too eager when she obviously disliked him and had little pleasant to say of Capria itself, she would only stoke suspicion. So, instead, she chewed on her lower lip. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I mean I don’t know. Is an alliance with Capria in the best interest of Wessett? Does it serve anyone beyond the crown? We’re stable here, insulated against an easy invasion. You’re in a position of weakness, with Tuzhanis and Uthalans prowling your borders. How does it benefit Wessett to join with you?” She held up a hand to forestall his swift response. “I understand that’s the purpose of treaty negotiations, but I’m not privy to their content, so there’s no point asking me whether I approve. I don’t know.”

  Were Lisenn’s marriage not part of the bargain, she would have opposed the alliance outright. That realization struck her full-force, with a pang of guilt in its wake. Was she placing her own comfort above the welfare of her people? Certainly her father wanted the thrones combined, but that was a matter of political power. If war broke out on the mainland, if one of Capria’s neighbors overran their borders, King Gawen would not personally fight. He would send his people instead, conscript
ed to defend a land that none of them considered their home.

  And yet, Capria in its weakness was pleading for help.

  From the window sill, Jaoven scrutinized her. “You’re the only person so far to express any reservations.”

  A chill swept down her spine. Had she betrayed her father’s expectations? She was a representative of Wessett, adjured specifically by him to conduct herself with diplomacy. “I told you the treaty has nothing to do with me,” she said, quick to cover her mistake. “I don’t know what it entails, so my opinion on it means nothing. If your negotiations have come this far, surely there must be some benefit to us.”

  He laughed, a faint, cynical sound, his gaze unfocused. “I wonder.” With an inhale, he locked eyes with her again. “You told me when I first arrived that I needed to flatter your sister. I thought I was doing well until tonight.”

  Iona reached for her lute, more to keep her hands busy than from any true desire to play. “She won’t scrap your treaty over a lost archery match, if that’s what you’re worried about. Even so, if your pride can stand it, I suggest you throw any future archery tournaments in her favor.”

  Really, that advice was more for her sake than his. Her ribs throbbed, bruised where Lisenn’s kick had landed. Upon reflection, her sister’s flimsy slippers had likely saved Iona from further damage. Lisenn’s toes would have felt that initial impact, whereas thicker shoes would have absorbed the blow. No wonder she was out of sorts at dinner, if her foot ached in addition to her minor loss that afternoon.

  The thought provided small consolation. Iona absently plucked a pair of strings, their concordant tones a contrast to her mood.

  “I suppose that’s my cue to leave,” Jaoven said.

  “I’m not sure why you’re still here.”

  He grunted and swung his legs back over the sill. “Good night, Your Highness.”

  She stared him down and plucked another pair of strings, the sound a voiceless goodbye. With a rueful glance, he dropped to the gravel. His footsteps crunched along the wall out of earshot. When Iona could hear them no longer, she set the lute aside and tiptoed across the studio to shut the window tight.