A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  “You don’t respect him?”

  “He may be strong in intelligence, but he is weak-willed. He is always looking to you, deferring to you. I could not love or lust after a man who does not have a mind of his own. He is no challenge for me.”

  “Neither was that little runt in Faro,” Artem argued.

  “That arrangement was a necessity to fulfill the king’s law. I didn’t expect to ever love him, either,” she said.

  “But you would have married him?” he asked, his raven eyebrow winging high over his eye.

  “To secure my inheritance and offer provision and protection to my sister? I would have married a dozen runts from Faro.”

  “But you cannot try, just try to love Fitz?”

  “If the curse could be broken by my willingness to marry Fitzhumphrey, to have his children, to live the rest of my days as his wife... I would gladly do it. But my heart? That is a far more difficult beast to subdue than my will.”

  He cast his eyes out over her shoulder again, silent.

  “Why do you care, anyways?” Samiris murmured. “You have seen over a hundred women come through these gates. Please tell me that I am not the best match for him that you have seen.”

  “You would make a worthy Empress,” he said quietly.

  Samiris threw back her head and laughed, a throaty, unabashed cackle. “Surely you joke! I’m fairly certain that royalty doesn’t even know that finger trick that I showed you earlier.”

  Artem snorted. “You would be surprised. But I’m serious. Your will would supplement his own. As you have pointed out, he has the intelligence, but requires a strong hand to steer him. You care about the people and understand their plight more than most.”

  “I’ve told you, I cannot love him.”

  “Cannot, or will not?” Artem asked.

  “Perhaps you should ask to be his Empress,” Samiris said innocently, batting her eyelashes.

  “Me?” he stuttered, his eyes wide. “Impossible!”

  “Then you quite understand my feelings on the matter, after all,” she said, sweeping past him.

  He caught her elbow and turned. “Since you don’t actually have a headache, go get changed. The rest of the Chosen are having a dance lesson in the small ballroom. You should join them, but not looking like that.”

  She tugged her elbow free and narrowed her eyes. “Looking like what, exactly? Myself?”

  “Looking like... like… I’m just trying to protect you, Samiris.”

  Samiris scowled and kept walking. “I’ll go to the stupid dance lesson, but I’m not going to change.”

  That afternoon’s dance lesson was a debacle, from awkward start to catastrophic finish. Samiris didn’t know what caused a bigger ruckus, her outfit or her mistakes. She had been planning on changing into a dress before going to the dance lesson, but her stubbornness toward Artem had gotten the best of her.

  The dance instructor, a delicate, short man with an impressively elaborate mustache, blinked twice at Samiris as he surveyed her up and down, then swept his hand like it didn’t matter and assigned her to a silent, stalwart dance partner. Like all the others, he was nobleman of the court. For the rest of the session, the instructor treated Samiris as if she were dressed appropriately and was just as talented as the others.

  She wasn’t. Samiris stepped on her partner’s toes so frequently that the poor man was actually limping toward the end of the lesson. The dance was a series of sections of footwork that could be laced together as the dancers saw fit. There were cues that preceded each section, so the male could direct his partner. It wasn’t learning the steps that was the hard part--Samiris was coordinated enough. But she couldn’t quite master the ability to let her partner lead her. Samiris thought that she should be able to choose whether they danced the first sequence or the fifth, or when to twirl around the floor.

  The hour was nearly over when the biggest mistake occurred. Samiris had gotten caught up in the lovely music, again, and went to begin the sixth sequence, where the female dancer lifts her right leg in an elegant arc to the side. At that precise instant, her beleaguered dance partner moved forward to give the cue for sequence one. The result was that Samiris kneed him forcefully in the groin.

  The poor man gave a tremendous grunt and doubled over, clutching his privates. Samiris cursed loudly in apology, then tried to steady him by the shoulders, which somehow knocked him off-balance and sent him sprawling onto the marble floor. The music stopped with a discordant clang, all the dancers gasped and turned to stare, and above it all, Samiris heard great guffaws of male laughter coming from the entrance to the ballroom.

  Artem was leaning against the pillar near the doorway, laughing so hard Samiris could see his back molars. His eyes were clenched shut, and as she watched, he wiped away tears from the corners. Then he opened his eyes and began to clap, loud and mockingly slow. Samiris repeated the gesture she had shown him in the hall, but that just made him laugh harder.

  The dance instructor traipsed over, graceful even in his haste, and together with two other dance partners took to setting the poor man to rights.

  “We are finished for today,” the dance instructor announced, after Samiris’ partner started to dry heave. “We will pick up where we left off next session.”

  When she returned from dinner that evening, her head smarting from the enormous hat Cloris had pinned there, a miniature peacock, of all things, a note was propped on her pillow. In a masculine scrawl was written: You cannot wear what you do not own. And it was signed, Duke Artem Elysius Trego, Captain of the Royal Guard, Chief Arsehole of Teymara.

  Samiris gasped and darted to her chest of drawers. Empty. Every single drawer, empty, except for her unmentionables drawer which looked suspiciously rumpled.

  “He wouldn’t,” she growled.

  “Apparently, he did,” Aster replied. “I can assure you that it wasn’t while I was here.”

  “No wonder Cloris looked so smug when she was leaving earlier,” Samiris said.

  “That does explain it.”

  “I hate his stupid, arrogant face!” Samiris raged, kicking an ottoman.

  “I don’t know, my lady,” Aster answered. “I quite like his face. I think it’s as handsome as the rest of him.”

  “Traitor,” Samiris grumbled.

  “Even so,” her maid continued, pulling pins from Samiris’ hair to release the hat. “What he did was wrong, and he deserves something in return. It’s not like you are worried about being kicked out.”

  “You’re right about that,” Samiris said. She thought for several moments, then a grin extended on her face as slowly as honey poured over a biscuit. “Aster, do you know where Captain Trego’s room is?”

  Samiris had been worried about being spotted. She shouldn’t have been. It turns out that Aster was right: servants were the most invisible people in the world. In the dark brown servant’s costume, with her hair covered in a linen headdress, Samiris seemed to blend right into the stone walls. She carried a silver tray with a domed covering, and acted like she knew where she was going.

  “If you act like no one should stop you, they won’t,” Aster had said.

  Samiris repeated that to herself as she made her way to Artem’s chamber. She even passed Narcise and Ladonna at one point, but they were deep in discussion and did not even glance in her direction. A guard was posted, but he didn’t blink as she rapped thrice on the door. Samiris tried to act aloof, as if she had seen the carved double door gilded in gold a thousand times. But her heart beat wild as a hummingbird’s wings as she knocked again like Aster had instructed.

  Aster had assured Samiris that Artem was attending the Crown Prince in his library. But what if he came back early, or hadn’t left at all? What if he caught her in his room, skulking about like a common thief? Samiris was certain that Artem would see through her disguise in a heartbeat.
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br />   The well-oiled doorknob gave way smoothly beneath her hand, then she was in his room. As ornate as the doors and the soaring ceilings were, the room itself was surprisingly understated. A huge wooden bed was covered in a thick, pin-stitched navy coverlet. A fire burned low in the enormous fireplace across from a large, plain wooden writing desk. Tidy stacks of books and parchment covered the surface, along with a bronze statue of a horse that was undoubtedly Behemoth.

  For the first time, Samiris doubted her plan. This was Artem’s private sanctum. It even smelled like him. She hesitated on the tiled threshold, until she remembered that he had invaded her privacy first. She was just returning the favor. Samiris stepped lightly to the huge chest of drawers on the far side of the room. She avoided the top drawers, as she had no intention of rummaging through his underclothes.

  Four drawers down, she found exactly what she needed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The courtyard where the first event of the Crown Prince’s Championship was being held was nothing more than a pillared break in the roof above, with drains set at intervals so any intruding rainwater did not become a bother to the surrounding rooms. Samiris had come across several examples of this in the palace, and she understood why the competition had to take place as near to noon as possible. That was the only time when the surrounding towers did not shade out the sun.

  Rows of plush chairs had been set upon a tiered dais for the Chosen and the few nobles who had gathered to watch. A group of men holding short-range bows surrounded the Crown Prince, fawning over him and each other and strutting for the assembled ladies in turn. Samiris leaned against a pillar at the very edge of the courtyard and studied the scene.

  A mustachioed dandy in an emerald green tunic embroidered with his house insignia winked at one of the Chosen, who turned away quickly with a scandalized look on her face. Under her bluster, the lady looked pleased to have been noticed. Samiris smirked. These men were the dogs around the Crown Prince’s table, waiting for a choice morsel to fall.

  The most eligible ladies had been brought to the palace, but only one would remain here, one way or another. The rest would be free to marry. The events of the Crown Prince’s Championship were not a display of courtship by the Crown Prince so much as they were a meet-market for the rest of the nobility. Samiris settled comfortably back against the pillar and watched the reaction of the ladies with a sarcastic tilt to her smile.

  “Ladies and gentleman.” Artem’s commanding voice drawled over the chatter, which silenced instantly. “The first challenge of the Crown Prince’s Competition is being held today for the delight of our honored guests.”

  Samiris pulled a small paper bag of peanuts out of the leather satchel tied to her belt. The paper’s rustling sounded thunderous in the silence, and Samiris felt numerous sets of eyes turn to her. She lazily pulled out a peanut, and with a loud crunch, cracked it open with her molars before looking up.

  The Crown Prince’s doughy face looked confused at her appearance, but Artem was staring at her with a murderous expression. His neck had gone red, and he was gripping a piece of parchment with white knuckles. Samiris saw his gaze travel slowly from her worn leather boots that were smooth to her knees, over her close-fitting navy breeches, up to the crisp white tunic that she had tucked tightly into her leather belt. His gaze snagged on her thick braid, which was flipped forward and lay like a pet serpent down her front.

  When his green eyes finally found hers, she quirked an eyebrow, popped the freed peanut into her mouth, and gave him a cheeky little wave.

  With a shake of his head, Artem turned back to the assembly and continued, “Any person can compete. The reward for winning the Crown Prince’s Championship is the same as last year. The winner is allowed to ask one request of the Crown Prince. If it is within the Crown Prince’s power to fulfill this request, he will do so.”

  Samiris stood up straight, her body tense as the implications of what Artem said flooded her. She could not save the nation from the curse; she was sure of that. But maybe, just maybe, she could save herself from a future she didn’t choose?

  Artem continued, “The individual who is closest to the target with their weapon will win five points toward the Championship. Second place wins four points, and so forth. There are three events, and the person with the highest score wins the Championship.”

  “Do you swear to your words?” Samiris asked.

  Everyone turned at the sound of her voice, staring at the person who would dare to question the Duke, the Captain of the Royal Guard, the Crown Prince’s most trusted advisor.

  Artem’s eyebrows drew together in irritation. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I will believe you if you swear to it, that the person who is closest to the target with their weapon will win.”

  Artem scowled. “Fine. I swear it.”

  “Very well, then. I believe you,” Samiris said with a regal nod.

  Artem rolled his eyes and turned away, back to the group of men. Behind his back, Samiris gestured for Aster to step forward, then whispered into her ear. Eyes wide, Aster turned and ran for the door, her slippers silent on the marble floor.

  Samiris leaned against the pillar and watched. The men lined up, their eyes on the rows of seated ladies as much as they were on the targets. One by one, they stepped forward and loosed arrows at the targets. It was a slow process, with minutes of preening, bow testing, and flexing before each shot. This was a stage, and none of these men wasted the spotlight.

  Artem stepped over and casually leaned against the pillar next to Samiris. She wasn’t fooled by his nonchalant attitude. Artem was about as casual as a Northern wolf during a hunt.

  “Where did you get those clothes?” Artem growled, his hand firm on her elbow.

  “Why, out of your dresser drawers, of course,” Samiris cooed sweetly. “By the way, I wasn’t aware you wore underwear with the royal crest on them. You should be commended; your loyalty to the Crown Prince knows no bounds.”

  “Be serious,” he said, giving her elbow a little shake. “Where did you get those?”

  “I am serious. I walked into your room and took them. These breeches are way softer than my old ones. So comfortable.”

  Artem narrowed his eyes. “My room is guarded.”

  Samiris batted her eyelashes. “I don’t know what to tell you, then. Certainly I wouldn’t be able to get past a big, strong guard.”

  Artem scowled.

  Samiris said, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone they’re yours.”

  He smiled, and Samiris didn’t like the look of it.

  “That’s fine,” he said, smoothly. “If you don’t run along and change right now, I’m going to tell all the men here that you got those clothes off my bedroom floor this morning.”

  Samiris stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Artem leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Are you willing to bet on that? I’m starting rumors simply by standing this close to you. Imagine how easy it would be for me to confirm them.”

  “Give me back my clothes, then.”

  Artem remained where he was. Samiris could feel his breath on her cheek. “Can’t. Had them burned. And based on the state of those things, you should be thanking me.”

  An idea flitted through Samiris’ mind, leaving a calculated smile on her lips in its wake. She leaned closer to Artem, until she could feel the heat of his tanned arm against hers. She did her best imitation of Narcise’s eyelash batting and simpering smile.

  “What are you doing?” Artem frowned.

  “I’m calling your bluff,” she said, laying her hand against his hard chest.

  It could be seen as a casual gesture, but only if she pulled her hand back quickly. She forced herself to leave it there, even when she could feel his muscles shift under his shirt, even though she had to grit her teeth behind her idiotic smile.

&nb
sp; If there was one thing she could count on, it was Artem’s desire for propriety. For whatever inane reason, he had decided that Samiris should stay in the Choosing. If a rumor started that they had been... together, she would be released from the Chosen. He stepped back abruptly, breaking their contact. His jaw was clenched, his posture stiff, his eyes dark with anger.

  “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he growled.

  “A game is only dangerous if there’s a danger of losing,” she retorted. “I know who my opponent is.”

  “Just don’t play it with anyone else, or you might get more than you bargained for,” Artem said. He nodded toward the preening lord in green with the waxed mustache. “Especially with that one.”

  “I’ll consider myself warned,” Samiris said with a roll of her eyes. “He doesn’t look like he’d take instruction well, so he’s out.”

  Artem quirked an eyebrow. “Is that really all you want in a mate? For him to be pliable?”

  “Until the inheritance law is changed, that’s all I need.” She saw Aster hustling over with a leather bundle in her arms. Samiris opened the bundle and extricated her throwing hatchets. “On that note, please excuse me, Captain Trego.”

  Artem’s mouth dropped open, presumably to argue, but Samiris was already striding away toward the center of the exhibition ring. There was a line, but Samiris headed to the front, knowing that if she didn’t capitalize on Artem’s momentary distraction, he would stop her from what she was about to do.

  A lord in a flouncy silk blue shirt had just finished shooting his bow. His arrow had pierced the outer rim of the target. He punctuated his performance with an elaborate bow, sweeping his plumed hat low to the ground toward the assembled ladies to the sound of their polite applause.

  The man wearing emerald green and a mustache was next in line, so it was at him that Samiris aimed her very best smile. His hair was brown, sun-streaked with glints of gold. He had a strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones. He was very handsome, and he knew it. He grinned back immediately, giving a courteous bow as she approached.