A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  A rabbit in the forest had two choices when it encounters a fox: run or hide. But if the rabbit chooses to hide in its burrow, it just delays the inevitable. A smart fox will bide its time, wait or dig the rabbit out.

  Samiris decided to be brave. “I was avoiding you.”

  Artem raised an eyebrow, his green eyes sharp on hers. Daring her. “Why?”

  “Because... because I’m not sure what it meant, you handing in that Honor. I think... I think it was for me, but I don’t know why you did it.”

  “Why do you think I did it?”

  She lifted her chin and dared to voice her greatest fear. “I think you did it because of Lord Kinsley, because of what he did during the Championship.”

  If that was all it was, that Artem felt sorry for the way that Lord Kinsley had treated her... then her own emotions were foolish. That was her fear, that she had let her heart slide out of control.

  Artem tilted his head to the side and considered her. “I won’t lie. Lord Kinsley had something to do with it.”

  Samiris gritted her teeth. “So that’s it? You handed in an Honor because you felt bad for me?”

  “I did it because I had hardened myself to what was happening out there, until you!” he said, grabbing her arm.

  “Until you had someone to feel sorry for, you mean,” she snapped. “But I don’t want your pity, Artem. I’ll not have it.”

  “No, not pity,” he said, giving her arm a little shake. “Not pity,” he said again, his voice softening. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met. You made me want to fight, for the first time in maybe forever. You made me see that just because things look hopeless, that doesn’t mean we should stop striving for something better. You made me want to make the world better.”

  She lifted her eyes to meet his.

  He continued, “I gave up a long time ago. Sooner after the curse than I would like to admit. You can only helplessly watch so many women burn to death before something in you dies right along with them.”

  Samiris winced. She wasn’t the only one who had suffered loss. “That’s why you are so protective of Fitzhumphrey. Because even though you have given up on breaking the curse, he hasn’t.”

  “I had given up. Had. But not anymore.” He gripped her biceps gently. “You did that. You showed me that a better world is possible, so long as there are people who are willing to fight for it.”

  She felt the heat from his hands seeping through her cotton tunic, and didn’t know what to say.

  “Thank you for saying that,” she finally managed, and then cringed inwardly when the words didn’t seem quite right.

  Samiris looked up, to see if what she said had been enough, and was startled to see some deep new emotion on his face. His eyes traced the contours of her face like he was memorizing them, and when his eyes lingered on her lips, she felt her heart spasm.

  “Artem,” she whispered breathlessly, in encouragement or warning, she wasn’t quite sure.

  But then he leaned down and his breath was on her face, and then his lips were on hers. The kiss was a question at first, his soft lips moving tentatively over hers, his fingers light against her hair. But she pressed forward slightly, as if in answer, and he took her in his arms.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Ladonna was released from the Chosen and made a quiet, tearful exit of the castle. She would not be returning for any of the festivities leading to the Questioning. Her heart seemed a little broken.

  When the Crown Prince and Narcise were together, she couldn’t seem to stop touching him. It was as if Fitzhumphrey was the sun, and she a planet that revolved around him. He was a magnet that drew her in. Her hand nestled in the crook of his arm like that was its home, rested gently upon his shoulder as naturally as a bird upon a branch, brushed his outer thigh as gently as a breeze.

  Narcise played the part of a besotted lady better than anyone. She blew the Crown Prince kisses when he made eye contact with her, watched him with a dreamy expression on her face when he didn’t, and spoke about him in tones that left no one to doubt her excitement and sincerity when it came to sharing a future with him as his bride.

  Samiris saw the hope start to bloom in many court members’ eyes. To them, Narcise was the new Beatrice, the improved Beatrice. For not only did she obviously love the Crown Prince, but she looked the part of an Empress as well. Samiris noticed that the Empress Dowager and Lady Evanora watched Narcise closely in the following weeks, and looked pleased, smug even. Samiris saw them smile private smiles at the sight of Fitzhumphrey and Narcise together.

  But Samiris saw, as no one else seemed to, how Narcise’s shoulders relaxed when she was apart from the Crown Prince, how her smiles for him weren’t as potent as the ones she smiled when she was alone. Her smiles for Fitzhumphrey never quite reached her eyes; they were as controlled as a horse on a lead rope.

  Samiris shrugged the knowledge off. She had warned Narcise. There was nothing else she could do. Narcise was determined to face the Questioning, determined to be the Empress. Though it bothered Samiris, it was a choice Narcise had made with eyes wide open.

  As for herself, Samiris had never been happier than she was in the weeks that followed. She and Artem spent their days working on the garden or hunched over his desk making plans for how to expand the kitchen garden project. They made huge batches of the tonic, which was now available to all for free. They took trips down to the Sands on horseback and visited the Sands women in the market, where they had a stall full of pottery and weaving. This thing with Artem could never make up for the things that had been lost to the curse, but Samiris thought of it as separate, different.

  Artem and Samiris made each other no promises about the future. Samiris tried not to think of what would happen in a week, when she would be sent home. She knew that she had responsibilities in Faro, and that Artem could not leave the capital. The time they had would be limited, but she was determined to make it sweet.

  Besides, things hadn’t changed between them, not fundamentally. They were still friends, but it was just far deeper than it had been before. And except for the few drugging kisses they shared, Artem was determined to keep it that way. He was still set on protecting her reputation in Teymara. So they held hands only when they were alone, and tried to keep things strictly platonic when others were present.

  Days before Samiris was to leave, she and Artem were walking back from the garden in the early morning hours. They had just entered the castle when Aster skidded around the corner, her slippers sliding on the marble floor.

  “My lady,” Aster cried, her eyes wide with terror, her mouth agape.

  Samiris’ chest tightened, and she squeezed Artem’s hand reflexively. She let go to clutch her servant’s hands once Aster reached her.

  “Have you heard?” Aster asked, her watery eyes flitting between Samiris and Artem.

  “No,” Artem said, warily. “I feel it’s safe to say we haven’t.”

  “Lady Narcise,” she began, and then faltered and succumbed into hiccuping sobs.

  “What about Lady Narcise?” Samiris demanded. “What about her?”

  “She was murdered,” Aster gasped. “They arrested the Marquess of Brizelle’s valet outside her chamber. He was still holding the knife.”

  Samiris felt, rather than saw, Artem go rigid beside her.

  “What do you mean?” Samiris gasped. “What happened?”

  “Her maid found her, screamed for the guards.” Tears poured from Aster’s eyes.

  Samiris went still, then murmured, “Did she suffer?”

  “No, Samiris. One quick cut, in her sleep.”

  “A small mercy, then,” Samiris said, turning back to Artem.

  His eyes were squeezed shut against the tears rolling down his cheeks. His face was contorted in stark agony.

  “Oh,” Samiris said in a small voice. “Oh. Th
at means it will be me.”

  Samiris stumbled back a small step, reeling from the knowledge. The curse would not care that it wasn’t supposed to be Samiris. The curse wouldn’t care that Fitzhumphrey had told Samiris she was going home that week. The curse demanded it’s tribute. She was the only Chosen left. She would have to answer at the Questioning.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Samiris didn’t see much of Artem that next week. He stopped coming to the garden.

  The Marquess of Brizelle was to be beheaded. His valet had blubbered and confessed that the Marquess was behind the assassination. Narcise had acted too well, it seemed, for the Marquess. He had been convinced that this was the girl who would finally break the curse. It was a poorly planned assassination, indeed. The Marquess shouldn’t have used his own valet. But the Choosing was drawing near, and it seemed he’d gotten desperate.

  It was only after it was too late that Samiris remembered the secret meeting she and Aster had overheard, all those months ago. Now, alongside grief for herself and for Narcise, she felt a pressing guilt that threatened to suffocate her. If only she had put the pieces together. If only she would have recognized the voice in that dark stable.

  Artem had sentenced him and would wield the executioner’s axe himself. That was very rare, Samiris hears whispered, the morning it was announced, for the Captain of the Royal Guard to take the executioner’s place. Rumor had it, the executioner was miffed and feared for his job.

  At Aster and Gia’s urging, Samiris did her damnedest, every day, to find things to love about the Crown Prince. There were things here and there that she repeated to herself, like a mantra.

  “He is generous. He is kind. He is thoughtful. He is funny,” she would murmur.

  But right along behind this mantra, chasing it like an angry dog, were her contrary thoughts: He is weak. He is cowardly. He is not fit to lead.

  Samiris was trying, but her mind was like a wild horse that could not be tamed. When she let her grip on her thoughts slip for but a moment, they ran, unbidden, to Artem. To pondering what he was doing. To thinking about those kisses. To wondering if he would ever know how she really felt. To imagining they were free to choose a different path.

  Samiris knew why he was keeping his distance. Artem must have known that with him there, Samiris would never be able to focus on the Crown Prince. But it didn’t matter that Artem wasn’t there. She couldn’t focus on the Crown Prince, anyways. And she wished that she and Artem weren’t wasting this time that they could have together. This last week was slipping through their fingers like sand.

  Samiris already knew what Artem refused to accept: at the Choosing, she would die.

  As Aster and Gia dressed her for her portrait sitting, tears fell from their cheeks, peppering Samiris’ shoulders. They had braided the top portion of her hair up and over her brow like a crown, and the bottom portion of her hair was left in loose waves down her nearly bare back. Her face was clean-scrubbed, with only a light shimmer of pink applied to her lips and cheeks. Her eyes were lightly lined in kohl and smudged, as if she had slept all night in it.

  The dress Gia had crafted made Samiris’ breath catch in her throat. It was a gown of pale pink silk, with a plunging front neckline that formed a deep v and cinched right above her belly button. It was form-fitting from shoulder to hip, then flowed out gently and ended in a very short train that would just skim the ground behind her. Although stunning, the fabric and fit was not what made Samiris want to cry.

  Gia had covered the dress with hundreds of the tiny pink shells that Tamrah had sent Samiris. Gia had embroidered the shells in a geometric pattern along the surface. The shells had been attached inside-out, each in it’s own tiny web of nearly invisible silver thread, so the iridescent interiors were visible.

  It was a heavy weight upon her, but when she moved, the light rippled and reflected along her length. It reminded her of the sun shining on shallow clear water, and it made tinkling sounds like the shell wind chimes at Widow Morga’s seaside hut. It was like wearing a piece of home, taking all that was familiar along with her. Samiris was supposed to wear it twice...once to her portrait sitting, and the last time, to the Questioning.

  Samiris could not have imagined a more beautiful dress to die in.

  When she was seated before the painter, Samiris raised her chin and stared at him. It was a challenge to him, for him to paint her the way she really was, the way she really felt. She didn’t want her painting to show the glint of tears in her eyes like so many of the others, didn’t want the painting to show the barely-restrained hysterics that had been present in many more. No. She wanted to make people uncomfortable when they looked into her oil-painted eyes. She wanted to show herself: raw, vulnerable, and difficult to look at, like a baby bird pushed from the nest who does not yet know how to fly.

  If Artem looked at the painting, she wanted him to see her spirit. If, heaven forbid, Tamrah ever gazed into the painting’s flat, unseeing eyes, Samiris wanted her to take courage, to feel proud.

  And she wanted everyone else to go straight to hades.

  The night before the Choosing, Samiris couldn’t sleep. Fitzhumphrey had given her a kiss, just on the cheek, before saying goodnight. Then he dithered in her doorway.

  “He didn’t have to do that, you know,” Fitzhumphrey said. “Give up an Honor, I mean.”

  “What?” Samiris said.

  She was distracted, thinking about the letter that Tamrah and her father would be receiving soon, the letter that would tell them of her death.

  “I would have changed the law if he’d just asked me. It makes sense, really. I expect ladies will be taking on a larger role in society. It’s the way forward, after all.”

  “Then why did he do it? Why did he hand in an Honor?” she asked, brow furrowed.

  “He didn’t say, but I think it’s because he wanted it to be public. After all, Kinsley’s betrayal was public. And I think Artem thought it should cost him something. Things are far more precious if they cost something.”

  Samiris blinked back tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Fitzhumphrey said, his voice gentle. “I’m sorry that you were still here. I should have sent you home. I just... I was keeping you here for him. I’ve never seen Artem as happy as he’s been these past few months. And I’ve never seen him as miserable as this last week. Please, forgive me.”

  Samiris’ heart crested with compassion for her ruler, her future Emperor. He carried the burden of all this guilt. Without thinking, Samiris threw her arms around his neck and squeezed.

  “I forgive you,” she said, tears slipping from her eyes. “Please take care of him. Please take care of my family.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

  “They will want for nothing,” Fitzhumphrey said solemnly. “I promise you. I will not forget them, or anything you have done here.”

  “Thank you,” Samiris said, slicking a hand beneath her dripping nose. “Thank you for that.”

  Fitzhumphrey squeezed her shoulder, gave her a sad smile, and walked away.

  And that was that.

  Samiris didn’t love him.

  And she would die for it.

  Back in her chamber, Samiris peeled off her dinner dress, letting it pool carelessly at her feet. Gia and Aster weren’t here; she had given them the night off. She hoped they were drinking somewhere. They would have a lot of work ahead of them the next few days, sorting and packing her things, cleaning the room for the next inhabitant, being reassigned...

  Samiris shook the dismal thoughts from her head, pulled on her breeches and her tunic, and tugged on her old boots. Tonight, less than twenty-four hours before she would die, there was only one person she wanted to see. And somehow, she knew where he would be.

  Samiris found him in the gardens, leaning against the trunk of the apple tree while Behemoth wandered around chomping fruit. Artem’s eyes were clo
sed, his lashes two sable fans against his skin.

  She thought he was sleeping, but then he said, “What are you doing out here?”

  His voice was flat, emotionless, and Samiris’ eyes went to the large bottle clutched in one hand.

  “I came to see you,” she said, taking a tentative step forward.

  “Why?”

  She decided to be honest. “Because I wanted to say goodbye.”

  His eyes flew open, and even from this distance, Samiris could see the bloodshot red, the dark circles like angry half-moons underneath.

  His mouth twisted. “So that’s it, then? You aren’t going to try anymore?”

  “I did try, Artem,” she said softly. “It didn’t work.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, swaying. His eyes were latched onto Samiris’ with what looked like cruel hatred.

  “Go back and try again!” he shouted, gesturing wildly with the bottle. Some of the contents splashed down the front of him, and he didn’t notice. “You’ve got a night left!”

  Samiris’ spine stiffened, and she snapped, “Even Fitzhumphrey isn’t stupid enough to think it’s going to work! I tried. He tried. We both failed.”

  He jabbed his finger up at the north tower of the castle.

  “Get back to the castle and figure out how to love the Crown Prince!” Artem roared. His face was red, and veins stood out on his neck and at his temples like corded roots of a tree pushing through soil.

  “I can’t, you moron!” Samiris yelled. “I’m already in love with you!”

  He reared back as if she had slapped him. His eyes were wide, his jaw clenched. Then he lurched forward, and his hand tangled in her hair, the other clutched her waist, pulling her to him, crushing his mouth to hers.

  They talked.

  Artem threw an old blanket over some hay and they laid shoulder to shoulder looking up at the moon. With watery eyes and runny noses, they painted a world into existence with their words. A world where they were free to do as they wished, a world where there was no curse, no Choosing, no Questioning. They imagined how they would have met without the Chosen.