“I live on the palace grounds, in my own home,” she says, “There are a handful of us that do. My brother and the general among them.”
“Which house is the general’s?” I ask dryly.
“Why?” She grins wickedly. “Would you like to visit? I assure you, it would be no trouble at all to arrange that.”
“I’d like to know which house to avoid if I ever need to borrow a cup of sugar,” I answer dryly.
She laughs, the noise annoyingly dainty and charming. Once again, I begin to think better of mocking her … friend?
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Please don’t stop on my account.” She laughs again. “It’s been an age since I’ve seen anyone ruffle Xey’s feathers so easily. It is very entertaining.”
“How long have you known each other?”
What I really want to know is how old they are, but I assume it’s rude to ask. Over time, a few well-placed, leading questions should get me closer to the answer I seek.
“I came to know the general well during the war, but he’s been a friend of my family’s since long before I was born.”
The carriage bounces again and when I look outside, I feel as though I’ve been taken to one of the beautifully depicted cottages in the fairy books I read as a child. Thick beams of dark wood support a thatched roof. Every window is patterned in a diamond leaded glass, bordered by stone. The home abuts the river, wildflowers melding with the herb garden, a simple stable out back.
Awri directs the driver back to the stables where, to my utter disappointment, Riesh waits for us with the general at his side. Her brother wears a cheerfully colored set of linens with a long, thin coat and a small, forced smile. He offers me his hand, helping me down to the mossy ground, before turning to offer the same to his sister. She bounds out of the carriage without taking it and the general places himself between us, a completely ineffective gesture as Awri darts out from behind him, seemingly oblivious to his disdain for me.
I’m not surprised to find that his demeanor continues to match his dark attire. He looks every bit the villain, though not even his black attire nor the scar he bares at his temple detracts from his lethal feyn beauty. I do my best to plaster a pleasing smile on my face, and perhaps more irritating than his ire is the ease with which he dismisses me as he glances toward his companions.
Awri practically skips around her brother clapping her hands as if shewere a girl no more than five years old. He beams at her. It’s clear by the look on his face, she holds his heart in the palm of her hands.
“Happy birthday, sister,” he says, sweeping his arm toward a tall wooden box laid out on a long table.
She squeals, pulls off the lid, and drives her hands deep into the straw bedding. Her eyes gleam as she pulls the bow from the box with a reverence I know well. It’s the same look I’ll give my daggers when they’re back in my hands.
The bow is carved with gilded leaves—it’s as much a piece of art as it is a weapon. She pulls the string taut, testing it, before knocking an arrow and repeating the motion. Bringing the string to her cheek, she lets her shoulders become accustomed to the weight of the bow and the tension in the line. I think she’s about to let the arrow fly when she puts it down and pulls her brother into her arms.
“It’s perfect,” she says, her words muffled by his shoulder.
“You deserve nothing less,” he says into her hair.
She’s holding back tears when she looks at me, perhaps remembering that she has an audience.
“What do you think of it, Shivaria?” she asks, holding out the bow.
I take it reverently, marveling at the weapon as I run my fingers down its length. Never have I seen its likeness. Though it is imperfect, I find that the right type of flaw has an uncanny way of making something more exquisite.
Tracing the etched shaft with my finger, I can’t help but think back on the first time I held a bow, my traitorous mind wandering to the man who taught me. I discard the memory, as I discard the bow back into her hands, forcing a smile.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
The general scoffs at my perfectly genuine compliment and I scowl at him.
“You disagree, General?” Awri asks with a quirk of her brow.
“Not at all. It’s just—only a woman would describe a weapon in such a way.”
“How would you describe it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I might describe it as accurate.”
“Have you already tried the bow then?” I ask.
