Archer's Sin

by Amy Raby

  “Never seen him before in my life,” rumbled Justien.

  “I have. I saw him at the kids’ archery tournament, around the time you showed up. Then I saw him again before we went into the stable. And here he is a third time.”

  “It’s a festival,” said Justien. “He can go where he wants. What, you think he’s following us?”

  “Walk with me and let’s find out.” She took his hand and led him away, taking no particular care which direction she went. They walked down an aisle of merchant tents selling clothes and belts and boots, and then turned in to an aisle with food vendors.

  “Something smells good,” said Justien. “I’m progged. How about you?”

  Nalica glanced backward. The man was there. He hadn’t yet made the turn down their aisle but was examining a pair of boots at the cobbler’s tent. The hair went up on the back of her neck.

  “Look behind us,” she said quietly to Justien. “Don’t be too obvious about it. He’s there.”

  Justien turned and looked. “I’ll be poxed. So he is.”

  “Don’t stare,” she hissed.

  “I’m going to poxing look right at him,” said Justien. “He wants to say something to us, he can come up and say it.”

  “What if it’s something to do with Honeycatcher?”

  “Can’t see why it would be. But let’s ask him.” Justien took her hand and led her back through the crowd, toward the man in the brown syrtos. But by the time they’d woven their way through the other festivalgoers to the cobbler’s tent, the man was gone.

  Nalica looked all over, but she didn’t see him anywhere. “I think you scared him.”

  “Good,” said Justien. “Aren’t you progged? Let’s have lunch.”

  “I can’t.” She was down to her last coins and at best could only afford a bit of bread and cheese, and that only in town, not at the festival.

  He eyed her. “Can’t or won’t?”

  She said nothing. If she admitted she was out of money, he might offer her some, and she didn’t want charity. She didn’t want to feel obligated toward him, not before the final round of a tournament in which they were essentially tied for first place.

  “Are you out of money?” he asked softly.

  Gods, why hadn’t she thought of an excuse to be rid of him before now? “No.”

  “You don’t have to pretend,” said Justien. “I’ve been there. I’ve been dead broke many times since Red Eagle was disbanded.”

  “I’m not dead broke,” she growled.

  “Let me buy you lunch,” said Justien. “No obligation, no expectations. My friends have bought for me many a time, and I buy for them when they’re hard up. I’d hate to see you go into the third round of the tournament hungry.”

  “Why not?” said Nalica. “It would be to your benefit.”

  He grinned. “I’d rather beat you when you’re in top form.”

  “I could beat you if I hadn’t eaten in a week.”

  Justien took her hand and squeezed it. “Look, this isn’t generosity on my part. I know we’ll be parting ways after tonight. I’d like to get to know you a bit more before that happens.”

  “Isn’t that a waste of time, under the circumstances?”

  “How can it be, if I’m enjoying myself?” said Justien. “Come on, let me buy this time.”

  She pretended to agonize over his proposition, but in fact she’d made up her mind a while ago. “All right.”

  ***

  After Justien had purchased each of them a bread bowl filled with beef stew, he led Nalica away from the crowd. Once more he found seats near the racetrack. There wouldn’t be any races until later in the afternoon, and the area was deserted. He wanted privacy.

  “I have to tell you this, because I was afraid to tell anyone in my clan,” said Nalica as she took her seat. “I admired your father.”

  He raised his head, surprised. “How did you even know my father?”

  “I didn’t, really. I saw him once at the Ismorian Games.”

  “The Ismorian Games? Gods, that would have been...” He paused for a moment to do the math. “That would have been seventeen years ago. Am I right? That’s the only one we went to in my lifetime. Some years we didn’t go because of clan disputes, and then—well, you know. The games went into decline.” The stew maker had given him no spoon to eat with, so he pulled his knife from the sheath at his belt and speared a piece of meat.

  “Seventeen years ago,” said Nalica. “You’re right.” She followed his lead and pulled out her knife.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Twenty-six. I was nine at the time of the Games.”

  “Nalica, we’re almost the same age. I’m just a year older.” He could hardly believe it. This woman was perfect for him: exactly his type physically, from the same background, and a war mage like himself—a damned good one, at that. She was from a rival clan, but that didn’t bother him. If only they weren’t competitors in the archery tournament. If he’d met her under any other circumstances...

  “You must have been at the games too, but I don’t recall seeing you,” said Nalica.

  He shrugged. “I looked rather different then.” As he recalled, he’d been running around with a pack of Polini boys at that age, causing trouble. He’d settled down a lot since those days.

  “Do you know what I liked about your father?” said Nalica. “His kindness to his children. He lifted them up on his lap. He looked them in the eye when he talked to them.”

  Justien’s chest tightened with grief at this description of his long-dead sire. Lerran had his faults, but he had been an excellent father. “The children you saw. How old were they?”

  “I hardly remember,” said Nalica. “It was so long ago. I remember Lerran the most. The children were small—certainly younger than you would have been. A boy and a girl, perhaps.”

  He nodded. “That would have been my younger brother and sister.”

  “The ones you now support?”

  “They’re grown now. I still send money to my mother.” He’d speared all the meat out of his soup, one chunk at a time. Now he turned to the sweet potatoes.

  “I’d heard so many rumors about your family before the Games, you know,” said Nalica. “You were cattle thieves, liars, murderers. So I was fascinated by your father. I watched him in secret, wanting to know what evil looked like. And I saw this man lifting up his children and speaking to them with love and respect, and I wondered how true those accusations could really be.”

  “Somewhat true, I imagine,” said Justien. The behavior of his clan-mates had not been exemplary. “But never mind. Did your father not like children?”

  She tried to hide her wince, but he wasn’t fooled. He set aside his bread bowl, took her hand, and squeezed it.

  “He had only me,” said Nalica. “He wanted a boy. He waited and waited, and the boy never came. He had no use for a girl.”

  “He gave you the riftstone.”

  “My mother made him do that,” said Nalica. “She was proud of me.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  Nalica nodded.

  “I’d like to meet her someday.”

  A shadow passed over Nalica’s features, and he knew she was thinking what he was thinking. They had no future together after tonight.

  “Look, I...” He trailed off, not certain what to say. He wanted her, but he also wanted that gods-cursed city guard job. “There was something I wanted to ask, only...” He was afraid to ask it. “Oh, pox it,” he said finally. He leaned forward and kissed her.

  She drew back just a little in surprise—or perhaps his beard had tickled her. But an instant later she was leaning in and kissing him back. He reached for her and wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her close.

  She smelled of leather and yew and something floral he couldn’t identify—something she bathed with, perhaps. Everything about her felt powerful: her lips, her frame, her arms as they reached around him to complete the embrace.
Her hair, not yet braided for competition, was soft beneath his fingers. He wanted to know every inch of her.

  Nalica pulled away. “Being with me won’t bring any of it back. The clans, the herds. Your father.”

  “I know that.” He stared, mesmerized, at her kiss-bitten lips.

  “I’ve changed since those days.”

  “We all have,” he said. “We change or we die.”

  Nalica turned, unable to meet his gaze. “I can’t do this.”

  His heart sank. “Because of the tournament?”

  “Because of the tournament.”

  “We should talk about that.”

  “There is nothing to say.” Her eyes had gone distant. She had her game face on. “One of us will win tonight, and the other will leave town in search of another job.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” said Justien.

  “I see no alternative.”

  A moment ago he might have agreed with her. But now he saw a way forward—one that would please him in more ways than one. “Do you not?” he asked gently. When she did not respond, he continued. “A city guard’s pay can support two people.”

  She looked at him warily. “What are you suggesting?”

  His mouth felt suddenly dry, and he swallowed. “If I win tonight, you can stay with me.”

  Her face was expressionless. “As your mistress?”

  “If you desire,” he said. “Or you could be my wife.”

  For several seconds, she was completely silent. “Did you just propose marriage, Justien?”

  He swallowed again. “Well, it’s contingent on my winning tonight. I won’t take a wife if I can’t support her.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And what if I win tonight? Do you come and live with me, and I support you?”

  “You haven’t offered.”

  “And if I did?”

  He lowered his head. “I don’t think I could do that. I need to work. It’s...in my blood. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself otherwise.” Not to mention that he would spend all his time consumed with jealousy over her job, which he wanted for himself.

  “Did it not occur to you that I might feel the same way?”

  “It did,” he admitted. “But I had to ask.” She was still an easterner at heart, it seemed. It was common in southern Kjall for a woman to manage the household and children while the husband held a job, but in eastern Kjall most women worked alongside the men. “Nalica...” He raised his eyes to hers, which were a lovely hazel. “I think I fell in love the moment I laid eyes on you. Or perhaps it happened when you split the wand that first time.”

  She smiled.

  “Regardless of how it happened, you’re the woman I want. I know we only met two days ago, but I am certain of this, more certain than I’ve ever been of anything.”

  A line appeared in the middle of her forehead. He couldn’t tell if she was alarmed by his words or pleased by them.

  “And—how do you feel?” he stammered. “About me.”

  “I want you,” she said, lowering her eyelids. “But it’s not possible. You know it is not. Only one of us can win the tournament.”

  Yes, only one of them could win. And regardless of who did, he was going to walk away unsatisfied. Even if he got the job, he could not have the woman.

  ***

  Back at the tournament site, Nalica laid the base of her bow against her boot and stepped through with her other foot, preparing to string the weapon. She paused as orange-garbed Legaciatti swarmed onto the field. Some of them took up positions among the spectators. Others placed themselves on the archery field, behind the competitors. She sniffed. What did they think she was going to do, loose an arrow at the emperor?

  She checked to make sure the bottom of her bow was secure between her legs and bent the top half toward her to hook the bowstring. With the aid of her war magic, it was an easy task.

  A clump of Legaciatti moved toward the judge’s platform. She watched, guessing that the emperor and empress must be at the center of the clump. When they ascended the stairs, she caught a brief glimpse of the imperial couple. The emperor was known to be a cripple; he’d lost the lower half of his left leg in an assassination attempt years ago. Despite that, Nalica saw no limp in his stride. She’d heard he wore a false leg, which he seemed to get around quite well on.

  The imperials reached the platform and took their seats, flanked by Legaciatti. Now she could see Emperor Lucien clearly. The emperor was black-haired, with a serious, calculating expression. He was said to be highly intelligent, and looking at him, she believed it.

  She turned her attention to Empress Vitala, who had always fascinated her, not because of her looks—she was beautiful, as Nalica expected any empress would be—but because of her history. While she looked as southern Kjallan as her husband with her black hair and fine features, she’d been born and raised in Riorca, an impoverished province in the north that had spent decades rebelling against the empire. As a girl in Riorca, Vitala had been trained as an assassin for their resistance movement. Now, after a palace coup and a bloody civil war, she was empress. She’d proven to be an outspoken advocate both for Riorca and against slavery everywhere in the empire. Last year, she and her husband freed all the slaves in the Kjallan palace.

  Nalica knew Vitala didn’t care two tomtits about her, yet on some level she perceived the empress as her ally. Vitala, too, was a fighting woman.

  The imperials were in position. A bugle sounded to begin the third and final round of the tournament. The crowd fell silent as an official explained the rules, for anyone who hadn’t heard that speech the first two times. Nalica tuned him out. She ran through some exercises to limber up her muscles, and counted butts from the end of the row to locate her target. They were shooting at two hundred and fifty yards today, a ridiculous distance for accuracy, but with her war magic she could handle it.

  Today the tournament directors had stationed a signaler near the targets, behind a protective wall. He was to send up flares when the archers hit their targets, for the benefit of those audience members who couldn’t see at that distance.

  She pulled an arrow from the stand and nocked it, trying not to look at Justien. He stood on her left in the lineup, and since she was left-eye dominant and he was right-eye dominant, it was unavoidable that they should face each other while shooting. Justien caught her gaze and gave her a curt nod. She nodded back and tried to put him out of her mind.

  “Archers ready,” called the official.

  She stared at her distant target until her eyes watered. Raising her arm a little over her head to engage the powerful muscles of her back and shoulders, she drew her bow. War mages had a tendency to get lazy about form, because they got results even when they used their bodies inefficiently, but she was careful not to let that happen to her. One could not shoot one’s best without good form.

  “Loose.”

  Her arrow flew in what looked like a perfect arc. She lost sight of it during its flight and turned her attention toward the target. The arrow reappeared and slammed into the butt, landing quite close to the wand. A signal flare went up behind her target, and the audience cheered. She pumped her fist in triumph, and saw Justien do the same. He’d landed a hit too, but her arrow had landed closer to the wand. She had a good feeling about tonight. She was shooting well.

  More flares went up. Three other archers had hit their butts. The rest, including Caellus, all had sins.

  “Loose.”

  She sent her second arrow in another perfect arc toward the target and waited, dry-mouthed, to see if it would land. It did! Another flare. Her two arrows formed a neat horizontal row on the target. She glanced at Justien’s target and saw two arrows there as well. She frowned. They were tied for the lead position.

  She glanced up at the judges’ stand and saw the emperor and empress leaning toward one another and talking. The empress was gesturing animatedly. Then the empress turned to the field of competition and looked straight at Nalica.

&
nbsp; Their eyes met, and a shiver of fear and excitement ran down Nalica’s spine. Her whole body felt electrified. She’d drawn the attention of the empress.

  She licked dry lips and reached for her next arrow.

  “Loose.”

  She let it fly and watched eagerly. Against competition this strong—Justien in particular—every shot mattered. She squinted at her target, praying for the arrow to arrive, and then there was an explosion of wood. Shards flew everywhere. She’d split the wand at two hundred and fifty yards.

  Behind her target, a dozen flares went up at once.

  The crowd roared. Joyous, she leapt into the air. Glancing up at the judges’ stand, she saw the judges marking their score sheets, and the emperor and empress politely applauding. She grinned at the empress. Maybe that was forbidden—she was eastern Kjallan; what did she know of imperial etiquette?—but in her happiness, she couldn’t help herself. The empress gave her a nod of acknowledgement.

  Only then did she think to check her opponents’ targets. Caellus had a hit, as did several others. But Justien had a sin this round. His expression was dark and stormy, and as he reached into the stand for his next arrow, he didn’t meet her eyes.

  Oh well. She wasn’t responsible for his performance, only her own. And his mistake was to her advantage. She was now clearly in the lead. If she could just land her three remaining arrows, she would win.

  “Archers ready.”

  She raised her bow. She didn’t mind the stress of competition; she always performed well under pressure. The excitement of shooting in front of the emperor and empress was lifting her to her highest level of performance. Despite the adrenaline coursing through her, or perhaps because of it, her arms were rock steady, her bow absolutely still as she aimed and loosed her fourth arrow.

  Another hit—she smiled in satisfaction. Two more and she would have that city guard job. Justien had scored a hit, but he was scowling. She understood why. It wouldn’t be enough now for him to just hit the targets. Unless she missed one of her shots, he had to split the wand multiple times to beat her. And that wasn’t likely at two hundred and fifty yards. She took another arrow and raised her bow.