Traitor to the Throne (Rebel of the Sands, #2)(59)

‘If you can bring down a duck, I will give you free range of the palace – at least, as much as anyone else has. If you don’t … well, then I hope your bed is comfortable, because you will lie there a very long time.’

I ran my fingers down the taut string of the bow. It was an old weapon. Something from the storybooks. Before guns. I remembered some legend about the archer who took out a Roc’s eye with an arrow.

I stood in a shooting stance and tried to pull the string back.

‘Not like that.’ The Sultan’s hands were on my shoulders. I tensed automatically. But there was nothing lingering in the way he touched me. He gripped my shoulders like he had the young prince’s. Like I’d seen fathers in Dustwalk do when they were teaching their sons to shoot a gun. No one had ever done that for me. I’d taught myself to shoot while my father was drunk. And not really my father anyway. Though he cared about whether I lived or died just as much as my real father did, as it turned out. ‘Widen your stance,’ he ordered, lightly kicking my ankles apart with his instep. ‘And draw the bow across your body.’

I was keenly aware of him watching me as I drew the bowstring back. I took aim at the nearest duck the same way I would with a gun. I lined up my sight carefully. If I had a gun, my bullet would go straight through the bird.

I’d gotten good at killing birds in the past few months. When you were camping in the mountains, it was helpful to be able to hunt.

I loosed the bowstring. It scraped painfully along my arm. The arrow flew and missed the bird by a foot, plunging into the water. The flock of birds panicked at the noise, spiralling upwards into the sky in a flapping mess of feathers and squawking.

I swore, dropping the bow, clutching my scraped arm.

‘Let me see.’ The Sultan took hold of my wrist, another order I couldn’t disobey. My forearm was already welting.

‘You should have an arm guard,’ he commanded. ‘Here.’ He pulled his sheema off from around his neck. It was the colour of the fresh saffron in dishes in the harem. He wrapped it neatly around my arm.

The sight of it brought on a pang of longing as I remembered my old red sheema. Jin.

The Sultan finished tying off the sheema with a final yank, fastening the knot around my wrist. ‘When the birds return, try again. And this time, draw the bowstring higher – closer to your cheek.’ I had to obey, though I half thought he had forgotten who he was speaking to. That he meant them as instructions more than orders.

We waited in silence until the birds returned and settled again. I wanted to call them stupid for coming back to something that might get them killed so readily. But then, I was standing next to the Sultan of my own will.

I missed again with my second shot. And my third. I could feel my neck prickling with shame, keenly aware of the Sultan watching me miss over and over. I needed to win. I needed to be able to leave the harem. I needed to save my family from my father.

‘Your Exalted Highness.’ A servant’s voice made us both turn. He was bent low. ‘You are awaited for negotiations by the Gallan ambassador.’ My ears perked up. It was starting. The negotiations for this country. To turn us back over to them. Why I needed to be able to report back.

‘Wait,’ I called out as the Sultan turned to go. ‘I can do this.’

The Sultan considered for a moment. And then he nodded. ‘Then find me when you have.’

*

The sun crept across the sky as I tried. I could feel the sweat running down my neck and I was half-tempted to unwrap the sheema from my arm and tie it around my head. But the throbbing welt there told me not to. There was nothing to be done about the blistering in my fingers, though. Or the creeping ache in my arm as my muscles protested being pulled back the same way one more painful time. Shaking to release the bowstring.

Some servants came and placed a jug of water and a bowl of dates next to me when the sun got high. I ignored them both. I could do this.

I pulled back. Another arrow dove into the water. The birds scattered.

I cursed under my breath.

Damn this.

I had done harder things.

Before the birds could fully escape I reached down and plucked out another arrow. I nocked it quickly and aimed for the still-flapping squawking mess of birds. I found the duck I wanted to hit. And I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t waste time trying to line up my shot. I aimed with certainty, the way I always had with a gun.

And I loosed the arrow.

The duck separated itself from the flock, plummeted, and hit the grass even as my heart took off.

*

I barged through the palace, dripping a trail of blood behind me as I held the dead bird by the neck.

The Sultan had told me to come find him when I’d succeeded, and the tug of an order on my gut kept me moving. I didn’t think about what I was doing until I’d pushed past the guard, who didn’t try to stop me, and burst through the doors.

Dozens of heads turned to look at me as I crashed in. A thought flitted through my mind that I shouldn’t be doing this. But it was a little late for that. I strode up to the table, my eyes on the Sultan, and slammed my prize down on the table in front of him, making his cup shake.

The Sultan looked at the dead duck.

It was only then that I took stock of my surroundings. The council room was full to bursting. With men in uniforms. Uniforms of all sorts. Golden Mirajin uniforms and the blue of the Gallan empire.