Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(89)

Valyn returned his attention to the arrow. There was nothing unusual aside from the stains. He’d probably fired thousands just like it in his training. Except … “You don’t use the standard head,” he said, realization dawning. “You hammer your own.”

The sniper nodded.

“How did you shoot a standard chisel instead of your own stunner without knowing the difference?” Valyn asked, as confused as he was wary. “How did it even end up in your quiver?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice flat, matter-of-fact, unreadable. Her whole ’Kent-kissing body was unreadable. Kettral trained from an early age to see a foe’s intention in the way he stood, the way he carried his weapons, the angle of his eyes. There were a hundred things to look for—whitened knuckles on a sword hilt, raised shoulders, the flick of a tongue on dry lips. The tiniest twitch of an eye could signal imminent attack or the possibility of a bluff. Annick, however, might have been standing in line at a butcher’s shop or considering a statue on the Annurian Godsway. If she was concerned at having nearly killed the brother of the Emperor, she didn’t show it. She hadn’t moved from the doorway, where she stood with her bow at her side, posture loose but ready, her thin, childlike face inscrutable as the blank white walls.

Valyn rolled wearily onto his side. His mind ached from trying to make sense of it all, and his body ached, too. In the course of his pathetic exertions, his wound had broken open, seeping blood down the front of his chest, stabbing him whenever he drew a breath. It no longer seemed quite so likely Annick was trying to kill him, at least not right away.

“What about the knot?” he asked wearily. “The one you tied during the drowning test?”

“Double bowline. Hard to untie in those circumstances, but not impossible.”

Valyn watched her face. Still nothing. “You really believe that, don’t you?” he asked after a long pause.

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth,” Valyn said. “And what do you think I found, down there when I nearly drowned?”

“You found a double bowline,” she replied. “When you failed to untie it, you wanted to make some sort of excuse in front of Fane. That’s why you lied about the extra loops.” Her voice was devoid of emotion, as though lying to a superior officer and accusing a fellow cadet were both just tactics like any other tactics, to be judged by their success or failure. Nothing rattled her. Nothing surprised her.

“What about Amie?” he demanded, gambling on a sudden impulse. “Did you kill her?”

That, finally, got a reaction. Something dark and horrible passed across Annick’s eyes, a shadow of rage and destruction.

“We found her, you know,” Valyn continued, pressing the attack. “She was a pretty girl, but not after whoever killed her got finished.”

“She…,” Annick began, speechless for once, her slender features twisting. “She—”

“She what? She begged you to stop? She wasn’t supposed to die? She had it coming?” The words were an effort, each syllable tearing at the wound in his chest, but he kept at them, thrusting them at the sniper like knives, trying to keep her on the defensive, trying to force the retreat that would lead to the stumble. “I know you were seeing her that morning,” he continued. “Did you spend all day killing her?”

Annick half raised her bow, and Valyn thought for a moment that she was going to murder him after all. She was breathing hard suddenly, her fingers almost trembling. He stared, fear all but forgotten in his fascination, as she shuddered herself still. Then, without a word of explanation, she turned on her heel and disappeared through the door. For a long time, he just watched the empty doorway, trying in vain to recall the expression on her face.

When Ha Lin finally arrived hours later, she found him in the same position.

Valyn hadn’t bothered to light the small lamp by his side, and in the gathering dusk, all he saw was her silhouette at first, the tight curve of her hip, the swell of her breast as she stood against the bleached wall. He could smell her, the light scent of salt and sweat he’d come to recognize over a hundred training missions.

“Lin,” he began, shaking the memory of Annick clear from his mind, “you’ll never believe what—”

The words died in his throat as she stepped over to the bed, into the fading light from the window. Her lip had been split open and a cruel gash sliced across her forehead. The wounds were a day old, but they were brutal nonetheless.