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She looks away. “He is a Range Warrior.”
“You say that like it’s the beginning and the end of everything.”
Her laugh is brittle. “Because it is. The last deve –”
“Luka’s father?”
“Yes. The last deve never disciplined a warrior for such an offense.”
My face screws up and it’s not the gruel that has offended me. “But I thought he ruled for more than twenty years. How can a group of soldiers never be disciplined?”
“Oh, no, you misunderstand. They are held to the highest standards when it comes to their duty. But a crime against a woman is not really seen as a crime at all.”
The gruel curdles in my belly. “This continues under Luka?”
Yvette is distinctly uncomfortable now. “No . . . well, sort of. Girls are still taught to always have a care for the risks.”
I think my jaw may hang open. “And what are the boys taught?”
“Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking. The majority of the men in this realm play no part in such things, but there are a few snakes who take advantage of their station.”
Thinking that over, I pluck the apple from the tray and consider it. This is something new that I would not have received a few days ago.
“Rina?”
I look up, surprised. Yvette usually avoids using my name.
“You should know,” she says, “that Luka is nothing like his father.”
I sigh. “But Luka changes nothing.”
“Change takes time, my a’deve. And the old deve probably would have put you in a cage in the courtyard and watched you starve to death. Luka has never shown such cruelty.”
“Yes, I suppose he is not all bad.”
“I’m back,” Rionnon exclaims, bursting through the door. He’s out of breath as he gestures to the window. “I got everything. Come and see.”
We join him. “Well done,” I say. There is indeed a target set up on a wooden pedestal in the courtyard. “Are those your friends?” I ask, indicating the five little urchins jumping around, waving up at us.
“Yes,” he says proudly. “They’ll make sure we don’t shoot anyone in the ass.”
“Rionnon!” Yvette scolds, but I laugh.
“Let’s do it then.”
While the boy catches his breath, I yell down and have his friends do their best to adjust the target. Everything about this is outlandish; the angle, the distance, the height . . . the chances of pissing Luka off. But whatever. It’s part of my new zest for life.
Rionnon’s first ten shots are terrible, but I explain that archery is about practice and trial and error. I’m impressed with the way he fights through his embarrassment in front of his friends, and keeps trying. After another ten shots, he improves.
“Much better,” I say, though there’s some ass down in the courtyard now who’s laughing up at us.
“It can’t be done,” he pouts.
“It can. Let me show you.”
Nocking the arrow sends tingles to my fingertips. It’s been a long while since I’ve done this, but the muscle memory comes back to me like it was yesterday. My first shot hits the target, but not the center. The boys down below cheer though, which brings a smile to my lips.
“Bring them up,” I yell down and they start scrambling to collect the spent arrows. “Carefully!” Turning to Rionnon, I ask, “Are you too tired to continue? Your muscles must be getting sore.”
