“Less talking, more throwing,” Tuck commanded, stepping back and crossing his massive arms. “And this time, try to hit the target and not that poor squirrel.”
“That was one time,” Archer protested, glancing at me. “And it dodged. I swear.”
I sat on a stone bench nearby, enjoying the warmth of the evening sun and the ridiculous spectacle before me, a half-read book in my lap. The training dummy, a burlap sack stuffed with hay and decorated with a silly face drawn by Quill, remained untouched, though the ground around it was littered with axes that had fallen short, veered wide, or in one particularly spectacular case, somehow managed to go backward.
“Remember,” Tuck said, his voice gruff but patient, “your arm is an extension of your will. The axe is the extension of your arm.”
“My will is apparently drunk today,” Archer mumbled, taking a deep breath and raising the axe.
“Your form is better,” Thea called from where she sat, braiding flowers into a wreath a few yards away. “The last one almost went in a straight line.”
She flashed a smile at Tuck that lingered just a moment too long. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Archer, though I caught the slightest hint of color rise to his cheeks. “Focus, Your Majesty.”
Archer nodded, squared his shoulders, and with a grunt of effort, hurled the axe toward the target. It spun through the air,handle over blade, and crashed into the hedge several feet to the right of the target.
“Better,” Tuck declared, despite all evidence to the contrary.
“Are we looking at the same thing?” Archer gestured to the quivering axe now embedded in a topiary.
“You kept your wrist straight that time.” Tuck retrieved another axe from the collection at his feet. “Again.”
A few paces behind us, Quill was twirling in delicate circles, her arms raised gracefully above her head. She’d been practicing the dance steps for days, determined to perform for Minerva, who sat watching with extreme attentiveness. The old goddess leaned on her cane, her normally severe expression softened as she observed the child’s earnest efforts.
“Straighten your back,” Minerva instructed, her voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. “Feel the music in your mind, let it guide your movements. The dance should bring you peace.”
Quill nodded solemnly, standing taller as she continued.
“She’s getting quite good,” Elowen said, appearing beside me with two wine glasses. She handed one to me before settling on the bench. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”
I took a sip, letting the cool sweetness wash away the heat of the day. “She’s been practicing all week. Says she wants to impress Minerva, though I can’t imagine why.”
Elowen smiled, watching as Minerva made subtle adjustments to Quill’s posture. “Perhaps Minnie’s always had a soft spot for children. And Quill has a gift for finding the cracks in people’s armor.”
“Like someone else I know,” I teased, nudging her shoulder.
Across the garden, Archer let out a triumphant shout as his axe finally made contact with the dummy, not the center, not even close, but it stuck in the burlap with a satisfying thunk.
“Did you see that?” He spun around with his arms raised victorious. “I am a natural!”
“After thirty-seven tries,” Tuck said dryly, though there was unmistakable pride in his eyes. “We’ll make a warrior of you yet.”
“I prefer to leave the axe throwing to you,” Archer replied, grinning broadly. “I’ll stick to cards and charming smiles.”
“The charm needs work too,” Thea called.
After retrieving the axe, Tuck demonstrated the proper form once more, his movements fluid despite his bulk. The weapon flew from his hand with deadly precision, striking dead center of the target with enough force to make the dummy rock back on its post.
“Show off,” Archer muttered.
“Remember, when diplomacy fails, a well-placed axe can be very persuasive.”
“I’ll add that to the list of kingly wisdom. Right after ‘knitting is not a king’s hobby’ as you so gallantly told me before you took away my yarn.”
“In my defense, the pup got tangled and the kid got worried. That was a team effort.”
Archer gasped and spun to Quill. She giggled. “I want to be sorry but I’m not. You’re too handsome for knitting sweaters. Maybe if this axe business doesn’t work out, you could try something with Thea. She has a forge at home, you know. You could make your own crowns.”
“Well, I’m not making you one now, traitor,” he huffed, hiding his smile.
