“What did you say?” she asked. “About your shoulder? I’m sorry.”

He dropped his gaze and fiddled with his fork. “Your uncle has quite an effect on you,” he said. “You haven’t been yourself since he walked into the practice room.”

“Or maybe I have been myself, and the other times I’m not myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“My uncle thinks me savage. He thinks me a killer. Well, isn’t he right? Didn’t I become savage when he entered the room? And what is it we’re practicing every day?” She tore apart a piece of bread and threw it onto her plate. She glared at her meal.

“I don’t believe you’re savage,” he said.

She sighed, sharply. “You haven’t seen me with Randa’s enemies.”

He raised his cup to his lips and drank, then lowered it, watching her. “What will he ask you to do this time?”

She pushed the fire down that rose up from her stomach. She wondered what would happen if she slammed her plate on the ground, how many pieces it would break into.

“It’ll be some lord who owes him money,” she said, “or who refused to agree to some bargain, or who looked at him wrong. I’ll be told to hurt the man, enough so that he never dishonors my uncle again.”

“And you’ll do what he tells you to do?”

“Who are these fools who continue to resist Randa’s will? Haven’t they heard the stories? Don’t they know he’ll send me?”

“Isn’t it in your power to refuse?” Po asked. “How can anyone force you to do anything?”

The fire burst into her throat and choked her. “He is the king. And you’re a fool, too, if you think I have choice in the matter.”

“But you do have choice. He’s not the one who makes you savage. You make yourself savage, when you bend yourself to his will.”

She sprang to her feet and swung at his jaw with the side of her hand. She lessened the force of the blow only at the last instant, when she realized he hadn’t raised his arm to block her. Her hand hit his face with a sickening crack. She watched, horrified, as his chair toppled backward and his head slammed against the floor. She’d hit him hard. She knew she’d hit him hard. And he hadn’t defended himself.

She ran to him. He lay on his side, both hands over his jaw. A tear trickled from his eye, over his fingers, and onto the floor. He grunted, or sobbed—she didn’t know which. She knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. “Did I break your jaw? Can you speak?”

He shifted then, pushed himself up to a sitting position. He felt at the side of his jaw and opened and closed his mouth. He moved his jaw left and right.

“I don’t think it’s broken.” His voice was a whisper.

She put her hand to his face and felt the bones under his skin. She felt the other side of his face to compare. She could tell no difference, and she caught her breath with relief.