She knew the smart thing. Ellina had the female trapped in an alley with the river to one end and the promise of soldiers to the other. And Ellina—despite her initial drive—was in less-than-ideal condition for combat. She had yet to gain back the weight lost during her time in Evov, nor the strength, and though the wound in her shoulder had healed, it had not healed well. It hurt to move in certain positions or stretch in certain ways. It would be a hindrance in a fight, but Ellina did not have to fight. If she could stall for time, backup would arrive, and the conjuror would be forced to surrender.
Yet a dull anger warmed Ellina’s belly. She remembered once aiming an arrow at the Elder’s heart. She remembered facing a mob in the city. She thought of how powerful she had felt in one situation, and how helpless in the other.
Ellina switched her grip on her dagger. The green glass blade was like a dragon’s scale: shimmery in the light, yet nearly colorless in the dark.
She launched forward. The conjuror’s face showed quick surprise as she parried, sidestepped, and tried to retreat. Ellina delivered a series of strikes, catching her opponent’s forearm, her shoulder. More blood, then. More anger, too. As Ellina drove the female backward out of the alley and towards the river, her anger seemed to swell, building upon itself like a wave.
The conjuror sensed it. She parried each of Ellina’s blows but came in with no more of her own, for to do so would be to expose her own body while wielding an inferior weapon. Nor, Ellina noted, did she try to flee, for to dothatwould be to take her eyes off her adversary and open her neck to attack. As Ellina forced the conjuror up against the Taro, she saw desperation in the female’s eyes, mixed with the knowledge that she was out of her element, and Ellina was in hers.
“Your sister has a message for you,” the elf gasped.
A lie. An attempt to stall. Ellina had no intention of entertaining false messages, yet she could say nothing to stop the conjuror from continuing. “There are things you do not know about your mother. Things she never wanted to tell you.”
Despite herself, Ellina pulled back. They were both breathing hard, their black hair sticking to their faces, their golden eyes shining in nearby lamplight.
The female’s voice dropped. “Have you never wondered why Queen Rishiana was eager to crown your eldest sister Miria—an elf so ill-equipped for the throne it is a wonder she was highborn at all—yet hesitated to initiate a natural leader like Farah?”
Ellina knew better than to be drawn in by an enemy’s words. Yet, she had wondered about that. Ellina never understood why their mother had forced Miria to the throne when she was not ready and might never have been ready. Miria was not like most elves. She was sweet and joyful and kind. Queenhood would have stripped her of that, so rather than accept her fate, Miria had fled, and later died. Ellina had always believed that if not for their mother’s inexplicable urgency, Miria might still be alive.
Could it be true, what the conjuror was suggesting? Was there some secret reason for Rishiana’s haste?
Ellina observed the conjuror. Long limbs, slim features, and again, that dark hair that was so unusual among their race. Ellina could not help but notice that she and this elf looked alike, each a close image of the other. Yet Ellina recalled, almost as if seeing it for the first time, that Miria had looked like this, too. She was shorter than most elves, her face rounder, her hair darker. It was, in part, what had allowed Miria to start a new life in the mainlands. She blended in easily with the humans, because she looked like a human…
Ellina shut down that thought. This was the conjuror’s aim. She wantedEllina confused, wanted her attention elsewhere—
So that Ellina would not notice the second elf descending from behind.
Ellina spun, hurled her dagger. Her shoulder spasmed and the blade went wide. A terrible throw, yet one that distracted this new opponent—male, white-haired, not a conjuror—long enough for Ellina to grab the knife from her boot. She might have thrown this as well, except that the female was coming in again, brandishing her metal ring with a new-made gleam in her eye.
Ellina skidded on the rocky riverbank to avoid the blow. Her side hit the earth. She tried to retreat out of range, but they were quick, too quick. The male had a sword, which he did not draw. Rather, he kicked Ellina—not in the ribs, as she expected, but up behind her shoulder. Ellina gasped. Pain broke her vision. He kicked her again, but this time Ellina reached out a blind hand, caught his leg. Her arm was on fire. It hurt to breathe. She reached up her other hand, grabbed the male’s wrist, and somersaulted backward, using the strength of her legs to heave him over her body and into the river.
A splash. A gurgled cry. His head disappeared beneath the surface, one hand pawing at the air. Then the hand vanished as well, and the river fell silent.
Ellina stood on unsteady legs. The female was staring at the water as if waiting for her comrade to resurface, swim back to shore. Yet this was a fundamental truth of their race, one they had long tried to keep secret from humans but could not keep from each other—elves could not swim.
The conjuror’s eyes hardened to stone. She exhaled, and Ellina had a split second to anticipate the attack before the female was raging forward in a blur of black and silver, her makeshift weapon swinging a deadly arc.
The fight changed. Ellina’s arm was throbbing now. Her strength petered. Whatever anger had driven her before was gone now, replaced only with a strange sense of emptiness. As she tracked the elf’s incoming attack, she thought of her mother’s blood spilling across a polished stateroom floor. She thought of Miria, killed by southerners, and Venick’s mother, killed by conjurors, and Ellina’s own voice, which had been stolen for the sake of her sister’s vengeance.
At the final moment, Ellina dropped to one knee and summoned every final ounce of her will, swinging her knife towards the elf’s heart. But the female saw the blade coming. A quick recalculation, a surge of strong muscles as she twisted to dodge—
“Ellina!”
Venick’s voice broke through the night. The conjuror’s attention shifted. It was enough to create the opening Ellina needed. Her knife came around and slammed into the female’s side.
The elf gave a cry. The force of the impact jerked Ellina’s arm, but she managed to keep hold of her weapon as the conjuror stumbled, lost her footing, and crashed to the earth. Her cheek hit the damp riverbank. Her teeth snapped together. She tumbled a short distance before coming to a halt, groaning and clutching her side.
Venick sprinted towards them from between buildings. His face was pale, arms pumping. Ellina’s vision steadied enough to mark the group of men arrayed behind him. They were dressed in mismatched suits and vests, but they each wore a green military cap, as if in a quick effort to unify.
Venick skidded to a stop in front of Ellina. He looked like he wanted to yank her into his chest but checked himself. “Are you hurt?”
Behind them, soldiers swarmed the conjuror. There was a fleshythump,a short cough, the clink of metal chains. The elf was hauled to her feet—chalky white, bleeding from palms and ribs, but alive.
Ellina came up off her knee. Her trousers were ripped. Her entire body felt as if it had been wrung like a rag. Yet somehow, she had been spared any worse damage. She realized how lucky she had been.
And how foolish.
“Ellina?”
