Half the Rettlings have joined in, including all five remaining knights, but I can’t tell what we’re up against and how many rebels there are. Twenty? Forty? A hundred? How far does this go?
I squeeze the hilt of my dagger, but for the first time in an age, I wish for a sword.
Scouring the room, I find Kay is still with Hew, who is holding her tight. Every muscle in my body wants to run to her, to protect her, but I know that doing so will only draw unwanted attention to me and potentially get us both caught in the crossfire. As much as I hate it, the only thing I can do is trust her with Kyor’s oldest friend.
Odetta and Mattieu are both casting flame after flame, and while hers seem indiscriminate, Mattieu specifically aims at a female rebel close to him. With the strength of his power, I expect the woman to be cinders in no time, but instead she grasps the fiery bundle of magic roaring towards her with her own power and twists it back in the other direction. Before it meets its targets, it evaporates, and it only takes me a heartbeat to see why. Zelle. He’s trying to protect the Rettlings as well as the king, and somehow he’s managing it, even with someone siphoning his magic. His hands are moving constantly, his right hand using his sword to block any strikes that come towards him, his left pulling daggers from his belt, which he throws at every target he spots. Though how he can tell the rebels from the people simply running for the door, I have no idea.
Realising their tactics aren’t working, the rebels are suddenly on Zelle, at a ratio of four to one, and judging by the way two of them are using magic, he still hasn’t brought the siphon down yet.
At least one of those he’s fighting is an Issen, though I would never have known it to look at her. Her frozen blade disappears and reappears in the blink of an eye, constantly grazing the commander, yet never gettingclose enough to strike home. She has magic enough to form the weapon, but not enough skill to use it properly.
Dozens of people stand around, watching on, all fearful of getting too close. Thankfully, Grenda isn’t one of them.
‘On your left, Commander,’ she calls out.
‘Find that fucking siphon!’ he barks back.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him swear, and judging by the fear that flashes across the faces of the guards and other nobles, it’s not a good sign.
Zelle and Grenda form a rhythm, her swordwork as impressive as his, yet it’s not enough. And I’m not the only one who sees it. As Zelle continues to battle the icy blade of the Issen, Kyor grabs a sword from some noble’s waistband – probably meant for display – and moves towards the two of them. But Zelle shakes his head.
‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ he snaps. ‘Respectfully,’ he adds.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Kyor snarls. Fighting close to Zelle means Kyor’s magic is also removed, but his skill with a blade is not. More rebels swarm in, and Kyor faces them, sword swinging deftly.
Steel flashes in the dim candlelight, each strike swift and economical as Kyor moves like water over stone – fluid, unstoppable – cutting down the first rebel before the man can even raise his weapon. My eyes follow him as he falls to the ground and his body lands with a thud. I know I shouldn’t be staring, that I need to be doing something, but the tattoo on the rebel’s wrist has me frozen.
Delicate black ink weaves up his arm, outlining a thin tendril of smoke. It’s identical to Peter’s and the one I saw on the carriage driver.
Before I can contemplate what this means, a second rebel lunges at the prince, only to be met with a twist of Kyor’s wrist and the snap of steel biting flesh. Every motion is precise and deliberate, and several rebels falter, their fury curdling into fear as they realise too late that even without magic, Kyor is still death incarnate.
No matter how many are cut down, more rebels rush in.How many of them are there?
I can no longer stand on the sidelines and watch. Clenching mydagger, I’m about to wade into the fray when my eyes fall on one of the rebel bodies, and I freeze yet again. The shock of red hair. The paintbrush freckles. My body stiffens. It can’t possibly be…? But it is. Peter’s lifeless eyes stare at me accusingly, his flaming red hair coated in blood, just like the tattoo on his wrist. I cast my gaze around the room and find another body. This time the smoke tattoo weaves up the side of her neck. It was never just a random tattoo that Peter liked to display. It was a sign. A sign of what he was. A rebel.
Panic surges through me. I never saw the same mark on Ruben’s body, but he and Peter were inseparable. Does that mean he’s here too? I whirl around wildly, trying to find my former lover among the press of the crowd.
I don’t see him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here. Godsdamn it.
Zelle’s pushing the rebels back inch by inch, reclaiming the ballroom, and all the while, King Korvane sips his drink like this is all some elaborate entertainment he ordered that’s disappointing him.
I falter because suddenly I’m not sure whose side I’m on. Killing King Korvane has been a recurring dream of mine for as long as I can recall. But taking on Zelle? And Kyor? Fuck. I don’t even know where my head’s at, let alone what I’m meant to do.
While I watch, Zelle slices straight through an Issen, then pulls the sword out and goes for the next one, but his blade meets nothing but air.
No friction. No slowing. Nobody.
‘It’s an illusion!’ somebody shouts.
There wasn’t an Issen ice warrior at all. It was all a distraction, and seconds later, we see what it was really for.
A rebel shimmers into existence, materialising only inches behind Zelle, and his blade arcs in a cruel, merciless sweep, steel whispering as it slices across the commander’s throat.
For an instant, everything slows. Zelle’s eyes widen, shock flashing there as disbelief collides with pain. His lips part as though he might speak, but only a wet gurgle escapes. Blood blossoms in a vivid spray as his trembling hand lifts, pressing uselessly against the wound as though sheer will might hold him together.
Horror grips me because I’m a healer’s daughter. I know the difference between wounds that beg to be mended and wounds that mock the very idea of hope. This is one of the latter.
The commander’s blood pours too fast, too freely, and there is nothing left for me to do but watch him die.
