She stared. She could shoot me now, right here. But she didn’t—she couldn’t. Not if she wanted to be worthy of Sylvanwild queenship.
The spiritstag watched on.
She hissed and lowered her bow. “You’ll wish you’d died fast, changeling.”
Rhiannon droppedher bow into the grass. The thin linens of her tunic and pants blew in the wind as her right hand moved to the sword at her waist.
Rhiannon leads with her right hand at the start of any fight.
She drew it silently, with a glint off the flat of the blade under the moonlight. It was as long as her thigh and slightly curved. She gripped it like she’d held it a thousand times with that hand. And she probably had.
She held the blade low. “Come.”
I didn’t move. There was nothing to be gained.
A gust of wind hit me in the back, forcing me to stumble forward.
“Come,” Rhiannon hissed. “Or are you a rabbit after all? Swing, rabbit. I won’t even raise my sword.”
She wants the spiritstag to see her coolness.
I swallowed. My left arm was useless, openly bleeding; it dangled at my side like an appendage the gods had forgotten to bless. I was right-handed, but I’d always used the left for balance through my swings. I’d hardly noticed until I stepped forward and half of me felt like dead weight.
The sword had been my best hope, and I couldn’t even switch hands.
I had no choice but to come forward; Rhiannon would buffet me with her magic until I was before her. Better to go at my own pace than be shoved like a leaf in her wind.
I raised my sword and approached. My gaze longed to fix on her sword, the lethal edge of it by her side. But I forced myself to stare into her eyes. The eyes were where the fight was.
Her face was a cool mask. She didn’t move.
Step by step I closed. I couldn’t overextend, couldn’t go in too far. But I had to swing fast and hard enough that she would feel I was trying.
Six paces away, and I could see the small parting of her lips and the shadow of her teeth between them.
At four paces away, I quick-stepped in. I raised my arm and swung it toward her, the blade arcing toward her face.
She jerked her head and shoulder to the left and didn’t even bother with blocking. The blade whiffed past her body into empty air.
Her eyes snapped to mine. “Is that all, girl?”
I recovered and swung again, a low lateral arc toward her waist.
She quick-stepped back, the blade once again missing her. Right now she wasn’t even using her magic. She let out a bitter bark of a laugh that clapped across the meadow.
Arrogant, spiteful queen.
A wild thought entered my head: I longed to defeat her. If only to see Rhiannon kneel to me. If only to see her hateful gemstone eyes lower to the ground at my feet.
When my voice came out, it hardly sounded like me. Someone had thrown gravel into my throat. “Sister-killer.”
The movement of the muscles around her eyes was fine, as though she had practiced a mask against insults every day in a mirror. But I could see it: the slight twitch of a deep, deep sting.
Yes. Yes.
I didn’t wait; I came at her faster, stepping in with a diagonal backhand aimed at her torso, so whiplike she couldn’t just dodge.
Her sword leapt up and deflected, the clang ringing through the night.Finally.I took another step forward and swung again, this time on the other diagonal. She blocked again, and then we were in it.
