“Soon, boy,” you said, and you were smiling.
23
I WALKED THROUGHthe gates first, this time. You hadn’t liked it much, but I simply wasn’t going to watch you take another arrow. In the end I’d threatened to run in naked with a target painted on my back, and you’d thrown up your hands and said, “As you will, then!”
I strolled through the arch fully clothed, cigarette pinched in my left hand, revolver in my right. I didn’t bother to hide the gun; the Hinterlanders wouldn’t know what it was, even as the bullets entered their brains.
I called up to them: “The Red Knight approaches!” I spoke the words in Shvalic and sent silent, guilty thanks to the Hinterlander boys who had taught me the words. “Archers, take aim!”
I pressed my back to the curtain wall, as if I were hiding from you. There was a moment’s confusion above me—they didn’t recognize me and hadn’t expected a warning—but my hair was dark and curling, like theirs, and I’d spoken to them in their own language. Three arrows were notched to three bows, and three men emerged from their hiding places.
They had survived the First Crusade, which meant they were cautious: Very little of their bodies were visible around the parapets. Half a face, the helmet pulled low. A right shoulder, capped in boiled leather. Small targets, even for a fine marksman. More than enough, for me.
I put my cigarette back between my teeth, cupped my left hand around my right, and let my mind fall away. My body—which had survived the same war a hundred times, which knew how to shoot in the same way it knew how to eat and drink and sleep, without thought—lifted the revolver, took aim, and pulled the trigger. My arm swung smoothly to the right, thumb on hammer, finger already tightening on the trigger again, riding that whisper-thin line just before it fired—a second target, a second shot, and a third, before the first body could hit the stones.
A weird quiet fell. I pictured the rest of the Hinterlanders crouched inside the Keep, baffled by the sound of gunfire. I pictured Vivian risingcalmly from her sickbed, making her way to the throne like an actor scurrying behind the curtain.
The quiet lasted less than a second. You arrived in a clatter of hooves and steel, sword already drawn, eyes casting wildly until they found me.
I lifted one hand in greeting. “Hello, love.”
You scowled. Tapped your right cheekbone. “Slow.”
I touched my face and found a streak of raw, tender skin just below the wire of my spectacles. The last archer must have loosed his shot as he died.
I dropped my cigarette and stamped it just as the Keep doors crashed open. A voice shouted orders and men came swarming out, not knowing their archers were already dead, not knowing their whole brave, desperate venture was nothing but a plot device.
I nodded toward them. “One chance,” I reminded you. “That’s all they get.”
You dipped your head to me, a ghostly imitation of the oath you’d taken, and turned to address the men marching closer. “Soldiers of the Hinterlands! Halt now, I beg you!” Their steps faltered, paused. You laid Valiance across your thighs and lifted one hand, palm out. “Only lay down your arms and let me pass, and we will shed no more blood between us. I will kill you if I must, as I have done before, but my quarrel is not with you.”
At this juncture in the story, I was usually so terror ridden—so torn between duty and desire—that I had attention only for you. But now, for the first time, I studied the faces of the Hinterlanders. Young and not-young, bearded and clean-shaven, mostly men, a few women. Their armor was mismatched, ill-fitting, perhaps stolen from Yvanne’s court. I recalled that this had been a diplomatic visit before it became a coup.
One of them—a somber woman with thick gray braids—answered, in perfect Mothertongue, “But ours is with you, Everlasting.”
“Why?” you asked, and it occurred to me what a good question it was. Why would a group of twelve diplomats attempt to dethrone a queen?
The somber woman said, “We were shown a—vision. I cannot explain it. A scene made of light and shadows, which showed the future. The Hinterlands beneath the boot of Dominion. Our people forced to kneel to a foreign queen. Our soldiers dead or surrendered. And everywhere—your face.Everlasting,they will call you.”
“Do you mean—did she show you anewsreel?” Why lie when the truth would serve her better? “God, she’s efficient.” Everyone in the courtyard looked at me, frowned, and looked away.
The Hinterlander leader shook her head. “We cannot let it come to pass.”
You bowed your head. Here was another circle we could not break: I had killed their countrymen, and now they would kill you, to prevent it.
You hefted Valiance into the air again and said, gravely, “Then I will make it fast.”
It was.
The last time you’d fought this battle, you’d relied on your strength and skill, on the sheer physical mastery that had been beaten into every atom of your body.
But this time, you also had your memories. You had seen every strike and step of this fight, every variation and surprise, and so you anticipated every blow.
A blade thrust toward your stirrup, but you’d already wheeled Hen aside. A shield lifted to stop your blow, but you’d already chosen another target. A hand caught your wrist, but you’d already tossed your hilt to your left hand. I pitied the Hinterlanders: It was frustrating, to fight an enemy that knew the future.
When it was done, and the yard was quiet once more, you had not even been unhorsed. But your head was hanging low, and your sword arm hung slackly, as if it were not your arm but only a piece of meat sewn to your shoulder. I touched your leg, just above the stirrup.
You stirred. “If—when we succeed in this—when we get the book again—we will go back to the very beginning. We will change all of this, not just the ending.”
