Oclanna comes to stand opposite me. I see her husband, Jocor, standing at the front of the crowd behind her. He looks terrible.
Good.
General Becane steps forward from his position to my left. Leon and my friends are to the right of the dais. I give them one last look, soaking up the sight of their faces.
Then the general’s voice sounds. “Your Highness. Your Majesty. May the gods guide the rightful victor to glory. You may begin.”
My hand flies to my sword, unsheathing it. In the same moment, Oclanna turns and snatches up one of the glasses, hurling its contents into the air. It freezes almost instantly, the water droplets drawing together to form a wickedly sharp shard of ice hurling directly toward me.
I swing my blade upward in time to meet it, sending the shard spinning away. It hits the dais and shatters apart, the pieces sliding across the floor with a tinkling sound.
Trying to catch Oclanna before she throws any more, I run forward, but she already has the second glass in her hand. I preempt her move, slicing out with my sword.
But the timing’s wrong. Instead of deflecting ice, my blade moves through the water she’s flung into the air. She smiles, then suddenly my sword is heavier, the metal freezing cold—to the point where I almost lose my grip on it. The water around the end of the blade has solidified, forming a lump of ice.
I back up, trying to knock the ice off the blade in an awkward, ungraceful gesture, but it’s stuck fast, and my skin is protestingnow, burning against the frosty surface. Oclanna draws her own sword and sprints toward me. I meet the swing of her blade with my own, the clang echoing across the chamber as the impact reverberates through my bones.
But I only just blocked the blow in time. The balance on my sword is all messed up now, and I know misjudging its speed and movement next time could cost me my life.
I press my blade against hers, shoving her back toward her side of the dais. Then I drop my sword, kicking it to the edge. It’s a liability to me now. Instead, I grab hold of the nearest dagger strapped to my thigh. I can’t get close to her while she’s still got her sword, but I’ve always had good aim. I fling the dagger out, and it spins toward her. Oclanna lifts her arm to try to block it, but she only exposes more of her shoulder. The blade slides just past the edge of her tunic where the thick leather covering her torso ends, leaving only a thin cotton shirt. Blood blooms across it as the metal sinks into the flesh of her shoulder.
She screams, dropping her sword in shock and pain. As she reaches up to pull the dagger from her shoulder, I charge at her, yanking my other dagger from its sheath.
Then I step on some of the melting ice.
My foot flies out from under me, and I hit the floor hard.Stupid. Clumsy,I yell at myself, gasping as all the wind is knocked out of me. Still, at least I manage to keep hold of my dagger.
I roll over to see Oclanna bearing down on me, face twisted in fury. She’s picked up her sword again but is holding it awkwardly with her left hand now, her right arm still hanging limply with the dagger buried in it. I do the only thing I can do: kick out, hard. My boots connect with her stomach, stopping her swordinches from my chest. She grunts as the air is driven out of her, and I push my right boot up, so it connects with the hilt of the dagger in her shoulder.
She screams again as the tip of my toe drives the blade deeper into her flesh. She staggers back, stumbling for more water as her chest heaves. She’s clearly realizing she needs to keep her distance from me, but from the corner of my eye, I see my sword at the dais edge. The ice on the end has started to melt. It seems this stuff doesn’t stay frozen for long.
I dive toward the sword, but I’m not fast enough to block the icicle that comes flying toward me. I twist my body to try to avoid it, angling my elbow upward. The razor-sharp tip of the ice grazes my forearm, cutting through the red fabric and slicing a long gash into my flesh. I let out a cry of pain but keep moving, curling my fingers around the pommel of my sword.
When I stand, it’s with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. I give them both an experimental swing as I lock eyes with Oclanna. She’s hunched up beside the table, trying to get a better grip on her sword. But I can see fear is taking over her now, panic flooding her veins. She’s shaking, and I wonder if she’s ever been wounded before in her life, ever felt the sharp bite of a knife on her skin. She still can’t seem to move her right arm—not because my dagger severed something important, I don’t think, but because she doesn’t know how to fight through the pain.
Oclanna glances between her sword and the table of water, clearly wondering which weapon to trust with her life.
I don’t give her a chance to make that choice. With a spin and a flick, I throw my second dagger. She manages to raise her sword to block it, but I’m already running forward and swingingmy blade low, catching her across the legs before she sees me coming.
It’s not a killing blow, but she collapses to her knees with a shriek, dropping her sword. I kick the blade out of reach, then shove the table over on the other side of the dais. The crowd of nobles quickly backs up as the water spills over onto the floor.
There’s a soft pitter patter on the dais as blood drips from my arm, but I ignore it, circling Oclanna. She tries to get to her feet again, but I shove her down with a foot, and she releases a desperate sob.
“Alastor!” I shout, keeping my eyes on Oclanna, making sure she doesn’t try anything. I sense movement in the crowd and see a flash of blond out of the corner of my eye.
“Ask her,” I say, trusting my friend is paying attention. “Ask her if she killed my mother and father.”
There’s a commotion on another side of the dais—scuffling and some shouts. I hear Jocor’s voice protesting, but I ignore it. This is my only chance to hear her say it, and I’ll be damned if I let her die without getting this closure.
“Were you responsible for the murder of Queen Elowen and King Alaric?” Alastor asks.
The sudden serene expression on Oclanna’s face is at odds with the tears staining it.
“Yes, I was,” she says. I ignore the reaction of the crowd, listening carefully to her answers.
“Did you act alone?”
“No. The Grand Bearer gave me instructions on framing the Filusian prince through Anointer Nunias. Jocor hired the assassin.”
