Page 74 of The Masked Princess

“How long do you need to tend a few cuts, Princess? Captain Kierson looks more than ready for battle to me,” King Nelan’s sardonic voice cut through the thudding of Soren’s heart.

“They say that patience is the sign of a great ruler, King Nelan, but since you’re so eager to start your duel, I need just a moment more.” Annalise’s response dripped with venom, and a corner of her mouth tipped up as the whispering from the courtiers grew louder.

She finished her tending, and whether it was the adrenaline surging through his veins or the treatment she’d provided, Soren felt almost like a new man.

Annalise pressed her gloved hand to the side of his face in a tender caress. He caught it in his own, then pressed a kiss to the top of it.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I already feel much better,” he said.

She smiled and dipped her head in acknowledgment, then turned away and walked back toward Nelan. She ignored the priest and the flummoxed man standing next to him, went directly past the dais, and took a seat on the throne reserved for Rhinnea’s queen.

“As the challenged, I choose this duel to be by the sword,” King Nelan said as he stood from his seat and stepped off the dais.

Soren laughed and sent a quick prayer of thanks to the Goddess above. “I am grateful, King Nelan, for your choice. As you can see, I cannot use my left shoulder. A battle-axe would have put me at quite the disadvantage.”

“Don’t thank me yet; I don’t know of any swordsman who has ever won a duel using his non-dominant hand. We all saw your skills in your duel with Lord Grenlef, but you are still at a handicap, Captain Kierson,” Nelan said as he drew the gaudily decorated monstrosity that hung at his side.

“You think so? I fear you’re mistaken, King Nelan.” Soren walked toward the king, sword settled comfortably in his grip like the handshake from an old friend. He smiled broadly and took great pleasure when Nelan took a step back. “You see, I’m actually right-handed.”

CHAPTER 54

Soren had to give it to Nelan; the Rhinnean was a well-trained swordsman. He at least knew which end was the pointy one and how to move his feet, which was more than Soren expected from a king who appeared all too ready to let others do the dirty work unless his victim was tied and bound. Of course, all of that being said, he wasn’t necessarily a good swordsman, let alone a great one.

If Soren were at full health, Nelan could have held him off for three breaths at the most. It was only because of Soren’s injuries that it took him as long as he did to find a suitable opening.

He was being picky—but he couldn’t afford anything less. He estimated, judging based on the effort of his jog to the throne room, that he had enough endurance for a few minutes; while his legs were mostly fine, pain wracked his upper body and back. It was far easier to use his quick footwork to dodge than it was to catch Nelan’s sword full-on; each time Soren used his sword to deflect, the shockwaves that traveled up his arm felt like claws raking across his side.

Then, like the clouds opening during a thunderstorm and allowing a brief ray of light to shine through, Nelan dropped his guard ever so slightly. It gave Soren only a sliver of a window, but the twist of Nelan’s body combined with the way he shifted his weight ensured that the king wouldn’t be able to counter in time.

Soren lunged forward and dealt Nelan a severe blow to his shoulder. The blade bit deep, and Nelan cried out, dropping his sword and clutching the joint with his free hand. Blood ran freely from between his fingers, and the Rhinnean king fell to his knees.

“Mercy, mercy, please,” Nelan pleaded as Soren placed the tip of the sword at his throat.

“Mercy like what you showed your envoy our first night here? Like what you showed Annalise, or me?” Soren’s voice was quiet and cold as ice. He hated Nelan; the man was depraved and manipulative and sadistic. He deserved death a thousand times over.

And yet… Soren looked at Annalise and felt the rage drain out of him. The death of a monarch, especially at the hand of an enemy soldier, was no small thing, and he didn’t wish to destabilize Rhinnea too much when it was the main buffer between Dovea and Praxis. He also hazarded a guess that Nelan had been made enough of a fool that his own lords and generals would champ at the bit to further test his mettle. It wouldn’t surprise him one bit if Rhinnea had a rebellion begin within the year.

“I’ll spare your life on one condition, King Nelan.”

“Name it. Whatever you want, it will be yours,” Nelan cried.

“You will enable Queen Annalise and her entire retinue to leave Rhinnea unmolested and will ensure their safety all the way until they set foot on Dovea’s shore.”

“Yes, yes, of course. It shall be done. General Anar will take care of it.”

Soren looked to the side where the general in question stood. At Soren’s raised eyebrow, General Anar nodded.

“Then I will spare your life this once. Do better, King Nelan. Your people deserve it.”

As he walked around the sniveling king, Soren hoped Nelan would take his words to heart; Rhinnea and Dovea were long-standing enemies, but that didn’t mean they had to remain that way. As the gateway to the west, Rhinnea was Dovea’s first defense against Praxis, and if the empire was as hungry as King Nelan and his ambassadors believed, Soren would much rather shore up the wall that might protect Dovea rather than watch it fall.

Soren walked to Annalise, who stood from her throne and met him in front of the dais. He took her hand in his. “Let’s go home, Your Majesty.”

Annalise looked up at him with an expression so full of hope and happiness that his heart fluttered. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, a searing pain sprouted from Soren’s side and around his back.

He clutched his side as the agony slid over him like an angry wave. When he looked down at his blood-covered hand and the rapidly spreading blood stain over his tunic, his vision wavered.

Annalise cried out, her angelic face twisted in a mask of horror.