Page 45

“I hope the Countless ride across your throats,” he growled, leaning forward.

Behind her, Taristan stirred. She did not have to look to know he still had a hand on the Spindleblade, his infernal eyes locked on the besieged prince.

“Orleon, the only throat you should be worrying about is your own,” Erida warned. “Surrender the city. I’ll even allow you to ride out and bring my terms to your father.”

“Your terms are no terms at all,” he said, dismayed. Something broke in his face, his gaze wavering. “Kneel or be slaughtered?”

Erida smiled.He realizes there is no hope of victory. He sees the path before him, and it only runs in one direction.

“It seems a simple choice to me,” she answered.

Orleon fumed, his lips pursing. Then he drew his head back. Erida scowled as his spittle landed inches from her boots.

“I preferred the arrows,” Erida muttered.

Taristan moved beside her, deliberate, a prowling cat, his focus trained on princely prey. But still he remained silent, his lips pressed almost to nothing. If he opened his mouth, Erida feared he might devour Orleon whole.

Orleon did not see the danger in her consort. He did not know Taristan as she did, even in these short months that now seemed to eclipse the rest of her days.

The prince of Madrence grinned cruelly. “Have you removed his tongue as well as his balls?”

Erida knew the question before Taristan even asked.

“May I kill him?” he whispered.

The truce flags hung over them, full of warning. Again Erida wondered. The truce right was an age-old agreement, one of the core tenets of war.

Taristan waited, patient as a snake in its hole. The red sheen was in his eyes again, barely more than a glimmer, but enough. What Waits watched through her consort’s eyes. And yet Taristan held back. She could see his restraint in every corded muscle, in the slow pulse thrumming at his neck. And in his eyes too, holding off the red presence. Keeping it—keeping Him—at bay.

Until her own decision was made.

Erida inhaled, lips parted, as if she could taste the power in the air.Herpower. She blinked, holding Taristan’s gaze. Her fingers twitched, and she could almost feel a leash in her hand, begging to be let go.

The Queen looked back to Orleon.

“Yes.”

The Spindleblade loosed from its sheath and the Lionguardclosed in, shielding Erida from the bloodshed. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, somehow louder than the clash of steel and iron. Breathless, she peered through the gaps in golden armor, wide-eyed as Taristan carved his way through the Madrentine soldiers. They were no match for Taristan, even without his many dark blessings. He was a ruthless killer, lethal and sure. She watched as he dodged their swords and found the weak points in their armor, felling each with a few careful jabs. The herald’s body collapsed in a pile, the truce flag splayed across lifeless legs. His head rolled off the bridge and into the marsh.

Erida had seen men die before. Executions, accidents at tournaments, her own parents wasting away in their beds. She was not unfamiliar with blood. She felt no roiling in her stomach, no light-headedness. It was surprisingly easy to watch her consort massacre his way across the bridge, even as the archers returned to their assault. They only managed to stick their own; the bodies pincushioned where they lay.

Prince Orleon of Madrence was no soldier of a city garrison. He was as well trained as any noble son, familiar with blade and armor. And eager to prove himself somewhere other than the training circle or the tourney ground. His sword rose high, silver at the hilt, rich garnets winking between his fingers.

He was only a little older than Erida—twenty-three years old, if she remembered correctly. The silver horse charged across his breast, flashing in the midday sun as he parried a blow, his blade meeting Taristan’s. They glared at each other over crossed swords, their faces only inches apart.

Orleon grimaced, buckling under the strain of holding Taristanat bay. An arrow buried itself in Taristan’s shoulder, but he hardly noticed, and Orleon paled, sputtering in confusion.

It took only a sweep of the Spindleblade to sever the royal line of Madrence.

Red bloomed in the marsh beneath the bridge as the sword continued to swing.

Even in death, the herald did his job. He was a warning to his own city, testament of the massacre to come.

9

The Dazzling Realm

Ridha