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The boy looked wildly at the captain, then flicked his gaze into the crowd of Jatan a little way back. “Simon.”

“This was a peaceful meeting, Simon, meant to secure the future of Jatan. Why would you jeopardise that?”

“I thought it was just him.” Simon jerked his head toward Luc. “They said the poison was at the bottom of his cup, that only he would fall.”

“Who’s they?”

Again, his gaze flicked to the line of Jatan soldiers. “I don’t know.”

The lie was so obvious, Bartholomew lost his friendliness. “I won’t ask you again. Who’s they?”

An arrow smacked into Simon’s chest, and the young soldier staggered back into Eduard’s arms.

“Was it Hurst?” Luc asked Simon as Eduard lowered him down.

Bartholomew looked at him sharply, but Luc’s attention was on the boy. Blood bubbled on his lips and he turned and coughed some up.

“Was it Hurst?” Luc bent down on one knee, but Simon gave a sigh and went limp.

“He’s gone,” Eduard said.

Bartholomew rose up, and Luc saw absolute fury in his eyes as he turned to his own army. “Who shot that arrow?” His voice quivered with outrage.

There was silence in response, except for a shuffling nervousness from the soldiers in the line.

“Someone here tried to kill all our councillors, the high-general and General Tuart.” Bartholomew sounded incredulous. “Why would you protect someone like that? Someone who doesn’t even have the courage of their convictions to admit they’re responsible, who kills a boy rather than have their name known.”

“It was Lieutenant Hurst!” The shout came from a few rows back from the front line.

A moment passed and then Hurst pushed his way out from the line. “I have the courage of my convictions.”

“Of course.” Luc swept his arm at the victims behind him, and at the dead boy at his feet. “Only after you’re outed, you come forward. You poison and you ambush. You’re a real prince.”

“I’m a strategist.” Hurst’s tone was defensive. He obviously thought he held a certain amount of sway among the troops, and he risked losing them if they saw him as a coward.

“No, you’re a traitor.” Bartholomew glanced back at Baclar, but the captain’s boss was still lying on the ground. “What were you hoping to achieve?”

“They were going to sell us out.” Hurst flicked his hand at the councillors. “We can’t afford reparations. We were at war, and we needed supplies. There was no shame in what we did, raiding villages for food.”

“And your father’s death, caused by his own arrogance and stupidity, didn’t figure in to your decision?” Massi had stepped closer, as well, and she scoffed at Hurst. “Why don’t you admit this is a personal vendetta? You thought the councillors would all die, your soldiers would kill the rest of us, and somehow you would walk out of this with your father’s place in the army, and power in the running of Jatan.”

Bartholomew looked at her with interest. “That’s a neat summary.” He looked at Hurst. “Your mistake was using poison that didn’t kill them all straight away. Then, I admit, it would have been a bloodbath.”

“Jura makes everything taste too bitter. It had to be diluted. But they should all be dying, if not dead.” Hurst seemed at a loss. “I’ve never heard of anyone surviving jura poisoning before.”

As he said the words, Baclar pushed himself to his hands and knees.

Bartholomew looked at Luc and he gave a nod. The captain ran over to his general and knelt beside him.

A prickle of warning ran over Luc, a tingling of his skin, and he swung to face the Jatan, moving in front of Baclar as another arrow flew from between the Jatan rows toward the high-general and his aide.

He was slow, not his usual self, but he was fast enough to put himself in the way.

The arrow lodged in his chest and he pulled it out from where it had caught in his cloak, snapped it in two with both hands, and threw it on the ground.

Massi had raised her bow as soon as the shot was fired, but there was no clear target. The Jatan had closed ranks.

“As I said,” Luc sneered at Hurst. “A coward.”