Page 173 of Fate Breaker

At the back of her mind, something stung. Painfully, she wondered why Thornwall did not want her to interrogate the treasonous lord.

“Normally, I would agree,” he mumbled, glancing back to the tents and the torches.

“But?” Erida blinked rapidly, feeling her vision clear. Just in time to study his face, watching for any tell of a lie. “Is there something you would like to confess, Lord Thornwall?”

Her old commander turned to stone before her eyes, his jaw set beneath his gray beard. His eyes flashed, and she saw the Lion of Galland in him too.

“I am the commander of the armies of Galland,” Thornwall said shortly. She imagined this was the man his soldiers saw, intense and unyielding. “If I were guilty of treason, you would know it by now.”

Erida nearly choked, words dying in her throat.

Thornwall took it as indication to continue, to her chagrin.

“Lord Konegin will be executed. He knows it, and he knows there is nothing in the realm that can save him from your just punishment,” he said. “So he will tear out your heart. He will name every noble who ever smiled at him, who ever entertained a whisper of his plans for the throne. Up to his dying breath, Konegin willpoisonyou.”

As he tried to poison Taristan. As he tried to poison the realm against me.Her fist curled, the wound singing. It kept her level, even as her anger simmered, rising to a boil.

“Kill him, and be done with it,” Thornwall begged. His stern face melted, eyes wide with desperation. “Let the treason die with him.”

Erida hated his reason, his logic, his good sense. He was right about Konegin, she knew that plainly. But the temptation loomed, too great to ignore.

“It is good advice, Lord Thornwall,” she said, moving past him, leavingher commander alone with the torches, the knights, and the blinking stars.

Inside the tent, Taristan sat waiting, a knife on the table next to him. He eyed her as she crossed the carpets, stopping a yard away from Konegin’s crumpled form.

She gave a nod and Taristan cut the gag away. Her cousin gasped and spit, sputtering against the floor. His hands were still bound, tied behind his back. Without them, he could not sit up, and remained slumped, cheek pressed to the carpet, eyes rolling in his head.

Another might pity the old man. Erida would not.

You bring this upon yourself, my lord.

“You will tell me everything,” she said, gesturing for the knife.

For a moment, Taristan did not move. He returned her stare, his expression unreadable and distant. Erida tightened her jaw, holding out her good hand.

The hilt of the knife felt right in her palm, well balanced. It was a small blade, the edge gleaming, meant for delicate work.

Konegin stared, eyes flickering between Erida’s face and the knife in her grasp.

“You have grown, Erida,” he said, his voice hoarse and dry. “Grown into something terrible.”

“I am what you made me,” she said, taking a step toward him. “I am the punishment you have earned. A woman in the place you sought to fill, a woman who holds all you tried to take. Better than you in every single way, greater than you could ever dream to become. You tried to put me on the pyre, my lord. But it is you who will burn.”

With a smile, she bent low, stooping so they were eye-to-eye. Her blood sang, the river coursing in her. What Waits did not push, so much as make His presence known. She leaned into Him, bracing against Him as if He were a wall behind her.

Her eyes flamed, her vision going red. She could not help but smile, knowing what Konegin saw in her.

His mouth dropped, the blood draining from his face.

“I am what you made me,” she said again.

In the morning, twelve lords swung from twelve ropes. The rains of early spring dripped down their bodies, washing them clean of their treasons. Konegin’s body hung highest, above the rest of his conspirators. She would not let him wear the lion to the gallows, and he was dressed as a lowly prisoner, in little more than an undershirt and breeches. Gone were his velvets and jeweled chains. Gone was the circlet of gold.

Erida watched the corpses for a long while, the crowd of nobles dissipating around her. They whispered and stared, dark-eyed and pale-faced. Thornwall walked among them, silent but dutiful.

Erida cared little for the opinion of noble sheep. She was a lion, and she would not answer to them any longer.

Only Taristan remained at her side, bareheaded beneath the rain. His hair ran dark against his face, the red locks near to black.