Page 105 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

I’ve seen this particular man numerous times at the Royal Palace back home. Never paid much attention to him—he was simply one of my sister’s personal guards.

The healer is standing near him, handing him ahannasstick from her pocket, not from the tray she’s carrying. Strange—she gave Ducayne and me sticks from her pocket, too… not from the tray…

“The interrogation will begin,” my sister announces. “Guards, bring my sister and her thrall forward first.”

Two guards approach us, seizing our arms. Both of them havehannassticks clenched in their teeth, smoke curling around their heads like claws.

“Wait,” I say. “Look out the window! On the veranda—there’s a copy of one of your guards, Vienne—something’s wrong—listen to me, for once in your life!”

“You’re not making sense, little worm.” She grins as the guards drag us nearer to her.

But the guard holding me falters. Sways. Pitches forward, and her body crashes to the floor with a sickening smack, herhannasstick rolling across the dark glossy tiles.

The guard pulling Ducayne along is struggling too—choking, wheezing, reeling.

Not just them—everyone. Everyone in the room is gulping, gasping, clutching their throats, rocking on their feet, and toppling—one by one by one.

They’re seizing and spasming like Lombard did. Bloody foam bubbles from Imrissa’s red lips, while her thrall Gem crawls on top of her, crying, shaking, trying to get to the door. Penn sags against the door he’s guarding, then slides to the floor. Khal collapses with his two girls, all of them twitching, all of them foaming at the mouth. The parlor is carpeted with moaning, jerking bodies—not in the throes of pleasure this time, but in the grip of death.

The hunters, transformed into prey, speared on the thorns of Arawn.

Only a few of us are left standing.

The healer. The bodyguard. My sister.

Ducayne. Ward. And me.

Ducayne staggers a step away from me and vomits hard, splattering the bodies of two lords, Bazra’s friends.

My stomach does not react. But my heart pounds steadily, my blood pumps warm and rich through my veins, and my nerves are glowing. I am calm. I am ready for whatever happens next—Arawn’s gates, or the truth. A truth that is so close I can nearly taste it.

“Ward,” gasps Vienne. “What have you done?”

“N-nothing.” He falls to his knees between Anvel’s massive body and Zurai’s curvaceous one. Both motionless now. Both leaking blood from their mouths. There’s a horrible stench, too, as bodies all over the room begin to release their contents in death.

“I didn’t do this,” Ward repeats. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t.”

My sister’s bodyguard approaches her, moving as if he plans to protect her—but instead he rips her sword from her limp hand and plunges it into her stomach. Her body caves in on itself. She stares at the sword, her mouth working soundlessly.

I scream then. Because I hate her, but she is—she has always been there—she—

I run forward, knife in hand, and I plunge it into the bodyguard’s back. Right between two joints of his spine.

He yells in a voice that’s strangely familiar, a voice that shouldn’t be his.

I jerk out the knife and prepare to stab again.

“Stop!” The healer is upon me, clawing at my hands, pulling me off him. “Stop, Highness! It isn’t what you think.”

Whirling, I catch her by the neck, my tiny blade poised over her carotid artery. “What is it, then?” I hiss. “Tell me.”

“Let me heal him, and I will,” she gasps.

“Heal her first.” I point at Vienne.

But the healer gives me such a look—not sympathy, but a deep, icy understanding that filters down to my very bones.

“Heal her?” she says quietly. “Are you sure you want me to?”