Page 58

B arnadine moved with the skill and speed of an experienced fighter, and the seething ferocity of a madman. He seized my throat and squeezed.

I tried to kick, strike out, but he was a beast with long arms. His lips pulled back from his black teeth. I couldn’t touch him. I couldn’t breathe. My knees buckled. Red stars exploded in front of my eyes. I heard screams, but it wasn’t me. I couldn’t scream.

Did the sounds come from the stairwell?

Before I could grasp hope, Barnadine’s grip loosened and I flew like a ragdoll.

I fell to the ground, panting, sucking in one breath, two breaths.

But air was a luxury I couldn’t afford. My still-clouded vision saw two men wrestling above me, feet stumbling on the floor.

I scooted back, and back, until I was huddled against the rail.

I pulled the stiletto from my ankle sheath and gripped it in my trembling hand.

Friar Camillo had seized Barnadine and pulled him off me, but the untrained monk was no match for the seasoned warrior.

He was losing, yet Barnadine didn’t grip him around the throat or pull a knife to end his life.

In an awful tone, he whispered, “What are you doing here?” and grappled with the youth as if . . . as if he couldn’t bear to hurt him.

Absolute and final confirmation that I was right; Friar Camillo was Elder’s son with fair Helena—and Barnadine’s nephew.

“Stop, in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I command you!” Friar Camillo shouted.

Barnadine still wrestled with the monk, his eyes narrowing, and I could see the intent in his gaze. He might not intend to kill a monk, but he could knock him out of the fight.

Friar Camillo could also see his determination, and as Barnadine pulled back his fist, Friar Camillo said, “Stop, Uncle!”

Barnadine froze. He stared. Every line of his body bespoke horror and rejection. “What did you call me?”

“Uncle.” Friar Camillo put his hands on Barnadine’s shoulders and leaned close to his face. “Although Sister Agnese will soon go to glory, my mother is not yet dead. You know that, and you know that you’re my uncle.”

I dragged myself along the rail, wanting to flee, unable to stand, body bruised, fingers aching from clutching the stiletto, eyes fixed on the scene before me.

“I do.” Barnadine took a quivering breath. “How do you know these things?”

“Did you think our paths would never cross?” Friar Camillo asked.

“I visit Helena. I visit her as often as I can, taking food and blankets. She never told me that the two of you have found each other,” Barnadine said.

“We decided silence was for the best.”

“She tells me everything. ” Barnadine managed to sound as if she’d betrayed him by keeping secret what he so badly wanted to be secret.

“She fears her sin has caused you to break your vow to protect Prince Escalus the elder. She fears you killed her lover.” In a deep, sorrowful, sad voice, Friar Camillo said, “Uncle, she fears for your eternal soul.”

“She can’t know what I did!”

“She fears it,” the young monk repeated. “We decided I would watch you to make sure you brought no further harm to anyone, and when I realized what you intended for Lady Rosaline, I haunted her footsteps.”

Which explained a lot about the sightings and warnings of Friar Camillo.

Barnadine put his hand to his eyes, then gazed at his palm as if surprised by the tears therein. “Helena is dying.”

“Aye, so she is, and all her prayers are for you, her beloved brother. She would not have her transgression stain your soul.”

“No!” Barnadine howled like a dog in pain. He struck out with his fist, knocking Friar Camillo off his feet.

The monk’s neck snapped. He flew backward. His skull hit the railing with a hollow sound, and he slumped down, unmoving and unconscious.

I crawled toward the still, prone figure, whispering, “Friar Camillo, no, please. Friar Camillo!” Of course, I feared for myself, but I feared for him, too, for the brave youth who had watched over me, who had sought to save me by fighting his own warrior-uncle.

Before I reached him, Barnadine snatched me by the skirt and yanked.

I skidded backward, lost my grip on my knife, reached for it, clumsily caught the hilt.

Barnadine grabbed my sleeves, and amid the rip of thread and lacing and the clatter of glass beads, he roughly stood me on my feet and spoke into my ear. “Never mind the old prince. This is your fault. Your fault that Camillo knows the truth of his birth.”

“Let me see if he’s alive,” I begged.

“Your fault I killed my own nephew!”

“Let me check him and see if I can revive—”

“You’re going to pay.” Ruddy-cheeked and witless, Barnadine shoved me toward the railing.

I dug in my heels. I tried to turn. I wanted to make him see what he had done, and that with the right help, it could be undone. “No. Don’t. We don’t know if Friar Camillo is dead. I might be able to help him.”

“You’re the demon behind the demon mask.” The rabid wolf had been released.

I flipped my knife and blindly slashed at him. I struck flesh, I know, but Barnadine flicked the stiletto away like a buzzing mosquito and lifted me off my feet. “You must die. You must die!”

As the world twirled, turned upside down, as my hip thumped the rail hard enough to bruise, as I knew that didn’t matter for death awaited me over the edge—I emitted a full-bodied scream.

Elder materialized out of thin air, shouted, “Judas!” and leaped at Barnadine.

Barnadine gave his own full-bodied scream.