before, and Ram won every time. But it was never easy. Kip could take a lot of punishment, and sometimes he went crazy. They both knew it. Ram said, “So do me a favor, huh?”
“We have to go!” Kip nearly shouted. He didn’t know why he was surprised. It was no mistake they always called Ramir Ram. He picked a goal and went straight at it, bashing down anything in his path, never veering right or left. His goal today was to take Isabel’s maidenhead. That simple. No mere invading army was going to stop the stupid animal.
“Fine. Come on, Isa, we’ll go to the orange grove,” Ram said. “And don’t think I’ll forget this, Kip.”
Ram took her hand and pulled her into a walk. She went with him but turned, looking over her shoulder at Kip, as if expecting him to do something.
But what could he do? They were actually going the right direction. If he went over there and punched Ram in the face, Ram would beat him bloody—and worse, they’d both be out in the open. If Kip followed on their heels, Ram might assume he was trying to start a fight even if he wasn’t, with the same result.
Isabel was still looking at him. She was so beautiful it hurt.
Kip could stay. Do nothing. Hide under the bridge.
No!
Kip cursed. Isa looked back as he emerged from Green Bridge’s shadow. Her eyes widened, and he thought he saw the shadow of a smile touch her lips. Real joy at seeing Kip pursue her and be a man, or just venal delight in being fought over? Then her gaze shifted up and left, to the opposite bank of the river. Surprised.
There was a man’s yell from above, but over the hiss of the waters Kip couldn’t understand what he said. Ram stumbled as he reached the top of the riverbank. He didn’t catch himself. Instead, he dropped to his knees, tottered, and fell backward.
It was only when Ram’s limp body rolled over that Kip saw the arrow sticking out of his back.
Isa saw it too. She looked at whoever was on the bank, glanced at Kip, and then bolted in the other direction.
“Kill her,” a man commanded in a loud clear voice, on the bridge directly above Kip. His voice was passionless.
Kip felt sick, helpless. He’d wasted too much time. His mind refused what his eyes reported. Isa was running along the bank of the river, fast. She’d always been fast, but there was nowhere to hide, no cover from the arrow Kip knew was coming. His heart hammered in his chest, roared in his ears, and then, suddenly, its rate doubled, tripled.
The barest shadow flicked at the corner of his eye: the arrow. Kip’s arm spasmed as if he himself had been struck. A flash of blue, barely visible, thin and reedy, darted from him into the air.
The arrow splashed into the river, a good fifteen paces away from Isa. The archer cursed. Kip looked down at his hands. They were trembling—and blue. As achingly bright blue as the sky. He was so stunned he froze for a moment.
He looked back to Isa, now more than a hundred paces away. There was the same flicker of a shadow as another arrow passed from the periphery of his vision to the center of it—right into Isa’s back. She pitched face first onto the rough stones of the riverbank, but as Kip watched, she got back up to her knees slowly, the arrow jutting from her lower back, hands and face streaming blood. She was almost to her feet when the next arrow thudded into her back. She dropped face first into the shallows of the river and moved no more.
Kip stood there stupidly, disbelieving. His vision narrowed to the point where crimson life swirled from Isa’s back into the clear water of the river.
Hoofbeats clopped loudly on the bridge above them. Kip’s mind churned.
“Sir, the men are ready,” a man said above them. “But… sir, this is our own town.” Kip looked up. The green luxin of the bridge overhead was translucent, and he could see the shadows of the men—which meant that if he or Sanson moved, the soldiers might see them too.
Silence, then, coldly, the same officer who had demanded Isa die said, “So we should let subjects choose when to obey their king? Perhaps obeying my orders should be optional, too?”