Five Dark Fates (Three Dark Crowns #4) - Kendare Blake Page 0,111
grips her leg as a sudden blast of horns rings out from the rear of the queensguard.
Arsinoe does not need to look to know what it is. She does not need to see the frantic soldiers scattering from the direction of the sea.
“The mist,” she whispers. “Come to join us at last.”
When Pietyr’s eyes met Katharine’s across the battlefield, he thought that he would freeze. That he would be killed by some queensguard sword, while he stood, struck dumb. But he had kept on fighting. She had called his name. He could read it on her lips. And the look in her eyes was not one of confusion, or hatred at seeing him in the rebel colors. It was only happiness. Relief. Yet Pietyr had kept on fighting.
As he makes his way through the chaos, that is the thought that keeps his sword arm strong and his legs moving forward. He passed the test. Face-to-face with his Katharine, he had kept on.
For she truly is his Katharine. The moment he spotted Rho riding across the field, he knew that the dead sisters were no longer inside Katharine’s skin. Poor Rho. He is the only other person who knows what it feels like to have those dead queens poured into you, and he does not wish it on anyone, not even her.
Pietyr steps over a fallen soldier and gasps; she looks so much like that little priestess that Bree Westwood is always running around with that he is almost fooled. It is hard to hear, and to get his bearings. The whole world is shouting and metal on metal. And on top of that, his ears still hum from being thrown to the ground so hard that he bounced when the legion-cursed queen and Rho collided.
“Hey!”
Pietyr turns as Billy makes his way toward him through the struggling bodies.
“Why are you not fighting?” Pietyr shouts. “Instead of following me like a lost dog? They did not say we had to stay together!”
He dives as Billy swings hard at his head.
“Are you mad?” Pietyr asks before he looks behind him and sees the fallen queensguard solider.
“No, I’m not mad.” Billy pulls his blade out. “Also, you’re welcome. Where are you sneaking off to in such a hurry?”
“I am ‘sneaking off’ somewhere I am less likely to die.”
“Come on,” Billy tilts his head. “Come back the other way.”
“Do you see what’s happening the other way?”
“You have to serve your purpose.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
To his astonishment, the mainlander comes forward, sword swinging. It is an unpolished display—bad form, a poor grip, with less chance of cutting him than had he used a butter knife—but Pietyr stumbles backward.
“You idiot!” Pietyr shouts, and then they crouch as an arrow strikes near their feet. They wait out the volley together, shields over their heads as arrows sink into the dirt like rainfall.
For all his talk of poisoner glory, Pietyr never imagined he would be in a fight like this. The sights and smells of the dying do not bother him. But the chaos—the panic and the disorder—it makes his breath come faster and sweat prickle the back of his neck.
“Blast these random volleys! Give me an arrow guided by the war-gifted. At least they always hit their mark.”
“You’d rather be hit?”
“I would rather be hit clean than pinioned to the ground by an arm or a leg,” he snarls, and feels a moment of empathy for the Deathstalker scorpions that he pins to his lapel.
Billy comes out from behind his shield. The wooden edge is stuck with an arrow. He breaks it off with his foot.
“You say you’re slinking off for safety,” he says, “but you’re heading in the direction of Arsinoe. Tell me why.”
Pietyr’s eyes narrow. Perhaps the mainlander is not so stupid after all. He is headed for Arsinoe. But not for the reason the boy thinks. Arsinoe is his best chance to get to Katharine. He does not know what will happen to her today. He only knows that he needs to be there when it does.
Billy misconstrues his narrowed eyes and rushes him again. Their shields bash, and Pietyr clenches his fist to stop its vibrating.
“Are you not forgetting your sworn target?” Pietyr asks. “In case you missed her, Rho Murtra is right over there.” Across the battlefield, the rebel lines have already begun to flag as the shouts of the warrior captains are ignored and formations break and scatter. He is running out of time.