No one heard—but her words were echoed by the Lady Syllva. Pendarlon rumbled. Roshka spoke low and urgently to Hadin beside him. Talb the Mage shifted uneasily, fingering his beard. Unheeding, Irrylath touched the hilt of the Edge Adamantine, much as Erin's hand rested upon the broadsword Bright Burning. Aeriel felt the dark girl's jaw hardening.
"I am not a liar, Prince Irrylath."
Her hand tightened on the sword. With a start, the young man leaned forward suddenly, staring at Erin's weapon. Aeriel heard the sharp intake of his breath. His eyes had become like blue lamp-flames burning.
"That glaive you bear is Witch-made," he breathed. "I doubt it not. Her handiwork is unmistakable—"
" Aeriel gave me this," Erin grated. "Disbelieve if you dare, you faithless wretch!" She spat the last word. "It is only your own falsehood gnawing at you. That and the knowledge that this whole war hangs on her, and you are nothing beside her. No match to her and never will be…"
Hoarse as a madman, the young man cried, "You are some catspaw of the Witch!"
Without warning, he sprang, covering the paces between himself and Erin in less than a moment. The dark girl's eyes widened. Through her, Aeriel saw the sweat on Irrylath's brow, the scars threading one cheek, the animosity in his hot blue eyes.
"My son, no!" the Lady Syllva gasped.
Adamantine flashed in the prince's hand: its snaking blade gleamed with a white radiance, its edge so keen it could cut anything. Already Pendarlon was springing. Behind him, Roshka and the prince's brothers shouted, bolting forward to stay him. The guards in the entryway were nearer— but they would all be too late. The sword was beginning to fall. It would be over between one heartbeat and the next.
Perceived through the dark girl's eyes, Irrylath's blade almost appeared to Aeriel to be flashing down upon herself. Seething, the dark islander stood, refusing to retreat.
"Erin!" Aeriel screamed, throwing up one arm as though somehow to fend off the adamantine blade.
In that same instant, Erin unsheathed the sword. She brought her own long, straight, burning blade up in a clean arc to meet the white serpentine edge of the prince's shortsword. The two blades met with a sound at once like a silver bell and a low flute note and a bandolyn string sharply plucked. Aeriel fell to her knees, feeling the shock resonate along her whole length as the Edge Adamantine was blocked and held. The blade that could cut anything could not cut the burning sword.
Irrylath cried out. Grimacing, he clutched his wrist as though he meant to release his weapon or lift it away, but it seemed he could not move. The white fire that swirled about the dark girl's blade threaded upward along Adamantine to touch the prince's hand. With a groan, he sank to his knees. Erin stood gazing at him, astonished.
"Let be!" Aeriel cried out. "Have done!"
And this time, somehow, the others in the tent leagues distant heard. The Lady Syllva halted where she stood. Roshka and Irrylath's brothers broke off their headlong rush. Pendarlon checked, snarling.
The guards dashing in from the doorway froze. As Erin lifted Bright Burning away from Irrylath's blade, the fire touching his hand vanished, and the prince slumped, sword arm falling heavily to the ground.
Adamantine made a clean, dustless cut in the earth. Sabr ran to him, her own dagger drawn. Erin ignored her, holding the glaive upright before her, staring at it.
"I did not mean to draw this blade," the dark girl whispered. "Something seemed to steer my hand. I meant only to stand defiant until the last moment, to see if you truly meant to have my life." Still staring at the blade, she was speaking to the prince. "I thought no need for swords. I thought the others would stop you."
The broadsword sang and hummed. Aeriel heard her own sobbing in the sound. Panting, Irrylath cradled his arm as though it were painful—or numb, A stab of fear went through Aeriel. She had no idea whether the sword's fire had harmed him permanently. He seemed dazed. All the others in the tent were casting about with baffled or frightened looks, save Pendarlon, who, staring at Erin's blade, was making a low cat-growl.
"Stop, stop," Aeriel wept, hardly realizing that she spoke aloud.
Now everyone was staring at the glaive, even Irrylath. Sabr steadied his head, which lolled