the heart, but it took all my weight—at least I was a bigger man—to keep Iseul at bay; I had no chance to push him fully off. He’d attack again, and quickly. The second strike would likely throw me off-balance.
I braced myself for it, down on one knee and thinking through all the unfavorable situations I’d been trapped in, all the scars I’d won. Was I really going to let some Ke-Han bastard get the best of me, Emperor or not?
So instead of just waiting for the attack, I brought myself up to meet him as his sword came down the second time. The noise was so loud I thought I heard Josette shout behind us—less like a scream of fear and more like a vote of confidence. Or, at least, I chose to read it that way.
It surprised the Emperor, as much as he could be surprised, anyway, and I pressed my advantage without much finesse. Strength might win me this one, not technique. If only I had my fucking broadsword.
Iseul parried my every move, but at least I was driving him backward.
Pride undid me. I was too pleased with myself, and that blinded me to the possibility that the Emperor could be as strong as I was. That maybe he’d been holding back some cards for the very last round, the way they had in the war, so that by the time we’d got them figured, it was nearly too late to stop them.
And, just like that, I was on the ground, flattened out, dazed and aching and wondering how I’d got there. I’d lunged too quickly, pressed my advantage too fully, and Iseul had caught my blade with his own, then…
Then, he’d tripped me.
Still, I always knew the Ke-Han fought dirty. I should’ve been expecting it all along.
I could hear the sound of a sword coming down, could hear it sing through the air with such grace and speed that I knew two things. One, that the Emperor was a master swordsman, and at least I’d been bested by a worthy man. Two, that the Emperor was going to kill me.
You didn’t swing a sword like that unless you were aiming to kill, and I was down, moving too slowly. I brought my sword up, but my bad arm was numb, and there wasn’t enough strength in my hand to stop Iseul; he’d just drive my own blade into my neck with his own.
Shit, I thought. Caius Greylace had really done it this time.
“My Lord!” Lord Temur shouted from the sidelines. There was something in his voice I recognized—a little bit of the same desperation I felt, although not as much, obviously, since I was the one Emperor Iseul was about to slice open.
The Emperor stopped as if on the blade of a knife, the tip of his sword a bare inch away from my face. My life didn’t pass in front of my eyes or anything like that—I was used to almost dying—but the morning sunlight glinted too brightly off the metal of the Emperor’s sword, and my heart was pounding so hard I could scarcely hear anything else.
Then, just as neatly as you could turn a Ke-Han sword from sharp side to blunt, Emperor Iseul’s face lost that mad spark, so that even when I looked for it, I couldn’t catch the barest hint. He removed his sword in a deliberate gesture, graceful, as though it had all been a part of the dance to begin with.
Except I’d heard the panic in Lord Temur’s voice. That hadn’t been a part of any dance, Volstovic or Ke-Han.
“I overestimated your skill,” the Emperor said, as if that was his idea of an apology. Close to, the sharp planes of his face made him look less like a warrior-god and more a man wearing a demon mask. His eyes were lined with kohl, making them seem longer and thinner, like the eyes of some great cat that toyed with you before pouncing. The ornaments in his hair clinked together like the wind charms we’d seen in the city. “If it is your intent to practice here in the future, I will inform the guards that you are not to be disturbed.”
I didn’t know what the proper response to that was. How did you thank a man who’d just tried to kill you? Did you show you were grateful, just because something—fate or Lord Temur’s voice or a combination of both—had intervened? All I knew was, I was flat