structure: her own colors, Urival’s, Tobin’s, Sioned’s—and those of two others whose presence shocked Andrade to her soul. Realizing too late that Sioned had trapped her, she fought panic and tried to gain control of the starlight. But this weaving was Sioned’s, and Andrade could do nothing but feel her strength given as Sioned demanded.
Rohan drew back, dazzled by the cold Fire that arched up around him. Roelstra cursed frantically as a flare of diamond-bright light hit the dome with a sound like a great glass bell being rung, echoing deeply from curve to curve of the dome. Rohan took advantage of his enemy’s distraction and lunged in, sword ready to take Roelstra’s head. But the High Prince moved just in time, escaping with a only gash cut into his left arm.
“So Andrade has closed us in,” he rasped. “That’s too bad—I wanted everyone to see you die.”
Rohan wasted no breath on a reply. His shoulder had not warmed to the exercise as he had hoped; there was no battle fever to counter his weariness, and the anticipation that had burned along his veins during the ride was gone. He had spent too much of himself this long day, and his only hope was to finish Roelstra quickly—if he could.
The High Prince laughed as if knowing Rohan’s thoughts. “Tired, princeling?” He drove in, without finesse but with a great deal of strength, and Rohan sidestepped out of his way.
Steel clashed again and again, resounding off the star-spun dome until Rohan’s ears rang. Neither man indulged in elegant swordplay; each was after blood. Cold sweat ran into Rohan’s eyes, sheathed his body in ice. Lunge, parry, evade, thrust, dodge, lunge again. His right arm was fast becoming incapable of hefting the sword that was heavier each instant. He heard Roelstra’s harsh gasping breaths, smelled the sweat sheening the fleshy body, saw the welts leaking blood where his blade had cut the High Prince. But he would not have wagered right then on his own victory. For all Roelstra’s years and excesses, he seemed inexhaustible.
Angling his sword as Roelstra brought his own back for a powerful thrust, he tried to cut the man’s legs from under him. The tip of his blade caught just behind the knee, and steel flawed in the day’s battle snagged in the High Prince’s soft leather boot. In the attempt to free himself, he drove the sharp tip into his flesh, growling with pain. Rohan wrenched the blade away and tried to follow up, but his arm chose that moment to falter. The sword slid from his hand. Balance lost, he fell hard to his knees, gasping at the impact.
“Excellent position,” Roelstra taunted, “one you should have adopted long ago. I’ll teach it to your Sunrunner princess before I teach her to forget you in my bed—the way you forgot her in my daughter’s!”
Rohan dove for his sword and forced his two hands to close around it, good hand locked over the strengthless one. Roelstra sliced almost contemptuously into his back as Rohan rolled away and came up on one knee. He barely felt the new rent in his skin, but for the trickle of blood that mingled with the renewed flow from his right shoulder. Roelstra gave a short burst of breathless laughter and closed in. Twisting around, Rohan caught the hilt of his sword against Roelstra’s, struggling to keep the blades locked even as the High Prince struggled to separate them. With a groan of agony as the effort tore his shoulder completely open, Rohan felt Roelstra finally give way. The suddenness of it flashed suspicion through his mind that it was deliberate—but the High Prince stumbled down onto the grass, cursing.
Rohan gasped, each breath a stab of fire. It was beyond him to use the sword now, its weight insupportable. He went for his boot knife and heaved himself onto the sweating body. Powerful fingers closed over his wrist, wrenched his arm back, nearly tearing it from the socket. He realized that in another moment he would black out, and writhed from Roelstra’s grip.
The High Prince grunted with pain as he heaved to his feet, swaying, blood dripping from his knee. Rohan went for the other knife and had his ribs kicked for his trouble. Body curling in anguish, breath sobbed in his throat and for the first time he was cold with the fear that he was going to die.
Roelstra stood over him, panting. Sword retrieved, he leaned on it, the tip imbedded