at an easy pace, content in his victory. He leered with a crescent-moon
smile as he stood over Corayne and tore her old blue cloak away. The sword on her back mirrored his
own, a twin. The other Spindleblade.
The squire did have it—and now Taristan will too.
The Elder hissed something Sorasa could not hear, but she saw the lightning bolt of rage cross his face.
Taristan muttered in return, amused, before putting his back to the court, his tall frame blocking Corayne
completely.
The dagger tucked against Sorasa’s wrist, eager and waiting. Her sword stayed beneath her slashed
skirts, too conspicuous to draw yet. Now now now now, she prayed, cursing herself for having cut so
long a wick. The pouch was still in place, the smallest spark still climbing. Sorasa quickened her pace,
coming within feet of the high table, the wine still in hand. The knights didn’t notice another maid, even
one with torn skirts. Nearly there.
A howl split the great hall. Taristan fell back from Corayne, clutching one side of his face, blood welling
between his fingers. His wizard bolted forward over the dais, mouth moving fervently, shouting a prayer
or a spell or both.
Sorasa heard none of it; the world narrowed in her eyes. It was time to act.
She painted Lionguard armor red.
Wine for the closest, the flagon catching him hard in the chest. It spilled all over him as she pretended to
trip, nothing more than a clumsy servant. Her sudden, deliberate weight made him stumble, and she
was by him, blade close, focused on the knight above Corayne. His arm drew back, the glint of the knife
keen and cold at the girl’s ribs. Sorasa’s was faster, jabbing between the joints of his armor, finding
home in the veins of his neck. He sputtered and fell, grasping his neck, dripping crimson all over himself.
It poured hot and wet over Sorasa’s hands even as she grabbed for Corayne. The girl was frozen, an
odd scrap in her grasp, her legs unmoving, body like lead.
If I have to drag this girl all the way to the docks, I swear to Lasreen . . .
“Run, gods damn you, run!” Sorasa snarled, throwing her sideways into a sudden gap in the wall of
knights. Three more were sprawled on the floor. Dom stood over them, a dagger protruding from his
side, a swath of blood staining his tunic and trousers, dripping to his boots.
Sorasa saw their predicament as an equation, her mind reducing to battle and circumstance, as she
had been trained. Three on the floor, one still stumbling with the wine, this one dead. She vaulted over
the knight choking on his blood, running after Corayne. She hoped Dom and the squire were smart
enough to follow. Taristan and Erida’s knights certainly would.
The rumble of an explosion set a rare smile to her lips, which widened with the sound of running chain.
She paused at the passage door to glimpse the chaos. The chandeliers fell in succession, each one a
hammer, splintering tables, sending plates and bodies flying. Courtiers tried to dodge, leaping over each
other, while the dais dissolved quickly, the Queen’s advisors fleeing in all directions. Taristan fought to
his feet, caught in the melee, one side of his face jagged with cuts, while Red Ronin cursed at the
vaulted ceiling. The Queen found herself prisoner to her own knights, the Lionguard shielding her from
debris.
The Elder passed Sorasa first, his face a white sheet. Then came the squire, Trelland. Sorasa added
them to her count.
Four alive.
She drew a long, ragged breath. Run, her instincts said, only a whisper now.
It was easy to ignore.
She drew the door shut and barred it with a heavy thunk of wood. In the great hall, the chandeliers
continued to fall, thunderous. Her own heart beat in time, a steady rhythm. The danger fed something in
her, enough to quell any fear for now.
The other three did not share the sentiment. Corayne reached back to check her sword, her fingers
shaking horribly, her eyes wide as dinner plates, black ringed by stark white. The Spindleblade was still
there like a gash down her back, comical in size compared to her small body. Dom leaned against the
wall beside her, his lips in his teeth, one hand testing the dagger still buried in his side. Only the squire
seemed to be of any use. He ripped his blue-and-gray coat into rags, holding them against Dom’s
wound.
“Do I have to do everything
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