grip. “What the—”
“I told you to go!” Dareus said fiercely, pointing at the second swordsman. As he spoke, Justen swung his sword. The blade buried itself in the man’s neck. A killing blow.
Harkeld bent and snatched up his own sword. He stepped past Dareus, taking in the fray with a glance. The silver-maned lion lay on the ground. Cora crouched beside it. He saw blood on its pale flank, an arrow jutting from its hip. Five soldiers were running—three of them naked apart from their boots—a wolf snapping at their heels. Four men lay unmoving on the ground. Another wolf hung from the arm of the last soldier standing. The man beat at the animal with his free hand, screaming.
Harkeld lowered the sword. He pushed back his sleeve, expecting to see singed hairs, singed skin. Nothing. His arm was fine, as if he hadn’t felt the lick of flame, hadn’t felt fire inside him.
He glanced up again. The last soldier was following the others at a staggering run.
The wolf that had been hanging off the man’s arm changed into Gerit. He spat and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood. He glared at Harkeld from beneath bushy eyebrows. “You shouldn’t have come back.”
Harkeld flushed, clenching his jaw. He knew Gerit was right. “I’m not used to running away.”
“Get used to it,” Gerit said, scowling at him. He hurried across to the lion, where Dareus now crouched beside Cora.
INNIS LOOKED AT the blood on her sword blade. Bile rose in her throat. I killed a man.
Someone strode towards her. “Are you all right?”
It was Prince Harkeld.
Remember you’re Justen. Innis attempted a smile. “I’m fine.” She couldn’t bring herself to look at the man she’d killed. His legs were at the edge her vision. She focused on the prince. “You have blood on your face.”
“So do you. “
Innis scrubbed her cheek with her sleeve. Her hand was trembling, her arm, her whole body. I killed someone. I have his blood on my face. She tasted bile on her tongue and swallowed. Behave like a man, she told herself fiercely. Justen wouldn’t fall to pieces; he’d take it in his stride. He’d be practical and pragmatic.
She turned to the soldier she’d killed and wiped the sword blade on his tunic. Practical. Pragmatic.
The smell of the man’s blood filled her nose.
When she straightened, her head swam for a moment. Innis gritted her teeth and stopped herself from swaying, stopped herself from vomiting. She frowned at the prince. “What are you doing here?”
“You were outnumbered,” he said. “I thought they were going to kill you.”
Innis sheathed the sword. It took two tries, her hands were trembling so much. “You shouldn’t have come back, sire—” She focused on what was happening behind the prince: Dareus, Cora, and Gerit crouched beside something on the ground. “Is someone hurt?”
“The lion.”
“Petrus?” Her nausea vanished abruptly. She pushed past the prince and ran across to the others.
Petrus was no longer a lion. He lay naked on the ground, his face twisted in a grimace. Cora held a bloodstained cloth to his ribs.
Innis reached for him. “Let me—”
Dareus gripped her arm. “He’s fine. We’ve stopped the bleeding.” His voice held a warning. His gaze went past her to the prince.
The snapped-off shaft of an arrow lay on the ground. “The arrowhead?”
“In his hip. We’ll leave it for now.” Dareus released her arm. “Tonight Innis can heal him. Right now, we need to get into Lundegaard.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY was performed in the Silver Hall, a room of white marble, cold silver, and glittering mirrors. Armsmen stood around the walls, their uniforms bold slashes of color.
The princess wore white and gold, the duke the scarlet and gold of Osgaard’s army, with his plumed commander’s helmet on his graying black hair. Karel glanced at the man once—the smug smile on his fleshy mouth, the bright, greedy eyes—and looked away.
The last royal marriage had been Prince Jaegar’s, to a cowed little princess from Roubos. That ceremony had been held in the throne room, but the throne room still bore the marks of the witches’ attack six days ago.
Prince Jaegar’s annulment had been conducted with less fanfare, when the little princess proved unable to conceive. She’d been lucky to be barren; Osgaard’s queens tended to be short-lived,
Karel’s gaze settled on King Esger. Four dead wives. How many of those deaths were at your hand? Queen Sigren’s, without doubt. Queen Agneta’s—for the sin of producing one daughter and then five still-born babes—most