Shadow Queen - By Deborah Kalin Page 0,34

landed a knee in her stomach, batting at her with the strength of desperation. Scrabbling and tumbling, we rolled out into the bright spill of sunshine.

Tears of relief stung my eyes, and I forgot about the skirts tangling my legs, almost oblivious to the heavy weight of her landing on my back. Someone would see, someone would help –

But no one moved forward.

I registered a cold shiver at my throat as the touch of sharp steel.

‘Like I said,’ Amalia whispered, ‘you should have picked the dying.’

‘Lady Amalia,’ came Gerlach’s voice from nearby.

I didn’t dare swallow as Amalia pressed the knife deeper against my throat.

‘Amalia,’ Gerlach said again. ‘Leave her. On your brother’s orders.’

The knife didn’t move and I stared straight ahead, gasping in the scent of dry grass and damp dirt.

‘My brother can’t kill his wife,’ she said. ‘It would be wrong.’

‘Your brother doesn’t want her killed,’ said Gerlach.

‘Perhaps,’ she rasped, her every breath swelling and ebbing against my back. ‘But he should. She’s treasonous.’

‘Actually,’ came Dieter’s voice, entering the fray, ‘she just won me a valuable alliance.’

Amalia didn’t answer and I felt her waver. At least, I prayed to all nine daughters of Turas that she was wavering.

‘I don’t want her dead, Mali,’ said Dieter softly. ‘Release her.’

But her elbow only pressed down harder. ‘I’m doing this for you, Diet.’

Dieter lunged forward, his arm snapping out to grab the blade. He wasn’t fast enough. Amalia drew it hard against my throat, parting my skin and releasing hot blood down my neck. Then there was a cry and her weight vanished from my back, the knife dropping to the ground.

I struggled to my knees, groping at the slippery sheet of blood at my throat.

Gerlach caught me as I swayed. Easing me down, he crouched beside me, pulling my hand from my throat so that he might see. ‘You’ll live. Come on,’ he said, one arm around my back helping me up and guiding me forward. ‘Let’s stitch you up.’

‘They’re both as crazy as each other,’ I said to him, though it hurt to talk.

He met my eyes with a shake of his head. ‘He did warn you. And you did marry him.’

‘Why does everyone keep reminding me?’ I replied.

ACT TWO

UPON A DARKENING FLOOD

FOURTEEN

BACK IN DIETER’S tent, Gerlach peered down at me, pressing a wadded cloth to my throat.

‘Amalia says you’re not Tamoran,’ I said, the words popping out of my mouth without time for thought. It was hard to talk past the force of his hands.

‘You were fighting over theologies?’ said Gerlach. ‘Not that I’m advising against passion in your beliefs, you understand.’

His voice sounded distant and faint to my ears. I must have lost a lot of blood. ‘Before,’ I whispered, an inadequate explanation. ‘The first binding wasn’t a Tamoran ceremony.’

He lifted the wadded cloth to peer at the wound, just as quickly pushing it down again. ‘My people, and Dieter’s, come from the northwest –’

‘The Marsachen tribe,’ I interrupted with illogical happiness. ‘They turned away from the rest of the Turasi.’

He accepted my lunatic cheer without qualm. ‘It would be more accurate to say they stayed Beneduin, while the other tribes turned to Tamor’s teachings.’

‘Is that where Dieter learnt his arcana?’ I asked, my voice slurring as drowsiness threatened to overcome me again. ‘From the Beneduin faith?’

‘No,’ said Gerlach.

‘Oh.’ I wanted to ask more, but it was hard to concentrate. The words kept slipping away unformed.

‘He knows the lore of many nations,’ said Gerlach. ‘In my experience, however, he’s most fond of the knowledge he learned from the Amaer.’

I nodded, and allowed my eyes to close. Someone had let the sunshine into the tent, I thought dreamily. The warmth was delicious, like sinking back onto baking sands.

The names Gerlach had given me – Beneduin, Amaer – chased through my head while I slept.

When next I opened my eyes it was Dieter’s face bending low over me.

‘You’ve quick reflexes,’ he said when he realised I’d woken.

‘Not quick enough,’ I said, an inexplicable shame burrowing through my chest.

He thumbed the cut on my throat, his touch gentle, then re-dressed the wound, carefully winding a length of clean linen around my throat, before fastening it and kneeling back.

I pushed up off the cot until I was sitting, a dull ache clutching at my throat and tension knotting my shoulders.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘You’re welcome.’

The next part came harder. ‘I should have heeded your warning.’

He pulled a blanket close and wrapped it around my shoulders. ‘Don’t be too grateful. If I’d let Mali