“Why so jumpy, Princess?” His grin has vanished, and he doesn’t seem amused now. “Put that down. In less than an hour’s time, Korynth is going to burn. You cannot stop that. But you can save your own life.”
I shake my head. “I would never marry you.”
He cocks his head. “You would marry a Kyrenican dog before you would marry me?” There’s a dangerous edge to his question.
“I thought you were my friend,” I answer. “You have always been my friend.”
“Indeed, I have been the greatest friend the House of Andewyn has ever had, and I have served her truly. Now, it is time the Andewyns serve me.”
He lunges right, but I had read his intention, and slip out of his grasp.
“Wilha, I cannot allow you to marry a Kyrenican.” He extends his hand. “But I can offer you a good life with me. A life befitting who you are.”
I shake my head and keep the poker pointed at him, trying not to be distracted by his words. “No.”
“Then,” he says, his voice quiet with resignation, “you will have to die.”
He draws his sword and lunges. I block him once, and then twice, but far too late, I realize Patric was right. I never learned how to properly attack. The minute I advance toward Lord Murcendor, he knocks the fire poker from my hands. Then he grabs my arm and forces me to my knees.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he says, and presses the tip of his sword to my throat. “After all these years that I have cared for you, it is destiny that we should be together.”
I don’t have the strength or the skill to beat him. But I do have the power to say no. The power to die on my own terms, instead of living on his.
“No,” I say.
He presses the blade deeper to my throat. I feel a sharp flash of pain, and a warm trickle slides down my neck.
There is a strange buzzing in my ears. Lord Murcendor stares at me, his eyes darkening with desire, his lips slightly parted, and I imagine he is looking at me—at the Glory of Galandria—one last time before he kills me.
In the end, my family’s wealth was not enough to stand between me and the blade we all hoped would never come. So many times I have wondered if the queens of Galandria past, though long dead, could somehow see me. And if they have watched over me, have they been pleased with the life I have lived? And when I pass into their realm, will they welcome me as a fellow Andewyn traveler? Or will they deem me weak, and unworthy of them?
Lord Murcendor raises his sword above my chest. The room starts to spin, and the buzzing grows louder. Behind him, in a swirl of iridescent powder blue, I see a hazy shape grabbing the satchel off the table.
“History,” Lord Murcendor says, breathing heavily, “will judge me as the man who restored glory back to Galandria.”
Just as he begins to lower his blade, his features contort and his face whitens.
“History,” comes Elara’s voice, “will judge you as a madman.” She raises a dagger coated with wet blood and stabs him—for the second time, I think—and Lord Murcendor falls away, striking his head on the table.
CHAPTER 58
ELARA
I just killed a man. The words pound in my brain, insistent like a hammer. I just killed a man. I stabbed him with my dagger when his back was turned. The knowledge sends me to my knees, and I clamp my hands over my ears.
“Elara? Elara, are you all right?” Wilha is at my side, though she seems far away, and I stare at her through the black spots that dance before my eyes. She is damp and dirty and smells like the sea. “Elara, take a few deep breaths and listen to me.”
I just killed a man. I’m floating away, being carried along by the wave of dancing black spots that beckon me into the darkness.
“Elara, I need you. I need you to stay with me.” Her voice is soft and warm. I reach out and tether myself to it like a child clutching a kite.
I watch Wilha, seemingly quite calm. She steps over Lord Murcendor and pours a cup of tea from a silver pot, and thrusts it into my hands. “Drink this, Elara. There is something I need to tell you. . . .”
“I killed him.” I can hear my voice, but it doesn’t sound like my own.
Wilha is bending over Lord Murcendor. “I don’t think he is dead. . . . It is difficult to tell with his cloak. But his wound doesn’t appear to be very deep. Perhaps he is unconscious from hitting his head?”
I sip the tea and slowly feel the wave turn. It carries me away from the darkness and back toward Wilha. The black spots dissolve, and strength returns to my arms and legs.
She grabs my arm and gives me a shake, “Elara, I need you to listen. Lord Murcendor is not the worst of our problems.”
“What?” I look at Wilha straight on, and realize that despite her calm voice, she looks panicked. “What do you mean?”
Wilha takes a deep breath. “He is planning to burn the city.”
All of those old buildings. So flammable. So easily destroyed. That’s all I can think of once Wilha finishes relaying the conversation she overhead.
“The city will burn fast,” I say.
“What do we do?” She turns questioning eyes on me, and I realize this is my problem to solve. She has carried the message, but the decision to act must come from me.
“When did you say they were to start?”
“At midnight, when the fireworks begin.”
I look at the clock above the fireplace. “That’s less than an hour from now. Stefan must be told so he can send guards to the docks, but the streets are packed with people and carriages,” I say, thinking fast. “You said the passageway leads directly to the beach by Rowan’s Rock, and that the men are camped out near there?”
Wilha nods. A plan is beginning to form and I start calculating how little time we have if we are to prevent the city from burning.
I finish the last of the tea and stand up. “I’m going to alert Stefan. You’ll be okay here alone?”
Wilha hesitates, glances at Lord Murcendor’s body, and nods.
“Good. Have the passageway open and torches lit when I come back.”
The great hall has the air of a good party which has nearly reached its end. Candles burn low in the chandeliers and tired laughter mixes with the opening strains of a waltz. Many of the partygoers have removed their masks. Their once-crisp appearances are now rumpled and wilted.
“Finally you come!” Stefan says gaily, detaching himself from a group of men. His eyes stray to my mouth, and I can tell he’s thinking of our last kiss. “Now we shall have our dance.” He leads me to the dance floor, too merry to hear me protest. He pulls me close and whirls me around. “This is where you belong,” he says, beaming.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on us, so I smile brightly. Causing panic will not serve my purpose.
As we dance, I stand on my tiptoes and bring my lips to his ear, as though I want nothing more than to whisper sweet nothings. “Stefan, you must listen and listen well,” I say, keeping my smile in place. “A handful of men are camped out near Rowan’s Rock. They plan to set fire to the city at midnight. It is their intention that by destroying Korynth, they will force Kyrenica and Galandria into war.”
Stefan goes rigid. He glances quickly about the room and continues dancing, his arms tightening around me. “And you came by this information, how?”
I hesitate. “It was Lord Murcendor who told me. The men are acting on his orders. His actions are in no way sanctioned by King Fennrick—by my father,” I force myself to say. “Lord Murcendor is unwell, he tried to attack Wil—me—and—”