balanced on the balls of his feet, half-crouched. As long as he remained nearer the door, they might yet defeat Gunnar. “Quickly.”
She scrambled up, but she did not leave as he had hoped. Somehow, she had the king’s knife in her hand, though she still held her other arm awkwardly and her face had gone white with pain. She shut the door to the tower room, leaning heavily against the oaken panel. “Together, Bolthorn. As we agreed.”
“And I suppose you were coming here, all this time?” the king said, his lip curling. But his eyes darted between them now, his weight shifting as if he was not certain where he wished to strike. “Consorting with this monster? A true daughter of your mother in more ways than one.”
“Yes,” Arianna agreed, her voice cool, even distant. Too distant. “My mother’s daughter in all the ways that matter. And if she died to keep her magic secret, to keep her power from your hands, then I will do what I must to honor her sacrifice. Even if it means my blood is cursed.”
“You’d murder your own father?” Gunnar bared his teeth. “A true snake in my nest.”
Arianna shook her head. “You’ve made it more than clear you never considered me to be anything of yours. And if that is so, you cannot be surprised I would wish to see my mother’s murderer made pay, life for life.”
Gunnar laughed, lifting his empty hand to show the blood staining his fingers. “You truly believe you have any power over me?”
And then he spoke in Elvish, the accent all wrong, the words strangely wrought, but the meaning clear enough to make the blood upon his hand steam in response. Let her burn.
Arianna’s back arched, and she cried out, twisting away from the door, away from the flaming heat upon her own skin.
“No!” Bolthorn threw himself at the king.
And what had he been doing before now, letting Gunnar talk? Arianna had wished to know the truth, and that might have been harmless enough. But he had not realized—how could he have known? He’d given the king no Elvish himself, no matter how many times he was beaten, and who else might teach him? Where else could he have learned?
The whip snapped but Bolthorn caught the worst of it on his arm, shielding his face. He was too close for it to do much beyond sting and he let it coil around his wrist, tearing it from the king’s grasp. Gunnar himself danced out of reach again, diving for the door.
Bolthorn did not let him reach it, catching the velvet of his finely stitched jacket and dragging him to the floor. He wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat in the next motion.
“You will never harm your daughter again.”
“Bolthorn!” Arianna’s warning came a moment too late. The king’s knife stuck deep between his ribs. Bolthorn howled, reaching for the hilt, only just stopping himself from drawing it free. Too much blood. He could not leave his blood, even with Gunnar dead, it was not safe. Not when someone else must have known enough to teach the king how to use it.
Gunnar dropped from his grasp, scuttling backwards.
Too slow and weaponless now. Bolthorn grabbed him by his calf, hauling him back, and let himself fall to his knees upon the king’s chest. Gunnar’s ribs gave beneath the weight, all the air leaving his lungs in a wordless cry.
“And this will be the last time I bend my knee to you,” Bolthorn growled.
Gunnar’s hands pulled at his, wrapped tight around the man’s throat once more, clawing desperately. His lips formed words, but without breath, no sound came with them. His windpipe collapsed, so delicate, and his eyes popped wider still.
The scent of fear grew rank, filling the room, and Bolthorn tightened his grip, his stomach churning with bile. He twisted until he felt the crack of Gunnar’s spine, and at last, the man lay still.
Dead.
Bolthorn clutched at the knife in his side and slumped against the stone wall.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Bolthorn!” She crawled across the floor to his side,
She scrambled up, but she did not leave as he had hoped. Somehow, she had the king’s knife in her hand, though she still held her other arm awkwardly and her face had gone white with pain. She shut the door to the tower room, leaning heavily against the oaken panel. “Together, Bolthorn. As we agreed.”
“And I suppose you were coming here, all this time?” the king said, his lip curling. But his eyes darted between them now, his weight shifting as if he was not certain where he wished to strike. “Consorting with this monster? A true daughter of your mother in more ways than one.”
“Yes,” Arianna agreed, her voice cool, even distant. Too distant. “My mother’s daughter in all the ways that matter. And if she died to keep her magic secret, to keep her power from your hands, then I will do what I must to honor her sacrifice. Even if it means my blood is cursed.”
“You’d murder your own father?” Gunnar bared his teeth. “A true snake in my nest.”
Arianna shook her head. “You’ve made it more than clear you never considered me to be anything of yours. And if that is so, you cannot be surprised I would wish to see my mother’s murderer made pay, life for life.”
Gunnar laughed, lifting his empty hand to show the blood staining his fingers. “You truly believe you have any power over me?”
And then he spoke in Elvish, the accent all wrong, the words strangely wrought, but the meaning clear enough to make the blood upon his hand steam in response. Let her burn.
Arianna’s back arched, and she cried out, twisting away from the door, away from the flaming heat upon her own skin.
“No!” Bolthorn threw himself at the king.
And what had he been doing before now, letting Gunnar talk? Arianna had wished to know the truth, and that might have been harmless enough. But he had not realized—how could he have known? He’d given the king no Elvish himself, no matter how many times he was beaten, and who else might teach him? Where else could he have learned?
The whip snapped but Bolthorn caught the worst of it on his arm, shielding his face. He was too close for it to do much beyond sting and he let it coil around his wrist, tearing it from the king’s grasp. Gunnar himself danced out of reach again, diving for the door.
Bolthorn did not let him reach it, catching the velvet of his finely stitched jacket and dragging him to the floor. He wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat in the next motion.
“You will never harm your daughter again.”
“Bolthorn!” Arianna’s warning came a moment too late. The king’s knife stuck deep between his ribs. Bolthorn howled, reaching for the hilt, only just stopping himself from drawing it free. Too much blood. He could not leave his blood, even with Gunnar dead, it was not safe. Not when someone else must have known enough to teach the king how to use it.
Gunnar dropped from his grasp, scuttling backwards.
Too slow and weaponless now. Bolthorn grabbed him by his calf, hauling him back, and let himself fall to his knees upon the king’s chest. Gunnar’s ribs gave beneath the weight, all the air leaving his lungs in a wordless cry.
“And this will be the last time I bend my knee to you,” Bolthorn growled.
Gunnar’s hands pulled at his, wrapped tight around the man’s throat once more, clawing desperately. His lips formed words, but without breath, no sound came with them. His windpipe collapsed, so delicate, and his eyes popped wider still.
The scent of fear grew rank, filling the room, and Bolthorn tightened his grip, his stomach churning with bile. He twisted until he felt the crack of Gunnar’s spine, and at last, the man lay still.
Dead.
Bolthorn clutched at the knife in his side and slumped against the stone wall.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Bolthorn!” She crawled across the floor to his side,
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