Furyborn

She twisted in his grip. He cut into the soft flesh of her upper arm.

God, no, he’ll see—

“I suppose I shall have to find the Emperor a more grateful recruit,” he mused softly, “and keep you for myself.”

He swirled one long finger in her fresh blood and dragged it down her arm to her elbow.

He glanced down—and froze.

Eliana followed his gaze. The world slowed and stilled.

Together they watched the cut on her arm close.

An instant later, the skin was as good as new.

Rahzavel’s gaze shot back to hers, and for the first time since she had known him, she saw a spark of something other than bloodlust in his eyes.

Wonder. Confusion.

Fear.

Eliana could hardly breathe. Her blood raced hot beneath her skin.

“What are you?” Rahzavel whispered.

A sudden movement, just beyond Rahzavel’s shoulder. A tall, dark shape; a shift in the air.

Eliana flashed Rahzavel a smile. “I am your doom.”

Rahzavel leapt up, turned, and met Simon’s sword with his own.

Eliana rolled away, retrieved Arabeth, and pushed herself to her feet, ready to jump in after Simon and help, but the sight of them stopped her in her tracks.

Rahzavel and Simon whirled, stabbed, struck, their blades cutting the air. They swerved and ducked and parried and thrust. Whoever the Prophet was, he had obviously made sure Simon was well trained enough to fight even the Emperor’s own assassins.

She followed them into the expansive sitting room at the rear of the maidensfold, unsure how to help. Her vision had cleared, but Simon and Rahzavel were moving so quickly it seemed to her simply elegant chaos—daggers and swords, crimson and silver, the blood on the floor and the bloodred wings of Rahzavel’s cloak.

Their fight took them onto the terrace surrounding the maidensfold. Eliana hurried after them, the warm coastal breeze washing over her. Below, one of the river’s tributaries crawled slowly to the sea.

Rahzavel’s blade caught Simon’s, pinning him against the stone railing. They were locked together, Simon’s eyes full of cold fury, Rahzavel’s empty and deadly. Simon’s knees were buckling.

Eliana saw her opportunity, dove for Rahzavel’s back with her dagger. He whirled at the last moment, knocked both her weapon and then Simon’s out of their hands. Eliana grabbed a porcelain urn from a nearby table, brought it crashing down on Rahzavel’s shoulders. He barely stumbled, but it was enough.

Simon kicked Rahzavel’s elbow, and the assassin dropped his sword. Then Simon shoved him across the terrace railing.

Kicking and clawing, Rahzavel jabbed Simon in the throat, but Simon held on, gasping for air. Eliana hurried to his side, helped him push.

Rahzavel tumbled over the railing and fell into the blackness below.

Eliana gazed over the edge, trying to see if he hit the river, but the night was too dark. She wiped blood from her face, breathing hard.

Simon joined her, coughing from Rahzavel’s last blow to the throat. He spat over the railing, his lip curled with disgust.

“Do you think the fall was enough to kill him?” the girl—Navi—asked, joining them at the railing.

Then the bells of the watch towers along the palace walls began to ring.

Navi hissed a curse. “Razia. She disappeared shortly after you arrived. She must have reported you.”

Eliana’s eyes met Simon’s. “Follow me. We’ll have to do this the hard way.”

She led him and Navi back through the palace, down a different network of narrow servants’ passages. They met three adatrox coming up from the ballrooms. Navi flattened herself against the curving stone wall while Eliana and Simon punched and stabbed their way free.

They dashed inside a suite of rooms in the palace’s east wing, where party guests occupying the bedrooms shouted in protest, then raced out onto another wide terrace, this one lit with rose-glass lamps and fragrant from heaps of flowers. Below, Lord Arkelion’s gardens were a sea of light and color.

Eliana led the way, jumping off the terrace into a row of shrubs. She landed hard, branches cracking beneath her, and rolled to her feet. She heard Simon and Navi land behind her, heard Navi’s soft cry of pain.

Partygoers leapt back, alarmed. Someone screamed.

Eliana whirled, searching. A squadron of adatrox burst out of the Morning Ballroom, swords in hand. Two held rifles. They crouched on the steps, aimed, prepared to fire.

Two shots rang out; Eliana ducked. A nearby stone urn shattered. A group of dancers in silks and bangles fled, screaming.

Eliana led Simon and Navi through the gardens, knocking past the stunned guests, trying to ignore the sounds of the pursuing adatrox. She could not think of Rahzavel, of how lucky it was that he would have no chance to tell anyone about the impossible thing he had seen.

She would think only of Harkan, of her mother, of Remy.

Remy, I’m coming. Don’t be afraid.

More adatrox waited for them at the gardens’ perimeter, where a guarded tunnel led into the outer yards. Simon barreled into the adatrox, cut down two. Eliana saw a revolver flash and shoved Simon out of the way just as a shot rang out, then spun around and sliced open the shooter’s throat.

They made it into the outer yards, then through the Lord’s Gate and into the city itself. The Old Quarter was in a panic, citizens scrambling to return to their homes. Limp naming day garlands scattered the uneven cobbled streets. Fireworks exploded overhead in a shower of red.

Eliana looked back to see the palace looming some distance away—and a dozen adatrox in close pursuit.

Finally, they emerged from the Old Quarter and barreled through the bedlam of the common markets on the city’s edge, where vendors and shoppers, having planned for a night of revelry, now scrambled for safety.

Eliana looked ahead to the east bridge. Signal fires flared to life in the towers flanking the water. Soon every soldier in the city would know exactly where they were.

They hurried past the towering Admiral’s statue, where Harkan stood waiting. He lit a bombardier and hurled it past them toward the approaching adatrox. An explosion, screams of shock and pain—then a ringing silence.

The market grounds lay in ruins. The bombardier had bought them a moment or two.

A small weight slammed into Eliana, throwing its arms around her.

Remy.

She kissed the top of his head. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Harkan stood behind him, looking past Eliana. More adatrox were coming, pouring down from the city’s upper levels. He threw back his hood, loaded the revolver Simon had given him.