Pleased by this drawing of first blood, the men break into grim smiles. As they shift on their feet, I feel a hand on my bound wrists. I pull away, fearing one of the soldiers has decided to act on his own, then realize these are a woman’s hands that have touched me. A moment later, something hard and sharp is slipped into my fingers.
A knife.
I glance over my shoulder and see Jamette silently slipping back among the crowd. While she does not love me, she does love Julian. But what can I do with one puny knife? Does she wish that I put him out of his misery? Or hope that I will use it on myself and stop the fight?
Keeping my eyes on the men in front of me, I slip the knife up so that it is hidden between my hands, then maneuver it until I feel its tip meet the resistance of the rope. Then I begin sawing at the bindings.
D’Albret is openly toying with Julian now; a quick blow here, a nick there, a sudden cut to the arm. Frustrated, Julian sidesteps and swings his blade upward, coming inside d’Albret’s guard and almost—almost—plunging his sword into the other man’s gut, but d’Albret sidesteps at the last possible moment. The mood of the watching men shifts again, their displeasure palpable, for they bear Julian no love. He has never been one of them like Pierre has.
Julian is growing tired now and is no longer quick on his feet. I saw frantically at the ropes, my fingers cramping and slick with blood where I have nicked myself.
Pressing his advantage, D’Albret takes a mighty swing. Julian ducks so that the blade whistles through empty air, then uses d’Albret’s brief moment of surprise to deliver a stroke that crunches so loudly I am sure he has broken at least one of d’Albret’s ribs. Although I feel like cheering, I keep silent, for it would only draw attention my way.
Then Julian gives up all pretense of fighting fairly or with honor and rushes, lifting his sword so that it will catch d’Albret square in the face, but the older man steps back and stumbles as the crowd gives way, and the blow misses. Even if by some miracle Julian survives the fight, I am not sure the men will let him walk away.
And still I cannot cut through the be-damned rope.
Julian is bleeding from a dozen different cuts, and if he ever owed a debt for having loved me, he has surely paid it.
At the next flurry of blows, I must look away, for Julian’s fatigue is so great that I fear each blow will be his last. I pull against the rope once more, hoping I have frayed it enough that I can free my hands, but still it holds.
When the sound of clashing blades stops, I look up. Julian is breathing hard, and I can feel the labored beating of his heart as it tries to keep up with the strain of attacks and fuel his flagging body, and my own heart aches for him. Then d’Albret comes on hard and fast, but incredibly Julian is able to block each blow, until a savage swing that nearly decapitates him. He jerks back just in time, but the tip of the blade opens his right cheek to the bone. I long to run to them, to put myself in front of Julian and stop this game of d’Albret’s. I do not even realize I have taken a step forward until de Lur yanks me back. I glance at him and pray I live long enough to kill him after I kill d’Albret.
If I kill d’Albret. The fight is winding down. Julian is staggering, his sword arm drooping, his blade dragging on the floor.
But d’Albret does not press his attack. Instead, he says, “By God, I will end this now.” Then he raises his sword high over his head. But instead of lunging toward Julian, he pivots, aiming the blow in my direction, and some small part of me is glad. Glad that he has chosen Julian over me and that I do not have to watch another loved one die.
But Julian, ever quick-witted Julian, sees what d’Albret’s intends. He leaps in front of me, and the sword plunges through his chest. His dark eyes widen with surprise—and pain. As I cry out, doubling over in anguish, the rope around my wrists finally gives way.
As Julian falls, the entire hall grows quiet and all the men step back. Not out of respect for Julian, but out of fear for their own skins, for it is hard to know how d’Albret will react to this.
In the ensuing silence, I drop to my knees beside Julian. The force of his leap wrenched the sword from d’Albret’s grip, and it is still impaled in his chest. He is soaked in crimson, his face is even whiter than Death’s own. His soul beats frantically against the trappings of his mortal body, desperate to be free of the pain that consumes him. He tries to speak, but his pale lips cannot form the words.
“Dearest brother, you were wrong. The best part of you still lives.” I lean down and place my lips upon his brow. In forgiveness, and in farewell.
No sooner have I done so than his soul bursts from his body, as if it needed only my permission to be free. And it is free. It is finally, finally free from the dark world it has inhabited for so long.
There is the sound of boots on the marble floor, then d’Albret stands over us. He nudges Julian’s body with his foot. “We must add the death of my son to your list of crimes.”
As I stare down at Julian’s poor, wounded body, true understanding dawns. In order to defeat d’Albret, I have only to love more than he hates.
And I do. My heart is filled with the love I bear, love that I was too terrified to give voice to for fear d’Albret would use it against others in order to hurt me. But they are all gone, far beyond his reach. Only I remain.
Julian’s sword is but inches from my hand. Now, I think. Now. Fueled by all the fierce love inside me, I reach out, grasp the sword hilt still slick with my brother’s blood, then surge upward, aiming to drive it deep into d’Albret’s belly.
D’Albret discerns my intent just in time. He kicks out with his foot, knocking the sword from my fingers, then his hand reaches out and closes around my throat.
I smile. I know d’Albret will not kill me this way, for I was born with the birth cord wrapped twice around my neck and did not die. And I still have the knife Jamette gave me—the very one I once gave her.
Still smiling, I lean in toward d’Albret as if welcoming his hands around my neck. I grip the knife handle firmly and, fueled by seventeen years of the despair I have felt on behalf of those I love, whip the knife out from behind my back and plunge it into his belly, driving it upward.
D’Albret’s eyes widen in surprise, and his hold around my neck loosens. He looks faintly puzzled, as if unable to believe what I have done. I shove upward again and twist, willing the knife to damage every organ it touches, just as he has damaged every life he has touched.
As my hand grows wet with his blood, and I watch his eyes dull, I want to throw my head back and howl with victory. Instead, I yank my knife out, and he starts to slump to the ground.