The cloth caught light, the edge burning.
She did not have time to fear losing a hand or worry about being seen. She thought only of her aim. The weight of the pouch, the flame traveling steadily up the dangling fabric. The thickness of the chain fixed to the wall beyond the balcony rail, a metal plate set deep into the smooth stone. The iron links traveled up at an angle, through the first great ring, then down to a chandelier, and up again. Again, again, again, the chain like a necklace strung with jewels.
She leaned and swung her arm, all her focus in the tips of her fingers as the cloth left her hand. She refused to imagine failure—the flame snuffing out, the powder spilling, the pouch missing its mark. Below, the Queen wheeled in her bloodred gown and she tossed the bundle. It moved in a slow arc, rising as falling until it hit the chain and the wall, tipping, the flaming lead trailing, fabric crumbling to smoke and ash. And then it stuck home, lodged perfectly, wedged between the links of the great chain and the stone wall.
Her steps were light and fast, carrying her back around the horseshoe of the gallery. When the knights tightened their formation, obscuring Dom and Corayne from view, she felt the familiar twist of defeat. Do they already know? Do they feel the noose around their necks? Corayne must. She’s not an idiot.
Erida’s voice echoed up the stairwell, rising to meet Sorasa as she spiraled down. “It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to my prince consort, my husband, a son of Old Cor, heir to the bloodlines of the ancient empire, and father to the new world before us.” More applause and congratulations rippled through the great hall, cresting like a wave. “Prince Taristan of Old Cor.”
Now, Sorasa thought, bending her will to the pouch lying in wait. As if she were a witch or wizard too, Spindletouched, and not just a mortal woman with a talent for killing things. Now, she pleaded, begging to Lasreen the Morning Star, to Syrek, to Immor, to Meira of the Waters, to every god and goddess worshipped upon the Ward.
They did not answer.
She slowed at the bottom of the stairs, easing her pace so as not to be noticed. Her eyes darted, drinking in the scene, hunting for any opportunity, no matter how small. All around, courtiers stood and clapped, calling out to their dear young queen. Sorasa grabbed a silver flagon of wine from the closest table, using it as a shield to move closer to the dais, never blinking.
Dom was on his knees, his fingers uncurling and curling into a shaking fist, as knights held his shoulders. The courtiers could not see that he was wounded, kneeling in pain, not in deference to the Queen or her betrothed. His expression had not changed, his face dour, lips pulled into their usual grimace, but Sorasa saw the tightness in him plain as day. He is in great pain. Corayne was equally trapped, a single knight too close to her, a gauntleted fist tucked up against her side, certainly holding a knife. The sunborn daughter of Siscaria was white as a ghost, her eyes wide, staring past the far side of the dais, past the high table, past the Queen.
Sorasa didn’t need to look to know who she gaped at.
Taristan stalked across the dais at an easy pace, content in his victory. He leered with a crescent-moon smile as he stood over Corayne and tore her old blue cloak away. The sword on her back mirrored his own, a twin. The other Spindleblade.
The squire did have it—and now Taristan will too.
The Elder hissed something Sorasa could not hear, but she saw the lightning bolt of rage cross his face. Taristan muttered in return, amused, before putting his back to the court, his tall frame blocking Corayne completely.
The dagger tucked against Sorasa’s wrist, eager and waiting. Her sword stayed beneath her slashed skirts, too conspicuous to draw yet. Now now now now, she prayed, cursing herself for having cut so long a wick. The pouch was still in place, the smallest spark still climbing. Sorasa quickened her pace, coming within feet of the high table, the wine still in hand. The knights didn’t notice another maid, even one with torn skirts. Nearly there.
A howl split the great hall. Taristan fell back from Corayne, clutching one side of his face, blood welling between his fingers. His wizard bolted forward over the dais, mouth moving fervently, shouting a prayer or a spell or both.
Sorasa heard none of it; the world narrowed in her eyes. It was time to act.
She painted Lionguard armor red.
Wine for the closest, the flagon catching him hard in the chest. It spilled all over him as she pretended to trip, nothing more than a clumsy servant. Her sudden, deliberate weight made him stumble, and she was by him, blade close, focused on the knight above Corayne. His arm drew back, the glint of the knife keen and cold at the girl’s ribs. Sorasa’s was faster, jabbing between the joints of his armor, finding home in the veins of his neck. He sputtered and fell, grasping his neck, dripping crimson all over himself. It poured hot and wet over Sorasa’s hands even as she grabbed for Corayne. The girl was frozen, an odd scrap in her grasp, her legs unmoving, body like lead.