Corayne looked down at her stained clothing, then back to Andry, her eyes snapping to his. Frustration flared in her, hot as coals. Don’t, he wanted to say. Just keep moving.
“Enjoy the feast,” she said in a small voice, taking Andry by surprise.
She angled out of Lemon’s grip, careful to keep her back to the hedges and the Spindleblade hidden. Luckily, Lemon was too drunk to notice Corayne’s lack of ladylike attire, not to mention the sword sheathed over her shoulder.
“All right,” Andry muttered, trying to pull free.
The torches closed in. There was only so much time before all hope of escaping was gone.
But Lemon’s hand tightened, fingers digging to get a better hold on Andry’s collar. He finally noticed the flickering lights and shouts echoing over the gardens. “Who’re they lookin’ for?” he said, his gaze sharpening. He licked his lips. “They called the garrison, Trell. We should help.”
“You do that, Lemon,” Andry replied, trying to pry his hand away.
The other squire bristled, his mood shifting. He brought up his other fist.
“There you are, Trelland,” Lemon hissed up into Andry’s face. His breath stank of wine and onions. “Still think you’re better than the rest of us, even with your lord dead and gone. Failed worse than any squire here.” The insult dug into him, sharp as a knife. But Lemon wasn’t finished. He looked again at Corayne. “You know he got his knight killed, don’t you?”
Andry felt his cheeks go red with heat.
She scowled, dropping all pretense, her eyes boring into Lemon’s. “He survived, which is more than the knights can say.”
Lemon only scoffed, and glared back at Corayne with a curl of his lip, his eyes raking over her. This time Andry watched him notice her ruined braid, her travel-worn clothing, the old leather boots on her feet. “What’re you staring at, you ratty bitch?”
Andry’s rage was like a thunderbolt. He broke the squire’s hold in an instant, taking him by the scruff of his shirt. “Davel,” he growled.
Corayne didn’t seem to mind such language. She raised her chin, continuing to glower. Her eyes were flat, black and yawning, unsettling to see.
“I’m trying to figure out exactly how long until you piss yourself, Squire,” Corayne said in response to Lemon’s question.
Lemon sputtered and lunged, but Andry held firm, using his height and sobriety to their full advantage. “That’s enough,” he said in a low voice. As if Lemon were an animal to be soothed.
It only incensed him further, and Lemon ripped himself away, spitting mad. But he didn’t have a chance to speak again. The dagger was a golden mirror at his neck, full of torchlight.
“Yes, quite enough,” the woman said, materializing out of the path. Her hand clawed Lemon’s straw-like hair, pulling his head backward, exposing more of his throat. He couldn’t see her, but the squire went rigid, feeling the blade against his skin.
“Sooner than I thought,” Corayne muttered, glancing at the squire’s legs.
As much as he wanted to see Lemon grovel, Andry knew better. He stepped forward, reaching out to the Ibalet dagger, a bronze artistry with a hilt like a coiling snake. The woman holding it was calm, her face too still.
“Don’t kill him. Please,” he said, his voice filled with force. The last thing we need is more blood spilled.
The woman’s mouth twitched in annoyance. “Remember Trelland’s mercy, boy,” she breathed, lowering the blade from his throat.
Lemon met Andry’s eyes, showing what little remorse he could. “Thank—”
Her fist connected with his jaw, knuckles on bone, snapping his head to the side with crackling force. The squire fell forward in the dirt, out cold.
“Was that necessary?” Andry gaped. Lemon lay flat, a puddle of drool already forming.
The woman sheathed her dagger with a snap. “You wanted him alive.”
Andry felt another burst of cold. He swallowed hard, watching the woman’s back. Dom joined her from the shadows, still limping. She moved like a predator, all angles. The court of Galland was no stranger to the women of Ibal, but this one was like none he’d ever met before. Her gown was torn to shreds, and there was blood on her hands and face. Not her own, but Dom’s. And some knights too. She killed Sir Welden in the hall, he thought, remembering the old soldier as he bled to death, his neck cut open. The memory threatened to make him sick.
Corayne fell in next to him, her arm inches from his own. She looked pale in the moonlight, glancing back at Lemon’s unconscious body as they ran from it. It didn’t seem to unsettle her quite so much.