My hands are sweating, but this has the feeling of inevitability, as though this is what I was careening toward the whole time, my whole life.
“You can’t beat me,” Madoc says, moving into a fighting stance.
“I already have,” I say.
“You have no way to win.” Madoc flicks his blade, encouraging me to come toward him, as though this is just some practice bout. “What can you hope to do with one missing prince, here in Balekin’s stronghold? I will knock you down, and then I will take him from you. You could have had anything you wanted, but now you will be left with nothing.”
“Oh, yes, let me tell you my whole plan. You’ve goaded me right into it.” I make a face. “Let’s not stall anymore. This is the part where we fight.”
“At least you’re no coward.” He rushes at me with such force that even though I block the blow, I am thrown to the floor. I roll into a standing position, but I am shaken. He has never fought me like this, full out. This will be no genteel exchange of blows.
He’s the High King’s general. I knew he was better than me, but not how much better.
I cheat a glance toward the window. I can’t be stronger than him, but I don’t need to be. I just need to keep on my feet a little while longer. I strike out, hoping to catch him by surprise. He knocks me back again. I dodge and turn, but he expects the blow, and I have to stumble inelegantly back, blocking yet another heavy chop of his blade. My arms hurt from the strength behind his blows.
This is all happening too fast.
I come in with a series of techniques he’s taught me and then use a bit of swordplay I learned from the Ghost. I feign left and then land a clever slice to his side. It’s a shallow hit, but it surprises us both when a line of red wets his coat. He thrusts toward me. I jump to one side, and he elbows me in the face, knocking me back to the ground. Blood gushes over my mouth from my nose.
I push myself dizzily to my feet.
I’m scared, no matter how I try to play it off. I was arrogant. I am trying to buy time, but one of his blows could split me in half.
“Surrender,” he tells me, sword pointed toward my throat. “It was well tried. I will forgive you, Jude, and we will go back into the banquet. You will persuade Cardan to do what I need him to. All will be as it should be.”
I spit blood on the stone tiles.
His sword arm trembles a little.
“You surrender,” I say.
He laughs, as though I have told a particularly rich joke. Then he stops, grimacing.
“I imagine you’re not feeling quite yourself,” I tell him.
His sword sags a little, and he looks at me in sudden comprehension. “What have you done?”
“I poisoned you. Don’t worry. It was a small enough dose. You’ll live.”
“The cups of wine,” he says. “But how did you know which one I would choose?”
“I didn’t,” I tell him, thinking that he’ll be at least a little pleased by the answer, despite himself. It is the kind of strategy he likes best. “I poisoned them both.”
“You will be very sorry,” he says. The tremble is in his legs now. I know. I feel the echo of it in my own. But by now, I am used to drinking poison.
I look deep into his eyes as I sheathe my sword. “Father, I am what you made me. I’ve become your daughter after all.”
Madoc lifts his blade again, as though he’s going to rush at me one final time. But then it falls from his hand, and he falls, too, sprawling on the stone floor.
When the Ghost and the Roach come in, a few tense minutes later, they find me sitting beside him, too tired to even think of moving his body.