Amarande crept forward, her footsteps as soft as a wren’s in the mud, though the brush was dry and she had the weight of what she wanted to do pressed down upon small-but-mighty shoulders, her sword, her long gown, and the hidden diamonds.
She swept her skirt close to her body with her non-knife hand, willing the fabric not to splay out and brush the wrong arm, and then sank all the way into a squat—split stance and ready to run. She angled her shoulders so that her left one faced the girl rather than her back, and then brought her hands within an inch of Luca’s sleeping form. So close she caught a whiff of the lavender oil he used on the Itspi’s horses.
Stars, he’s real.
He was really here. This was happening. Her love was before her and they were minutes from going home. She’d have Luca, and Renard would have nothing except a ruined plan.
The princess took a calming breath.
Always forward, never back.
Simultaneously, she gently placed one hand over Luca’s mouth and one on his hands, spreading her fingers so as to keep any startled movement at a minimum.
His eyes flew open, gold and alarmed.
His hands fluttered as she expected they would, and though she kept even pressure, the rope skittered across the dry dirt. She subdued it with the toe of her boot, attention shooting to the girl. She didn’t stir.
When Amarande looked again to Luca, he’d gone completely still, except for those eyes, which rounded.
In recognition. Wonder. Joy.
The princess could feel his lips moving under her palm, and she gently pulled her hand away, revealing a smile and words formed yet soundless.
Ama, you came.
Her own grin was stretching before she could stop it—she was so relieved to see his face, his surprise, his happiness, that she answered his joyful silence with a whisper. “Yes.”
And that was when the princess realized her goal was also her biggest weakness.
Luca’s eyes grew wider, smile faltering at the same time he jerked himself up onto his elbows. “Ama, watch—”
She didn’t hear the rest of it.
Luca yanked hard against the rope with his bound wrists, and suddenly there was a body crashing over Amarande’s upper back.
The princess shot to her feet as the body rolled over her, sending the girl to the ground with a hard thump. The girl managed to keep hold of her sword, and Amarande immediately stomped on it with both feet, pinning it and her right hand beneath it to the ground.
Knife out, Amarande silently beckoned to Luca, using the few seconds they might have before the girl began screaming to draw him close and begin sawing at his binds. He lunged toward her, wrists presented, but Amarande only got in a single hack at the ropes before the girl found the breath that had been knocked from her lungs.
“Attack! We’re under attack! Urtzi, Dunixi! Up!”
The rope binding Luca’s wrists began to fray and Amarande hacked and sawed at it again.
“Wait!” Luca said to Amarande. The princess immediately froze, and Luca lunged back deeply, yanking and twisting with his whole body just as the girl’s fingers scraped the hilt of her pinned sword. The girl’s entire left arm lurched back, threatening to come out of the socket—her wrist still attached by rope to her prisoner.She cried out at the tension, and suddenly Luca was falling backward, stumbling into the Eritrian, who was pushing himself up, out of too-deep slumber.
Luca rolled over the blond boy, shrugging his hands free and apart, the rope dead at his feet. Then he pitched them in front of his body, ready to catch. “Ama!”
And suddenly the princess was back in their meadow, but working with Luca instead of against him. Her boot knife left her grasp without a whiff of hesitation, wheeling hilt over blade, straight for his outstretched hands. Beneath him, the Eritrian boy scrambled to his feet, blood spurting out of his moon-white nose and down into his mouth, the mass of Luca having dealt quite the blow.
“Urtzi!” he screamed in a gurgle at the Myrcellian boy, who clearly woke much easier by touch than by sound.
Hands free, Amarande began to draw her sword just as the girl decided to change tactics and kick backward, curling her legs over her head and springing up from her shoulders, nailing Amarande’s shins with the full might of her tumbling body. Amarande flew back right as, across the fire, the Myrcellian boy jolted up to his feet.
Amarande lost sight of both the tall boy and the girl as she hit the tree behind her hard, shoulder and hand smacking hard enough to shed bark from the trunk. The girl stood, sword out and ready as Amarande rolled off the tree, willing her stinging hand and throbbing shoulder to listen to the commands of her brain and grab the sword at her back. A second passed and the girl took advantage, lunging, curved sword striking straight for Amarande’s heart.
The princess’s left arm shot back, grabbed the sword, and met the girl in a hanging parry. She cut up with all her might, right hand joining the fight, flinging the girl’s sword up and back.
“So it is true—you can fight, tiger cub,” the girl said, bringing in a high guard as Amarande’s sword swung toward her face.
