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“Wendell, this is ridiculous,” I cried. Shadow, at my side, was growling low in his throat. I stood, trying to work out where Wendell might be. “We can negotiate our way out of this, surely.”

“I’m afraid not.” Wendell reappeared from a tree on the other side of the stream. He was eyeing Lord Taran warily, which made me still, because Wendell with a sword is normally the picture of self-assurance. “His life is forfeit if he breaks his oath.”

Lord Taran nodded. “As I said—I value my neck.”

“Oh, for—” I began, my voice hitching, because I could not believe that it might end here, after everything. Surely there was something I was missing, some other way out—

Taran charged, but this time, Wendell was ready. Their swords met in a flurry of silver, the sun striking the blades and throwing flashes of blinding light across the clearing. Dark spots flitted across my eyes, but I forced myself to watch—little good it did me. They moved so quickly that I couldn’t follow it at all; it was like trying to map the diamond scatter of sunlight on a heaving sea. When they broke apart, Wendell was on the other side of the creek, Taran gazing at him from across the bank.

“You are—” Lord Taran paused. He did not appear surprised—I wonder if he is still capable of such an emotion—but there was new interest in his gaze. “It is like fighting your father again.”

“No one has ever beaten me at swords before,” Wendell said, almost absently.

“Nor me,” Taran said. “I suppose that is why your grandfather, the old king, named me his general. And his mother before him. Your father tried—but I am done with war.”

He spoke with neither malice nor amusement now, only a fathomless tranquillity, and for a moment I felt I could hear the aeons echoing through his voice. Wendell is uncertain how long his father’s reign lasted by mortal reckoning, only that it was centuries, not years. And Lord Taran had seen at least two monarchs rise and fall before him?

“Wendell—” I tried again as dread settled in my chest.

But again, Lord Taran did not allow me to finish. He was across the water and forcing Wendell back before even the splashes made by his boots had fallen into the stream. Wendell parried and dodged with impossible grace, but he was losing ground. He stumbled, and Lord Taran moved to take advantage of his distraction, but then suddenly Wendell was under his guard, slashing at Lord Taran’s side.

Taran laughed. He fell back, pressing his hand to his ribs. When he lifted it, his palm was red. “Your father’s son, indeed,” he said, and for the first time, there was warmth in his voice.

Wendell was breathing rapidly, his hair in disarray. I had seen him fight before, but I had never seen him fight like this—superficially, he still looked like Wendell, and yet at the same time he seemed to have shed some part of the human façade that he wore. If I’m honest, it was terrifying. There was a moment when some animal part of me lost all interest in who won, and simply wished to be away from these otherworldly terrors.

But it wasn’t enough. Wendell was clearly spent, and needed a moment to rest. Lord Taran did not give it to him.

His sword met Wendell’s with such force that I expected the blades to shatter. Wendell parried, barely, and then leapt into the tree behind him. Lord Taran lifted his sword—

And sliced the tree in two.

It was almost a casual movement. One moment, the tree was whole. The next, its trunk wobbled and began to fall forward. Lord Taran moved aside unhurriedly, already scanning the grove again, and the tree toppled behind him with a thunderous crash. Several faeries about the size of my hand darted out from among the branches, wailing and dragging little satchels of clothing and what looked like tiny drums behind them.

Wendell emerged to Lord Taran’s left, his sword already flashing, and the other man was forced back towards the stream. Momentarily. I had the terrible impression that the character of the fight had changed, that Lord Taran had solved something in Wendell, and was now merely drawing things out for the sake of it.

My supposition was proven correct moments later, when Lord Taran’s sword slashed beneath Wendell’s guard. It caught only the edge of his cloak, but Wendell was truly off-balance this time, and abruptly, Taran’s sword was swinging at Wendell’s head.

I screamed. But before the sword could fall, there was a flash of black, a shadow rising from a hollow in the ground. Orga twined around Taran’s feet, and he staggered, falling onto one knee. His sword sliced harmlessly through the air by Wendell’s shoulder.

“What’s this?” Taran demanded. Then, to my astonishment, he added in a tone of affection, “Betrayal? I kept this one fed during your absence, Prince. I have always liked cats. It seems she has changed her mind about me, though.”

“Orga cares even less for my enemies than I do,” Wendell said unevenly. “After this, you can expect her to spend the rest of her days orchestrating your demise.”

Lord Taran did not shrug this off as easily as I expected him to. In fact, he looked quite disturbed. But then he shook his head.

“So be it,” he said, and their swords clashed again. I thought, for a brief moment, that Wendell had recovered his strength, for he parried with his usual agility—but then there was a flash of light sailing across the clearing, and I realized it was Wendell’s sword, caught in the sunlight as it rotated around on itself.

Wendell stumbled back. For a brief moment, Lord Taran looked disappointed. But then it slipped away, replaced by something ancient and inscrutable, and he was lifting his sword again—

And I was running, yelling God knows what—something about oaths, I think, for I had been scouring my memory during the entirety of the duel, searching for a way out. I had come up with three or four possibilities, the most compelling of which pertained to an Irish tale in which a rural baker makes an ill-advised pledge to a faerie lord in exchange for eternally soft loaves.[*3]

At the same time, Wendell shouted, “Your cloak, Em!”

My mind was like a sword in that moment, honed by terror, moving more quickly than I was conscious of, and I understood what Wendell wanted and why. Lord Taran’s words reshaped themselves to fit the pattern of a dozen stories, and I saw the door in them—the way out.

I wrenched my cloak off my shoulders and flung it at Wendell. He caught it one-handed, and for a moment held it between himself and Taran like a shield.

It was a ridiculous gesture to my eyes, but Taran didn’t seem to think so; he fell back a step, his brow furrowed. Wendell gave the cloak a shake, like the gesture one might make to unroll a carpet, and the hem of the cloak spilled across the clearing, a black and rippling shadow.