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She lunged, curving her blade in an arc. Rune parried her easily, bouncing back on his heels. He was smiling brightly, and as Elma circled him, he appeared almost boyish. A young man enjoying the air and a fight.
“I saw you last night,” Elma said, cutting through the air and missing Rune’s belly by an inch as he leapt backward. She twirled her sword once, a boast. “In the high tower.”
Rune feinted right, then swung at her from the left. “So, itwasyou. Make a habit of creeping about the citadel in your maid’s clothes, do you?”
Elma blocked the blow at the last second, stumbling slightly. Ofcourse, he’d seen her. “Only when I don’t know who to trust.”
“You can trust me,” Rune said. He was breathing hard, a strand of white hair plastered to his cheekbone. “In this matter, at least.”
Elma felt the wild urge to lift the hair and tuck it behind his ear. Instead, she swung low, forcing Rune to jump over her blade as it cut a wide arc across the ground. While he was still unsteady from the jump, she made to swing high. And when he moved to block it, she sidled into his personal space and tapped her blade deftly against his chest.
It was a series of moves that took less than two breaths. But to Elma, moving between Rune’s limbs like water, predicting his next attack, his next dodge… it was clear and methodical.
“Point to me,” she said, unable to keep the smile from lighting her face. “That’s one to none.”
“You’re actually quite good,” he said, leaning jauntily on his sword as if it were a walking stick. “I had no idea Frost was hiding such…” he trailed off, clearing his throat.
“Such what?” Elma asked. “Or maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Oh, you do,” he replied, “but I don’t want to say, or you’ll get a big head.”
“What were you talking about?” Elma asked, thinking she might catch him off guard with a return to the subject. She found herself entranced by a droplet of sweat as it made its way down Rune’s neck.
“When?”
“In the tower last night.”
“Stop leering at me, and I’ll tell you.”
Elma’s gaze snapped to Rune’s, her pulse speeding. Since when was she so easily distracted bysweat? This man was her enemy. She shouldn’t be losing her head. Especially not while they were both armed. “I wasn’t leering.”
He grinned. “There’s no point in denying it. It’s only fair, after my glimpse through the nightgown.”
She glared. “Tellme.”
“All right, all right,” Rune said, feigning indignity. “No need to be angry. I was only questioning him. What else do you think I’d be doing?” He took a step toward her. “Plotting against you?”
Elma swallowed. She could smell the tang of his sweat, feel the heat of his body, even through her thick doublet. “Obviously,” she said, betrayed when the word caught slightly in her throat. “I’d be a fool not to doubt you.”
“And I, a fool not to find out who’s behind the poisoning. Unfortunately for both of us, the assassin wouldn’t talk. And he wassucha dullard, I couldn’t listen to his pleading for another second. It wasn’t long after you ran off that I gutted him and claimed his head. Oh, by the way,” he added, smiling, “you may want to practice breathing more quietly. You sounded like a bellows in that hallway.”
“Then we’re back where we were before the poisoning,” Elma said, ignoring his dig. A sliver of hopelessness began to wriggle its way into her skin. And alongside it, her closeness to Rune was making her almost dizzy.
“Exactly where we want to be,” said Rune. “The coronation is days away. Your men are grasping. No one in Rothen could possibly best me in a fight. Your safety is all but secured.”
Then why does my throat constrict? Why can’t I breathe?Elma wondered desperately. She stepped back, putting much-needed distance between herself and the assassin. He was becoming a sickly drug, a strong one, and the sooner he was gone, the better.
“We’re not done sparring,” she said, forcing a jovial tone. “Best of three?”
Her assassin smiled wickedly. “Let’s make it a little more fun. To the blood.”
A traitorous heat bloomed in Elma’s chest. To the blood was riskier, with more chance of true injury or infection. Godwin would have forbade it. But Rune was as skilled with a blade as any man she’d fought against. Elma knew he would not cut too deep. And to see him bleed again…
“To the blood,” she breathed.
Rune didn’t wait to lunge, his blade flashing. Elma was only just able to drop and roll away, breathing hard. Not missing a beat, she leapt to her feet and returned the favor, cursing as her sword sliced air. The assassin was liquid, ever-moving, and impossible to predict. Elma’s vision zeroed in on him as the fight became a breathless staccato of steel against steel, hearts against ribs.
And then, just as Elma was beginning to enjoy herself, she misjudged an attack from Rune. In the next breath, her sword was clattering to the ground as the assassin pulled her against him, her back to his chest, his blade at her throat.
