Page 60 of The Consort's Curse
With a sword in his hand, all pretense dropped and his true intensity and focus and skill on display, he’d becomemagnificent. The sword didn’t even seem to be held, but a part of him, a natural extension as he lunged and riposted, sidestepped and pivoted.
I’d been holding my breath, but I let it out, trying to calm myself, because he’d be fine, he would—and then he staggered, stumbling to the side with his left arm falling limp, and Lord Corombos swore, and Fritz’s fingers dug into my arm painfully as he tensed.
“Surely that’s enough to satisfy you, Griset,” Lord Corombos called out. “First blood, that’s enough.”
First blood…Stefan’s blood, and Fritz had to haul me back, and I couldn’t help calling out Stefan’s name. He flinched, but he’d already pulled himself back upright again.
“I’m not satisfied,” Lord Griset snarled, his eyes glittering and his teeth bared, and he lunged again.
“For shame!” Lord Corombos’s voice boomed out. “You ought to be—damme!”
For a split second I couldn’t tell what had happened. Both Stefan and Lord Griset had gone perfectly still, their eyes apparently locked, the position of their swords unclear in the strange lighting and with their flared coats in the way.
And then Stefan’s voice carried clearly across the distance between us: “I’ve achieved my own satisfaction, Lord Corombos. I can’t answer for my opponent.”
He stepped back. Lord Griset leaned toward him, grimacing horribly.
And then Stefan gave a quick twist of his arm, pulling his sword loose. The blade gleamed dark. Blood trickled from the corner of Lord Griset’s mouth. And as Stefan took another step away from him, Lord Griset folded to his knees and toppled over, his second leaping forward to catch him before his torso could hit the ground.
“You’ve killed him!” he cried. “Griset’s dead.”
Dead. Right there, in front of me. Gods, better him than Stefan—and I suddenly remembered that sensation of horror and fear when Stefan had told me he wished Griset had challenged him so that he could kill him and get it over with. How I’d shrunk away from him, terrified of the husband I didn’t know.
Horror still struck me at the sight of that still body on the ground, at the sudden absence of a person who’d been thinking and feeling and plotting and fighting a bare instant ago.
But it wasn’t Stefan. It wasn’t Stefan, thank Ennolu, and I’d bribe the High Priest a thousand times over in thanks.
“I say, Lord Stefan,” Lord Corombos muttered. “I don’t think you had much choice, but I say.”
“He would’ve murdered my consort,” Stefan replied, his tone grim and hard, with no attempt at all at his usual lightness. “If you’re looking for regret, you’ll be disappointed.”
Stefan turned to me, and our eyes met, and his dark gaze fixed on me with an intensity they’d never had, as if he meant to drink me in and hold me there—and then they rolled back in his head as the sword slipped from his hand, his body swaying and slowly tilting.
My horrified cry blended with Lord Corombos’s shout of surprise and dismay and Sylvie’s scream. “Fritz, let me go! Let me go, damn you!” I jerked my arm out of his hold, and he released me at last, letting me race toward Stefan’s side.
Lord Corombos reached Stefan first, catching him under the arms and lowering him, but I was there an instant later, dropping to my knees and cradling his head in my arms before it could loll onto the grass.
Stefan’s coat fell open. The shirt beneath was soaking wet.
Not sweat. Blood.
“What,” I gasped, all my own blood seeming to congeal for a sick, quivering instant. Stefan’s head was too heavy. Hiseyes had closed, his face dead white. He looked as dead as Lord Griset. I scrabbled at the shirt, trying to pull it away from his body, but it was stuck, and more blood welled up and through it, and if I removed it he’d only bleed out faster, wouldn’t he? I couldn’t remember anything I’d learned about healing, my mind washed blank with panic. “Wasn’t he wounded in the arm?”
“Yes, he damn well was,” Lord Corombos said. “But that’s a hole in his side. Maybe his belly. He’s almost certainly a dead man, damn me.”
A dead man. Stefan. Stefan, dying in my arms, and I clutched him close, my chest seizing up.
Nothing seemed quite real. I’d wake from this. Stefan would open his eyes. I stroked his face, leaving streaks of his own blood down his stubbled cheek. He and Fritz had known about this, and he’d still come running to save my life. No wonder Stefan hadn’t embraced me, and no wonder Fritz had held me back and told me not to distract him. He shouldn’t have even been able to stand, let alone win a duel.
And yet he had. For me.
If he died, it would be for me.
I had to save him. Because if he died, it wouldn’t matter that he’d saved my life; that sacrifice would be worthless, because I’d die too, withering away in grief and guilt and despair…
I reached out with my magical senses, trying to find the edges of his wound, to see how much strength he had, but my power skittered away from me, spinning in circles, lost in the same panic that had overwhelmed the rest of my body and mind. His life ebbed away, pumping out of him with every shallow breath, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t…
“Get that mage over here, make yourself useful!” Lord Corombos shouted. “Yes, you, come on and help, damn you! Leave that fellow. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
