Page 85 of Eyes of Kings

Hence the dummy perimeter, with Weisannas jumping to keep an eye over the scene.

“I imagine that the best form of ambush involves jumping and striking,” he goes on. “But there are still enough Weisannas present to make it risky.”

Even a handful can turn the tide. Can grab him while he’s moving in and out, trap him in place, and kill him.

Another flash of light—but this one came from the clouds. Calla turns her head skyward. She glares into the clouds. Thunder rolls along the basin.

“I can,” she says softly.

Anton frowns.

“Jump Weisannas,” Calla clarifies when the silence draws long. “Remember?”

But she has not jumped elsewhere since she took the crown. Since her possession of this object—this divine object that marks the difference between palace brats performing theater and a true coup.

“If Otta is anywhere in the vicinity—”

“She’s not,” Calla says. “I’d feel it if she was.”

“Nonetheless, you can’t play with fire and leave your body,” Anton says. Not for long, anyway. Their escapade swapping with each other was something different.

“Wear it.”

Water builds up in his ear canals. Sloshes about, threatening to slither inside his body and slow him down.

“What?”

“Move to a safer nook. This will be over in a few minutes. If it’s not, come to my aid.”

And before he can protest, Calla drops. He curses violently. Glances around, trying to determine the chances someone could approach him here, the chances that someone invades Calla while there’s no qi inside the vessel, but the rules have changed anyway. It doesn’t take proximity to invade Calla when Anton jumped across three provinces from the manor in Kelitu, for fuck’s sake.

No more time to waste.

Anton jumps and opens his eyes in Calla’s body.

Calla is still rather new to the feat of jumping.

During the games, she could not fathom how Anton did it with such indifference. The problem, Calla considers, is that she’s never forgotten how awful her first jump was. Searing pain, starting deep and tearing outward, ripping her apart and apart and apart. It has never happened like that again, but it is hard to leave the memory behind.

She lands, and her shoes are too tight. Gentle flooding has hit the lowest part of the basin, where the army makes their camp. Calla takes inventory. She must consider every detail before she acts, because once she starts, she can’t stop.

A Weisanna stands within view, at the side of the tent. He’s holding an electric lamp and letting the blue-white light cast a wide net, his silver eyes watching the outer ring where their regular guards wait. Calla reaches down. Finds a knife looped through the belt that this body wears.

How safe the Weisannas have always considered themselves. Arrogant enough not to sheathe their blades. Arrogant enough to let them sit within quick and easy reach.

Calla plucks it and plunges the blade into her throat.

Anton grabs his collapsed birth body. Just as the first muffled shout echoes into the night, he draws back into the line of the trees. His step skids on the mud. He has misjudged his balance, not because he isn’t used to moving in a new body, not because he needs to adapt to another body while he’s staring at his own, but because there is endless qi swirling within him, and it is a staggering sensation with each breath. He couldn’t comprehend the extent of it when he’d swapped rapidly with Calla. When he’s steadily wearing her, though, his throat turns warm, his heart threatens to thud from his chest.

All thispower. How does Calla ever manage to sit still while holding it in?

“All right, come on,” he mutters, throwing his empty vessel over his shoulder. They’d hitched their horse to a tree, out of sight from the beachfront. He considers returning, but he bristles against being put out of commission from battle. An in-between, it is. Anton braces his knees, grimacing at Calla’s loosely laced shoes, and descends the slopes onto the shore.

His vision flickers. Just as his feet hit the sand, a sharp sensation dances across his forehead, and he winces, his hand flying to the base of the crown. Light flashes from the camp. Overhead, the storm takes on the appearance of a beast’s maw. Jaws unhinging, ready to swoop in on its grub.

You’ve doomed us.

Anton turns fast. He lunges for a blade, but Calla is not armed; her sword went missing in Daol. He’s left only to throw his hand out… except there is no one behind him anyway. Only furious waves. Water frothing up the sharp rocks, water jettisoning down its various fast-moving conduits. He thought he heard a voice. He thought—