A quiet descended on the clearing.
The screen door banged. A man stepped out into the sunshine. He wore a blue robe that reached to his knees. The left sleeve hung in tatters. Lagar shrugged off the other sleeve, letting the robe hang at his waist. He swung his sword. Cords of muscle rolled on his bare chest and arms.
What did she see in him? He was tall, well-built. Handsome enough. Pale hair, blue eyes. They were enemies, but he got Cerise to dance with him. Was he charming? Did he know the right things to say?
They paced from side to side, stretching, keeping their distance. Lagar flexed. Veins bulged on his arms. “How come we never got together, Cerise?”
She looked small compared to him. That made for a smaller target, and she was fast, but Lagar was stronger. He’d muscle her and she didn’t have the weight to counter. “I don’t know, Lagar. Killing my relatives and kidnapping my parents might have something to do with it.”
Lagar stopped. Cerise stopped also.
His flash burst from Lagar’s eyes in a torrent of brilliant white. It ran down his hand onto his sword.
Shit.
“Too bad it turned out this way,” Lagar said.
Cerise’s magic slid along her sword. “We both knew it would,” she replied.
Lagar charged, fast like a changeling. Cerise parried, her movements flowing as if her joints were liquid. The two blades crashed against each other, sparking with magic. They danced across the clearing, flashing and thrusting. Steel rang, magic shone.
Cerise pulled back and so did Lagar. For a long breath they stood still, poised like two cats before a fight, and then Lagar moved, stalking Cerise across the grass, his sword pointing straight up. Cerise followed, her blade loose in her fingers, stepping on her toes.
Lagar ran. She matched him. He leapt and struck from above in an overhead blow, banking on his superior strength. They clashed in a blinding burst of magic and broke apart, facing each other.
The scent of blood lashed William’s nostrils.
A long cut sliced through Cerise’s shirt, swelling with red across her shoulder over her breast. A narrow smile bent Lagar’s lips.
If Lagar won, William would kill him.
The Sheerile took a step forward and fell, as if his legs were cut out from under him. Slowly Cerise slumped next to him in the grass. Lagar gasped, sucking in the air in small shallow bites.
A dark stain, deep red, almost black, spread through Lagar’s robe. Liver blood, tainted with the stench of bile.
“Gods, it hurts,” Lagar whispered.
Cerise picked up his hand and held it. She touched him. William choked back a snarl.
Lagar’s gut distended, growing like an inflating water balloon. A cut to the aorta or an iliac vessel. Lagar’s stomach was filling with his own blood.
“We . . . would’ve been good ...” Lagar coughed out blood.
Cerise rubbed his hand. “In another time in another life maybe. You hated my father more than you could ever love me.”
“Lucky for you,” Lagar said softly. A convulsion rocked him and he clenched her hand.
“You should’ve left,” she told him. “You always wanted to.”
“False diamonds,” Lagar whispered. “Like swamp lights.”
Another convulsion shook him. He screamed. His eyes rolled back in his skull. Blood poured from his mouth.
His pulse stopped.
Cerise untangled her hand from his. Her face turned flat and cold. “String him up.”
“You’re bleeding,” Richard said. “And grandmother isn’t here to help you.”
“She’s right,” Ignata walked up to them. “Tomorrow will be too late. String him up, Richard.”
He shook his head and walked off.
“What’s going on?” William glanced at Kaldar.
Kaldar grimaced and spat into the grass. “Magic. Old swamp magic.”
TWENTY-TWO
CERISE sat in the grass. The cut on her breast had stopped bleeding. Strangely, it didn’t hurt, not as much as she thought it would have. Her blood always clotted quickly, and she usually got away with a bandage where other people needed stitches.
A few yards away Erian dragged a corpse by its feet onto the growing pile of the dead. He should’ve nursed his wounds, instead of pulling corpses around. Erian turned toward her, flipping the corpse. Excitement lit his eyes, his teeth bared in a rigid grin. He looked deranged, lost in a maniacal glee.
Blood poured from the corpse’s mouth. Erian laughed, his voice bubbling up from his throat.
The delight on his face disturbed her to her core. This wasn’t Erian. Erian was calm and quiet. He didn’t laugh at death. Didn’t revel in it.
The feud was over, Cerise told herself. He’d waited for his revenge for so long it might have driven him a bit unhinged. The Sheeriles were done, and once they cleared the field, Erian would return to his normal self. But she would remember that rigor mortis smile forever.
She sighed and looked at the body he was dragging. The cadaver’s pale head bounced on the ground, and more blood escaped from its mouth. The face seemed familiar . . . Arig. She almost didn’t recognize him without that leer. Death wiped all expression off his face, and now he seemed just another boy, cut down too early.
Cerise wished she felt something, something other than regret. The Sheerile brothers were dead. The feud was over. She should’ve been celebrating, but instead she felt empty, scraped clean of all emotion. Only regret remained. So many people dead. Such a waste. A waste of people, a waste of life.
If a rock fell from the sky and hit her head, killing her, she wouldn’t care. She was spent anyway.
William dropped on the grass next to her. “It was a good fight.”
“Yes. You slaughtered thirty people single-handedly.”
“I meant you and Lagar.”