“But why didn’t Esrahaddon tell us?”
“To keep him safe. That’s why he led everyone to Gaunt. Can Royce defeat Irawondona?”
Hadrian shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“Then we have to hurry. You still have a fight to win.”
“But I can’t hurt him.”
“Only because the true heir never named you as champion. Once Royce does, you’ll be able to hurt him. You’ll have to fight and this time you must win.”
She stood up and shouted, “Royce! Don’t fight. Just give me some time and then name Hadrian as your champion.” She knelt back down to tend to his wounds.
“Arista, I can’t.” Hadrian lay on his back, his chest heaving for air, blood smeared on his cheek and pooling around him.
“You can beat him,” Myron said as he tore more bandages.
“No, I can’t—”
“You don’t understand,” the monk interrupted. “I speak not from faith in you, but from fact. You are a Teshlor Knight. Techylor was the best warrior in the world and the leader of the Instarya warrior tribe. Irawondona is from the hunters’ tribe, he doesn’t know how to fight.”
“Believe me, he does.”
“Not like you do.”
“Okay, fine, but you fail to take into account that I can’t move. My ribs are broken. I can’t even stand up.”
“Leave that to me,” Arista told him, and began to hum.
Irawondona spoke briefly to Mawyndul? in elvish as Royce slowly retreated from them, backing away between the tents and down the snowy hill.
“Just kill him!” Mawyndul? demanded as his guards helped right his chair.
Royce stopped his retreat and crouched, digging his feet in the snow and feeling the weight of Alverstone in his hand. He had heard what Arista had shouted and he looked over to where Hadrian lay. His friend was in bad shape, but Arista was going into one of her trances.
“Come here, little prince,” Irawondona jeered, walking toward him. Royce was surprised that the elf could speak Apelanese. “It is our turn to dance.” He waved the halberd, spinning it like he had when fighting Hadrian.
Royce looked at Arista once more, then tossed Alverstone away.
Irawondona smiled. “So you’re going to make this easy for me, are you?”
“Not really,” Royce replied. “I just don’t want to accidentally hurt you.”
“I don’t think you understand how this works, little prince.”
“On the contrary, I think it’s you who is confused.”
“Just kill him and get it over with, you idiot!” Mawyndul? ordered.
Irawondona advanced, racing down the slope, and lunged. Royce dodged, backing farther away.
“You’re quick,” Irawondona told him. “But then, you are the descendant of one of us.”
The elf lord spun his pole once more and advanced. Irawondona attacked and with each swipe Royce dodged and withdrew farther down the slope on the east side of the Lee, nearing the place where Arista had killed two Seret Knights.
“Stop running, little prince, accept your fate. We are done with human rule. I would prefer to wear the crown, of course, but even a Miralyith is better than a mixed blood. It is time that mankind left Elan for good.”
“And then you’ll live happily ever after?”
“Indeed we will. We will roam the world as we once did. We will destroy the goblins and then it will be just the dwarves and us again, and eventually… just us. Then Erivan will rule Elan again. When that day comes, Ferrol will walk among us once more.”
“Do you really think Mawyndul? will honor any agreement he made with you? He hates you more than he does us. It was your people that betrayed him. They convinced him to kill his own father. He wants to be your king so he can enact his revenge on those who hurt him the most.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I? For three thousand years he’s sought his revenge. Kill me and you will place a tyrant on your throne and his first order will be your death.”
“He is still an elf. Better that he rule than a half-breed like you.”
“Whatever bonds of kinship he had, he lost long ago.”
“Even so, even if he kills me, if my death and the death of every clan leader is the cost, so be it. We will be rid of your kind—of your blood.”
He struck out and once more Royce dodged. But this time he realized too late his own mistake. Irawondona had anticipated the move; he saw the feint and compensated, swinging around with the long blade. Royce was caught. The metal entered him with a surprisingly quiet hiss. Looking down, he saw the blood-coated tip as Irawondona pulled the blade free.
Royce collapsed.
“Royce!” he heard Hadrian cry. “Do it, do it now!”
The elf lord raised his blade once more. “Farewell, Son of Nyphron.”
Royce took a breath. “Byrinith con—duylar ben—Hadrian Blackwater,” he said as loud as he could manage.