Otho dodged it—dispelling her smoke a final time.
Gorse made a retching sound, his eyes rolling. “What the hell is that?”
Otho stepped back to the rim of the crowd next to her sister, her voice cutting through the courtyard. “Magic, alchemized by two things. Rage, and hate. Bones of the enraged infected—and your cloak, hateful Destrier. They make a wretched pairing, do they not?”
Ravyn felt his entire body go hot, his well-honed restraint snapping. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth—wiping away blood from his nose. He turned to the Nightmare. “Is this what it was like, when Hauth beat Elspeth’s head in? Did you sit by then, just as you do now, enjoying the show?”
He hadn’t meant to say it. The words had pried themselves out of him, acrid on his tongue. Only, no one seemed shocked to hear them. The crowd was expectant, as if they’d been waiting for him to say something vile. Some even cheered.
It was the smoke, he realized. Otho’s smoke—her magic—had washed his mind clean, leaving but two things. Rage, and hate.
Ravyn shifted the rusty scythe between calloused fingers, his headache replaced by bloodlust. “You said you cared for Elspeth. That you protected her. And you did—just as well as you protected your own children, it seems.”
The Nightmare’s yellow eyes burned, his voice sharpened by malice. “You are, without a doubt, the greatest disappointment in five hundred years, Ravyn Yew. Every time I glance your way, I find myself wishing I’d spent another century in the dark—that I’d spared myself the agony of your stony, witless incompetency.”
“Another century would have been too soon,” Ravyn bit back. “At least then I might have had more than a single moment with the woman you stole from me.”
Across the circle from him, Gorse sneered.
Jespyr turned on him, knuckles flexing around the club in her hand. “Something to say, coward?”
Gorse’s bloody face went redder still. “What did you call me?”
“Ugly and stupid.” Jespyr raised her voice. “I called you a coward, runaway Destrier.”
Gorse’s crop whipped through the air, the rocks at the ends so close to Jespyr’s face they stirred her hair. “Better a coward than a thief and a liar,” he spat, turning the crop toward Ravyn. “Our two-faced Captain stole the King’s Nightmare Card. Worse, he’s been fucking an infected woman—”
Jespyr’s club slammed into Gorse’s shoulder.
The crowd erupted in a hollering jeer. “And with that,” Hesis called, “we begin.”
Jespyr looked at her bat, then at to Gorse, her gaze wide—like she hadn’t meant to hit him. A moment later, her eyes narrowed. “You don’t deserve to wear the Destrier’s cloak.” She turned to Ravyn. “Neither do you.”
Vitriol poured out of him. “You think you could be a better Captain, Jes? Take it from me. Hell, I’ll even waive the challenge. Because you couldn’t beat me, not without your Black Horse—your precious little crutch.” Ravyn’s voice went dangerously low. “Go on, take my place. Be Uncle’s puppet. Bow and scrape and swallow the bit he shoves in your mouth. You’ve always been better at those things than me.”
Jespyr lunged.
Ravyn pivoted, but not before the nails in his sister’s club took a bite out of his cloak.
“You want to talk about crutches, brother?” she seethed. “Let’s talk about yours.”
Ravyn held his arms open wide. “Do your worst.”
Jespyr pushed left and the circle shifted. She, Ravyn, and Gorse moved in a slow rotation, never taking their eyes off of each other.
“You tell yourself the Destriers hate you because you’re infected. They don’t—not all of them.” Jespyr spat the words. “They hate you because you think you’re better than them.”
“I am better than them.”
Gorse opened his mouth but Jespyr cut him off. “Big, strong Ravyn Yew. The Captain who never smiled, never fell, never flinched—who lies to his King, his men, and most of all, to himself.” Her eyes went cold. “You’re not better than anyone, brother. And you’re not stronger than me. You’re just better at pretending.”
“You want to know what I’ve been pretending at all these years? I’ll tell you.” Ravyn went still, breaking the circle’s rotation. “I pretend that I don’t spend every moment of every day hating myself for being Captain of the Destriers.”
“You’re a traitor,” Gorse spat. “And you’ll bleed for it.”
“Likely.” Ravyn fixed his stance—aimed with both eyes open. “But not yet.”
The scythe flew. Without his Black Horse, Gorse’s reflexes were slow. The scythe caught him along the shoulder, the dull edge finding purchase over his breastbone.
Deep. But not, with such an aged, rusted blade, deep enough to kill.
The crowd roared. Ravyn was across the yard in a breath. Vision limned in red, he knocked Gorse to the ground, hand on the Destrier’s throat. Gorse looked up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. He’d dropped his whip. But his fists met Ravyn ribs over and over again.
Air shot out of Ravyn’s lungs. He kept his hand on Gorse’s throat and thought about blood and whips and the smell of smoke, clawing its way up the dungeon stairs. Of terrible things he’d had to watch, had to do, as Captain of the Destriers.
Ravyn leaned close to Gorse’s mottling face. “Be wary, Destrier,” he ground out, “Be clever. Be good.” Then, with a final, brutal push—
He crushed Gorse’s windpipe.
A slow, hungry cheer raked over the courtyard. They’d wanted Destrier blood. And Gorse, taken by the great, final sleep, was a crimson canvas. Red spilled from the scythe wound, trickling into the dirt, feeding the soil, burrowing its way into the cracks in Ravyn’s hands.
The smoke’s magic slipped away, taking rage and hate with it.
Ravyn stared down at Gorse, hands shaking. This time, the bile refused to be forced down. Ravyn leaned over and was sick in the dirt, his ribs screaming pain as he heaved.
The courtyard went eerily quiet.
Ravyn looked up. Someone had breached the circle and was standing between him and Jespyr. An unmasked woman, shadowed by two young boys. She wore a green dress and a cloak of the same color with a white tree embroidered near the collar. Her graying gold hair was loose, her hazel eyes wide. Wide, familiar—
And trained on the Nightmare.
Opal Hawthorn put a hand to her mouth. “Elspeth,” she said, tears in her eyes. “You’re alive.”
With a few booming commands from Otho, the courtyard cleared—spectators filing into the fort, the dark sockets of their bone masks trained on Ravyn as they went. They dragged Gorse’s body with them, a bloody trail the Destrier’s last mark upon the kingdom he’d served.
Ravyn locked his hands into fists. Even then, they shook.