Then Rahzavel attacked.
He was fast, through the bathing room and upon her before she had the chance to strategize. He raised his sword, and with that pale face smiling coldly at her, everything Eliana knew abandoned her in an instant.
She turned and ran.
Rahzavel chased her through the scented labyrinth of the maidensfold. He caught up with her, let his sword fly. Eliana swung the adatrox sword, its heavy hilt slick with blood, and parried. Rahzavel advanced; Eliana barely blocked each of his cuts.
Their blades caught. Eliana stepped back and quickly turned her sword, dislodging him. She swiped wildly at his torso, but he was too quick. He advanced again. Eliana stumbled back, found a carving of a scantily clad woman on a tabletop, threw it at him, and ran.
She heard the carving hit the floor. Rahzavel’s quick footsteps followed her through a series of narrow carpeted rooms.
Her strikes became desperate; Rahzavel was too fast, too meticulous. She gasped for breath; he hardly seemed to break a sweat. She ducked his sword, the blade hissing past her neck. She flung aside the adatrox sword, used her free hand to grab whatever she could find—vases, goblets, gilded plates—and fling them back at him.
He laughed at her, dodging it all.
They emerged once more into the bathing room, the tile slick from water and blood.
A lone girl huddled in the corner, whimpering.
Rahzavel’s smile unfolded. “You’re frightening the whores, Eliana.”
She thrust at his belly with Arabeth; he blocked her easily.
They circled each other, Eliana blinking back sweat. Her hair had fallen loose from its knot.
“You should never have turned,” said Rahzavel, every syllable pristine. “You could have been one of the Emperor’s favored. Your family would have wanted for nothing.”
Then, without warning, someone shoved Eliana from behind. She lost her footing on the slick tile, and Rahzavel used his sword to knock Arabeth away.
He lobbed a hard backhand across her face. She fell, her head knocking against a low table.
Dazed, she saw movement and color—one of Lord Arkelion’s concubines, scurrying away. The girl had pushed her.
“It seems the bonds of sisterhood do not extend to traitors.” Rahzavel’s voice floated above her. He straddled her hips, his face inches from her own—clean-shaven jaw, straight nose, gray eyes flat and distant.
She felt a sharp pain below her throat and glanced down, too dazed to fight.
He was cutting her.
A new panic seized her, shocking her awake. She needed to get away from him, now, before he saw the truth.
“Many would kill their dearest loved ones,” Rahzavel murmured, “for the chance to serve the Emperor as we do in Invictus. And yet you have thrown in your lot with the Prophet’s lapdog?”
Another cut, a shallow X between her collarbones.
She twisted in his grip. He cut into the soft flesh of her upper arm.
God, no, he’ll see—
“I suppose I shall have to find the Emperor a more grateful recruit,” he mused softly, “and keep you for myself.”
He swirled one long finger in her fresh blood and dragged it down her arm to her elbow.
He glanced down—and froze.
Eliana followed his gaze. The world slowed and stilled.
Together they watched the cut on her arm close.
An instant later, the skin was as good as new.
Rahzavel’s gaze shot back to hers, and for the first time since she had known him, she saw a spark of something other than bloodlust in his eyes.
Wonder. Confusion.
Fear.
Eliana could hardly breathe. Her blood raced hot beneath her skin.
“What are you?” Rahzavel whispered.
A sudden movement, just beyond Rahzavel’s shoulder. A tall, dark shape; a shift in the air.
Eliana flashed Rahzavel a smile. “I am your doom.”
Rahzavel leapt up, turned, and met Simon’s sword with his own.
Eliana rolled away, retrieved Arabeth, and pushed herself to her feet, ready to jump in after Simon and help, but the sight of them stopped her in her tracks.
Rahzavel and Simon whirled, stabbed, struck, their blades cutting the air. They swerved and ducked and parried and thrust. Whoever the Prophet was, he had obviously made sure Simon was well trained enough to fight even the Emperor’s own assassins.
She followed them into the expansive sitting room at the rear of the maidensfold, unsure how to help. Her vision had cleared, but Simon and Rahzavel were moving so quickly it seemed to her simply elegant chaos—daggers and swords, crimson and silver, the blood on the floor and the bloodred wings of Rahzavel’s cloak.
Their fight took them onto the terrace surrounding the maidensfold. Eliana hurried after them, the warm coastal breeze washing over her. Below, one of the river’s tributaries crawled slowly to the sea.
Rahzavel’s blade caught Simon’s, pinning him against the stone railing. They were locked together, Simon’s eyes full of cold fury, Rahzavel’s empty and deadly. Simon’s knees were buckling.
Eliana saw her opportunity, dove for Rahzavel’s back with her dagger. He whirled at the last moment, knocked both her weapon and then Simon’s out of their hands. Eliana grabbed a porcelain urn from a nearby table, brought it crashing down on Rahzavel’s shoulders. He barely stumbled, but it was enough.
Simon kicked Rahzavel’s elbow, and the assassin dropped his sword. Then Simon shoved him across the terrace railing.
Kicking and clawing, Rahzavel jabbed Simon in the throat, but Simon held on, gasping for air. Eliana hurried to his side, helped him push.
Rahzavel tumbled over the railing and fell into the blackness below.
Eliana gazed over the edge, trying to see if he hit the river, but the night was too dark. She wiped blood from her face, breathing hard.
Simon joined her, coughing from Rahzavel’s last blow to the throat. He spat over the railing, his lip curled with disgust.
“Do you think the fall was enough to kill him?” the girl—Navi—asked, joining them at the railing.
Then the bells of the watch towers along the palace walls began to ring.
Navi hissed a curse. “Razia. She disappeared shortly after you arrived. She must have reported you.”
Eliana’s eyes met Simon’s. “Follow me. We’ll have to do this the hard way.”
She led him and Navi back through the palace, down a different network of narrow servants’ passages. They met three adatrox coming up from the ballrooms. Navi flattened herself against the curving stone wall while Eliana and Simon punched and stabbed their way free.
They dashed inside a suite of rooms in the palace’s east wing, where party guests occupying the bedrooms shouted in protest, then raced out onto another wide terrace, this one lit with rose-glass lamps and fragrant from heaps of flowers. Below, Lord Arkelion’s gardens were a sea of light and color.
Eliana led the way, jumping off the terrace into a row of shrubs. She landed hard, branches cracking beneath her, and rolled to her feet. She heard Simon and Navi land behind her, heard Navi’s soft cry of pain.
Partygoers leapt back, alarmed. Someone screamed.
Eliana whirled, searching. A squadron of adatrox burst out of the Morning Ballroom, swords in hand. Two held rifles. They crouched on the steps, aimed, prepared to fire.
Two shots rang out; Eliana ducked. A nearby stone urn shattered. A group of dancers in silks and bangles fled, screaming.
Eliana led Simon and Navi through the gardens, knocking past the stunned guests, trying to ignore the sounds of the pursuing adatrox. She could not think of Rahzavel, of how lucky it was that he would have no chance to tell anyone about the impossible thing he had seen.
She would think only of Harkan, of her mother, of Remy.
Remy, I’m coming. Don’t be afraid.