Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [226]
We traded a few blows, testing one another. If Astegal had had a shield, we might have been evenly matched. We weren’t. I didn’t press him yet. I didn’t want to risk making any mistakes, fearful that my leg would give out beneath me if I made a careless move. But when I parried his blows with ease, I saw the realization dawn on him that he was truly in grave danger.
He was good with a sword.
I was better.
Still, Astegal was a fighter. He sought to goad me as I’d goaded him, sending a pointed glance in Sidonie’s direction.
“Very romantic, seeking to defend your beloved,” he said smoothly. “She’s a wanton little thing, isn’t she?”
I didn’t answer.
He essayed a quick jab at my face, hoping to force me off balance. I held my ground and parried, sweeping his blade to one side. “So willing and eager,” Astegal said, taking a step backward to regroup. He licked his lips. “She tastes sweet like honey.”
I kept silent, holding my sword angled before me.
Astegal’s expression hardened. He came at me fast and our blades crossed and locked. Both of us strained for leverage. My left leg trembled. I tensed my muscles and willed it to steadiness. He leaned toward me, close as a lover. “She suckled my root like no one has ever done,” he whispered in a confidential tone. “I miss that.”
I held my tongue.
Patience.
“Betimes . . .” Astegal raised his voice. “Betimes when I was finished with her, she would beg me for more.” The crowd around us murmured. He searched my face for a reaction and found none. I felt frustration weaken his resolve and took a quick step backward, resettling myself. “Gods!” Astegal spread his arms slightly, dropping his guard. “And you call yourself a man?”
I plunged my sword hilt-deep into his belly. “I do.”
Astegal’s mouth gaped. The executioner’s sword dropped from his nerveless right hand. For a moment he merely stood and swayed. Then he sank slowly to his knees. And as he sank, I withdrew my blade with a ruthless wrench.
“All that passion you’re so quick to boast of didn’t belong to you, Astegal,” I said in a cold voice. “It never did. You took it and twisted it to your own ends, you and Bodeshmun. And I will tell you what I told him while I watched him die. It is not wise to meddle with D’Angelines in matters of love.”
On his knees, Astegal grimaced and clutched the wound in his belly with both hands, holding his entrails in place. “You promised me a warrior’s death,” he said hoarsely. “Grant me the mercy of the battlefield and make it swift.”
“Mercy.” I placed the tip of my blood-stained blade over his heart. “Mercy is not mine to grant.” I turned my head toward Sidonie and addressed her formally. She was my beloved, but she was also the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange. “Your highness?”
If there was anyone present who would have denied her the right, they stayed silent. I would have given her the sword if she had wished. Instead, Sidonie approached and laid her hand over mine on the hilt.
We would do this together.
She gazed down at Astegal. When she spoke, her voice was cool and venomous. “How fitting that in the end you should plead for the sweet release of one final thrust.”
Astegal didn’t reply. Through the pain that racked his features, I saw a complex mix of emotions: anger, shame, bitterness, and regret. I couldn’t see Sidonie’s expression, and mayhap it was just as well.
Sidonie’s hand tightened on mine.
Together we drove the blade home and granted Astegal mercy. I could feel a shudder the length of the blade as he died. Sidonie never flinched.
Sixty-Seven
On the heels of Astegal’s death, there was a great outcry of bloodthirsty cheers in the plaza. It hadn’t been Aragonian justice, but it had been a spectacle beyond their wildest dreams. The executioner dragged Astegal’s lifeless body into place, positioning his head on the chopping-block. He retrieved his sword with grim determination and hewed