Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [264]
"Have they?" Black Sleeve's voice quivered with rage. "Then let us see how well you have taught them, Father."
He turned in a graceful arc and flung out one hand, the sleeve of his crimson robe flaring.
Why is he called Black Sleeve?
In the blink of an eye, a handful of poisoned darts sped toward us. I heard the dragon's helpless roar of fury. Beside me, Snow Tiger was already in motion, her sword angled, avoiding Dai's efforts to protect her; but she no longer possessed the dragon's immortal strength and speed. Skilled as she was, she was no longer the quickest person there.
Bao was.
With a fierce cry, he flung himself between us and the alchemist's darts, whirling like a dervish, one half of his broken staff in each hand. The deadly little darts thudded into the battered bamboo.
All but one.
If Bao's staff hadn't been broken, he might have done it. He was that quick, that deft, and that good. But there was a gap between the broken halves, a gap that he filled with his own body. The dart caught him in the throat, in the sculpted curve beneath his jaw where I liked to press my face and breathe in the scent of his skin. There, the haft of the dart jutted forth. Such a tiny thing.
He took a step toward us, his face apologetic. "Moirin…" he said—and crumpled.
With a look of sick determination, Black Sleeve began another graceful turn, the other sleeve of his crimson robe swinging toward us. Half-blind with tears, I reached for my bow, knowing it was already too late.
A streak of silver shot past me, followed by the belated echo of Imperial bowstrings thrumming.
The arrows found their target, but Snow Tiger's sword found it first. She had thrown it with furious and immaculate skill. I knew it by the gilded filigree on the round guard, the golden silk tassel dangling from its hilt.
Black Sleeve sank to his knees, wrapping his hands around the hilt that protruded from his chest. He looked down at it, uncomprehending. He might have been a hundred years old, a hundred and fifty. But in that moment, his face was a wounded boy's.
"Father." He raised his face toward Master Lo Feng, his gaze bewildered. A trickle of blood spilled from one corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry."
My mentor made a choked sound.
His son fell over sideways, eyes fixed and motionless.
I ran for Bao, flinging myself on my knees beside him.
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
Late, too late. Black Sleeve's poison was fast-acting.
I plucked the dart from Bao's throat, bent my head, and tried to suck the poison from his skin. I sucked and spat, my lips turning numb and tingling.
"Moirin, no!" a voice behind me said. I ignored it.
Bao's eyelids fluttered. It seemed he couldn't move his limbs. His unfocused gaze met mine, and he tried to smile. "Should have told you—"
Nothing.
The words died on his lips.
My diadh-anam faltered in my breast, the spark of it guttering low in despair. Ah, gods! Like a fool, I had always assumed it was Master Lo for whom it had flared—my teacher, my mentor. They had always been together. Even after I had come to desire and care for Bao in all his insolent pride, to love him, I had never realized it had been him all along.
I was an idiot.
"No." I shook my head in denial. I shook Bao where he lay, shook his limp, lifeless shoulders. "No, no, no, no! You stupid boy, you can't be dead!"
His head lolled, lids half-parted.
Dead.
Master Lo Feng sank to his knees beside me. He felt at the pulses in Bao's wrists and throat. Felt, and felt again, seeking any sign of life, and finding none. His grave eyes told me the news I did not want to hear.
"An antidote," I pleaded. "There must be one!"
"No." The word fell like a stone.
I bowed my head. I was vaguely aware of Master Lo rising and walking away from me, his hands folded in his sleeves. Vaguely aware of hands pulling at me. Vaguely aware of other hands batting them away, the princess'