by Maya Banks
The crowd roared their approval, shoving fists into the air and letting loose a series of whistles.
“We cannot wait any longer,” Isabella hissed. “The crowd will never accept my word.”
No sooner had the words left her lips an explosion rocked the area. Screams filled the air as people swarmed in all directions. Isabella whirled to see a plume of smoke rising from the far perimeter of the gathering.
Merrick grinned. “I knew we could count on Father Ling.”
The soldiers lining the platform leaped into action, pouring back to where the smoke filled the air. Seizing their opportunity, Merrick and Isabella rushed forward, against the tide of people running from the platform.
The Royal Guard stood stoically to the side of Stephane until Merrick put his hands down for Isabella to step on. He launched her up to the platform. The captain shouted an order, and they quickly converged on her, surrounding her with swords drawn.
For a moment, a satisfied expression settled on Stephane’s face until the soldiers turned outward, signaling that they were protecting her, not apprehending her.
Around them, the screams died, and the people calmed. Then an excited buzz rose as they recognized their princess. One by one, they filtered back to the village center as if realizing the significance of what was about to occur.
“’Tis the princess,” someone shouted.
A murmur went up, and the villagers surged even closer.
“Seize the traitor!” Stephane shouted. He glanced wildly around, evidently realizing the absurdity of his order. There was no one to apprehend her.
An uneasy titter swept through the crowd.
Isabella stared serenely at Stephane, her head held high. Beside her, Merrick stood, a menacing barrier between her and anyone who would try to harm her. His presence buoyed her in a way the soldiers surrounding her couldn’t.
She stepped forward, ducking the swords drawn to protect her. “I challenge you as set forward in the laws of the righteous.”
Stephane stared disbelievingly at her then burst into laughter. “You challenge me?”
“What are you afraid of?” she asked, her voice carrying over the hushed crowd. “You have made many claims this day. If you are right, God will be on your side, and you will prevail.”
The crowd murmured, a current of approval racing through the villagers.
Stephane emitted a harsh laugh. “The old ways are gone. The Order has voted to do away with them.” He turned to the crowd. “The truth, though painful, is that my sister murdered our parents. And our younger brother.”
A collective gasp went up from the crowd. Angry murmurs quickly followed and the villagers pressed closer to the platform. The guards moved forward, once more encompassing Isabella in their fold.
Father Ling stepped regally onto the platform and held up his hands for silence. Leaudorians were reverent of Father Ling, and now they were wildly curious as to what he would say. They pressed closer still, ignoring the band of soldiers who struggled to return to the platform after investigating the explosion.
“Much has been said of betrayal,” Father Ling said calmly. “The people of Leaudor deserve to know who is just and who is not. Do you refuse Princess Isabella’s challenge, Prince Stephane? Do you forego the opportunity to prove your claims?”
“Proving my claims is not necessary when the Order knows who the traitor is,” Stephane spoke out, his breath coming in rapid bursts. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he rubbed his face nervously. “They have proclaimed the old ways dead. I am the rightful king.”
“He failed the quest,” Isabella announced. “Regardless of what the Order proclaimed, they did so under the direction of a man who was not qualified to rule.”
“How did you know that?” Stephane choked out, anger wild in his eyes.
“You chose wrong,” she said calmly. “In the final chamber. That is why you failed the quest. Father was right. A good ruler must also see with his heart. Not just his eyes.”
“It matters not,” he hissed. “I will be king.”
“I issued a challenge,” she said. “Do you accept or do you show the Leaudorian people who the true traitor is?”
Panic flared in his eyes as he realized he was well and truly caught. If he refused, it would appear that he had something to hide. He would have no choice but to accept.
Behind Stephane, the members of the Order exchanged uneasy glances. Doubt clearly registered on their expressions as they witnessed the scene before them.
“By what right do you make such a challenge?” Lord Helwedge spoke up.
She turned and fixed her stare on the members of the Order assembled. “My right as the true ruler of this country,” she said icily. “By what right do you change our laws?”
He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny and his gaze flitted over the other members. None of them stepped forward, nor would they meet her stare.
“Perhaps we were a bit hasty in our decision,” Lord Helwedge said, clearing his throat nervously.
Father Ling stepped forward. “The princess has issued a challenge as afforded to her in our laws. Do you seek to deny her?”
Lord Helwedge swallowed then looked over at Stephane. “Do you accept the challenge issued before you?”
“You can’t condone this,” Stephane cried. “You cannot allow her to get away with her treachery.”
“May the righteous prevail,” Lord Helwedge announced, backing away.
Stephane turned to her, hatred burning in his eyes. “You will regret making such a foolhardy challenge,” he hissed.
“Make the circle,” Father Ling called out.
The members of the order filed solemnly from their positions at the back of the platform and formed a circle around her and Stephane.
From beyond the circle, Merrick fixed her with his gaze, his eyes lending her his strength. She took in a deep breath and nodded at him. She would prevail. Everything rode on her success.
Father Ling stepped forward and offered a blessing over her then faded back from the circle. Stephane’s face flushed red at the monk’s slight and the message it sent to the observers.
They circled one another warily. Isabella thought back to all Father Ling had taught her. She had been an apt pupil, soaking up the ancient traditions. But the lessons learned had never been more important than at this moment.
Stephane struck first, swinging his leg out. She easily blocked it with her hand and quickly struck a blow to his ribs with her foot. Bouncing up on her toes, she danced around him, looking for another opening.
He faked left then straightened, throwing first his left then his right hand. She jerked her head back, effectively dodging both swings, but his leg arched in a precise kick, catching her in the shoulder.
Stumbling back, she moved to the side and resumed her stance. “Out of practice, brother?” she taunted. “You kick like a weak woman. Surely you can do better than that.”
His eyes narrowed, and he lashed out in anger, punching his fist toward her face. She caught his wrist with one hand and brought her knee into his gut, using his momentum to carry him forward. He grunted in pain, and she slid her leg down to sweep his feet from underneath him. He landed with a thump on the floor, rolling quickly away from her.
Slowly, he stood up, rubbing his abdomen. They circled again, each measuring the other. She faked several punches in order to get him to react. When his hands lowered, she threw her palm forward connecting with his chin.
His head snapped back, and he brought the back of his hand up to wipe his mouth. Blood smeared from his lip, and he stared in disbelief at the red trail on his hand.
Foregoing any pretense of traditional fighting, he lunged at her with a roar. His arms closed around her, and he drove her to the floor, landing painfully atop her. Her breath left her in one long whoosh.
Gasping for air, she jammed her knee up between his legs. He howled in pain and rolled away from her. She scrambl
ed up, using the opportunity to catch her breath.
Stephane stood up, his face still drawn in agony. As she closed in to land another blow, he caught her in the face with his fist, sending her reeling back into the men who formed the circle. They caught her before she fell and pushed her back into the ring.
Blood ran from her own mouth now, but she didn’t bother to wipe it. She exploded in a flurry of action, pushing her brother back as she landed a series of punches and kicks. Pressed against the men, he caught her ankle and yanked her into the air.
She landed with a painful thud to the floor, and he jumped down on her, a knife suddenly appearing in his hand. She caught his wrist as he plunged it downward, his intent to drive the knife into her heart.
Merrick was right. Stephane would not fight her honorably. He would do whatever necessary to achieve his goal. Sadness pierced her heart in place of the dagger’s blade. Her brother—her childhood confidant and protector, a person she had mourned deeply for—would kill her without thought.
Sweat poured from her face as she struggled to keep the knife from descending into her flesh. But he was just as determined to end her life as she was to stay alive. Their eyes connected, and the moment seemed frozen in time. She searched the depths of his ocean green eyes, eyes just like hers, for some semblance of the man she knew. But all that stared back at her was madness.
She reared back and slammed her head into his. Pain exploded through her skull, but it had an equally devastating effect on Stephane. The knife clattered to the floor, and he rolled away, blood pouring from his eye.
Still lying on the floor, she rotated with lightning speed and kicked him in the side of the head. She bounced up, her other foot catching him under the chin on her way up. His body arched, and he flipped over onto his back with the force of her kick.
She reached down and grasped the knife, the temptation to end his life so strong, she nearly plunged it down into his heart. Putting a tight rein on her emotions, she leaped on him and wedged her forearm under his chin, pressing into his throat so he was unable to draw a breath.
She held the point of the knife to his chest and straddled his body. “Tell me of your arrangement with the French. Did you enter into a devil’s bargain with them to secure Bonaparte’s escape?”
He attempted a laugh though the sound gurgled out of his throat. “I entered no such bargain. His supporters…needed money to free him. I supplied it…in return for their help in removing certain members of Leaudor’s ruling family. What they do afterwards is of no consequence to me.”
“When is his escape planned?” she demanded.
He smiled an evil, triumphant smile. “You are too late.”
“I should kill you,” she whispered, loosening her hold on the knife. “You don’t deserve to live.”
“Then do it,” he taunted, sucking in a deep breath as the pressure against his throat was lessened. “End my miserable life. You know you want the throne as badly as I do. Kill me and it will be yours.”
She shook her head and slowly rose. “I’m not like you. I’m not willing to kill for personal gain.” She stepped back, her rage leaving her in one fell swoop. She had dreamed of this moment. Of having revenge for the deaths of her parents. So many times she had imagined ending the life of the person responsible, but now when it was all within her reach, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It would make her no better than Stephane.
“I claim victory,” she said calmly. “For I could have killed you. But I want you to live with what you have done. I want you to rot in prison. I want your last thoughts before you go to sleep at night to be of the mother and father you killed in order to take something that was not yours.”
“Kill me,” he said raising his head. “I won’t go to prison.”
“You have no choice,” she replied. “Everyone here has heard of your deeds.”
She dropped the knife at her feet as the royal guard surged forward to apprehend Stephane. Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, and she looked up to see Merrick standing beside her, his eyes dark with concern.
She wiped the blood at her mouth with the back of her hand and let out her pent-up breath in a long, painful sigh. “It’s over.”
“Yes,” Merrick said quietly.
Father Ling held up his hands once more and all attention turned to him. He spoke softly, and everyone strained to hear. “I stand before you as witness to Princess Isabella’s completion of the requirements to ascend the throne.
“She journeyed into the caves and returned triumphant. She is truly worthy to be queen and the rightful heir. Her heart is pure, and she is free of the betrayals that have rocked our nation.”
He turned to face Isabella. “If you would kneel so that I may place the crown on your head, I would offer blessing on your reign and pronounce you Queen of Leaudor.”
She hesitated for a moment, the enormity of the event overwhelming her. She had done it. Avenged her mother and father. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks and the crowd blurred before her.
Merrick urged her forward, his hand steadying her. On shaky legs, she knelt in front of Father Ling and bowed her head.
Father Ling turned to address the crowd. “Hear me, people of Leaudor. Today, the righteous have prevailed. Princess Isabella shall hereto forth be called Queen Isabella. Long may she reign.”
A monk beside him produced a brilliantly cut tiara, and Father Ling gently placed it atop Isabella’s head. Then he offered her his hand and helped her rise.
He then bowed before her. “I give you Queen Isabella Genevieve Elizabeth Chastaine.”
The crowd erupted in cheers.
“You should remove her to the palace as quickly as possible,” Father Ling said to Merrick.
Merrick nodded and wrapped a protective arm around her. He led her gently toward the edge of the platform. As they passed Stephane, hatred twisted the features of his face into an ugly mask. In a flurry of movement, he broke away from the soldier who held him and pulled a small pistol from his pants.
The world slowed around Isabella. She watched in horror as Stephane raised his gun and pointed it in her and Merrick’s direction. A loud crack split the air, and she felt herself falling as Merrick shoved her down. Pain seared her arm, and she heard Merrick curse loudly above her.
She gripped her arm and felt something warm and sticky. She pulled her hand away and stared in amazement at her own blood.
Another shot sounded and she turned her head to see Stephane fall a few feet away, a red stain rapidly spreading on his chest.
No!
She struggled to get up, the pain piercing the haze of confusion surrounding her.
“Lie still,” Merrick commanded.
“No, I must speak to him before…before he dies,” she protested, pushing herself up.
Gripping her arm to staunch the flow of blood, she stumbled over to where Stephane lay. His skin was chalky, his face bathed in sweat. Blood poured from the wound in his chest, pooling around him on the platform.
He turned glassy eyes to her, so much pain mirrored in their depths. He coughed, his body jerking with the movement. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t speak,” she said, tears clouding her vision.
He coughed again, more blood spilling from his mouth. “If only he had believed in me,” he said raggedly. “I would have done anything to please him.”
She pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. “Oh, Stephane.”
“He wasn’t…he wasn’t even surprised…when I failed. I saw his eyes.” Stephane’s voice trailed away. Tears slipped down his cheek to mix with the blood surrounding him. “I hated him for that.”
Isabella no longer tried to contain the sobs building in her throat. Raw, guttural anguish ripped from her heart as she watched her brother draw his last breath.
His chest rose and then stuttered, paused, then fell one
last time never to rise again. His head lolled to the side as he stared out over the crowd with lifeless eyes.
With a trembling hand, she reached out and gently shut his eyes. “May God have mercy on you,” she whispered.
Strong, comforting arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her to a standing position. Merrick guided her away from Stephane, but she looked back one last time.
“Come, Isabella,” Merrick said gently. “You need immediate attention.”
She allowed herself to be led from the platform and to the royal coach positioned at the edge of the crowd. The villagers parted, bowing as she walked by, but she didn’t acknowledge them, so great was her shock, her anguish, her utter heartbreak.
Merrick assisted her into the carriage then slipped in beside her. “It’s over now, Isabella. No one can hurt you any more.”
She blinked and focused on his beloved face. Hurt? She didn’t think she could possibly hurt more than she did at this moment. She nestled against him, ignoring the throbbing in her arm. It was a short ride to the palace. She would enjoy the precious few moments in his arms.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Isabella sat in her private quarters, the room chaotic around her. The Royal Guard had fanned out and secured the palace, banning the members of the Order from returning. Servants rushed back and forth bearing water and bandages in response to Merrick’s barked orders.
He looked so fierce, completely in command of the situation, yet when he focused his attention on her, his demeanor changed completely.
“Hold still,” he directed.
He gently pulled the sleeve of her shirt away from her wound. “It’s just a graze,” he said as he began washing the blood away.
He had insisted on seeing to her care himself, shunning offers to summon the royal physician. His touch warmed her, comforted her in a way no doctor could.
She winced slightly as he wrapped a dressing around her arm.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and she knew he wasn’t only asking about her injury.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.