Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone

“I heard running, so I hid. What’s—?”

“Ssh.” He pressed his good hand over her mouth as he had once before; in the dark, it was not too hard to imagine the scared look she’d had in the hayloft when he’d pressed her to the wall. She didn’t fight him, and some part of him questioned how much trust the girl had for someone she knew so little about. The rest of him was focused elsewhere, listening for footfalls above.

He could tell the moment that she heard them, too: she went from merely being still and patiently puzzled under his hand, to being like a coiled spring. The gray light grew brighter and brighter, until he could see the individual stairs to their left; until he could see Rose’s face, her eyes wide. She brought her own hand up, and pressed his down. He let her. It was obvious she’d gotten the point.

“Who?” she whispered.

“My father,” Aaron said, “the duke,” and if she cast him any strange look at that, he pretended it was still too dark to see. Explanations later. For now, there was—

“Markus,” the duke said, the words falling from the top of the staircase. In the dust leading down, Aaron saw the scuffs of hurried foot prints. More than one set, if a man paused to look too closely. His chest tightened. His heart sped. Rose was looking at him, and now he could see her face. If he never saw that kind of fear in her eyes again, he would be a happy man.

“Are you coming out, or must I hunt you?” the duke called.

Oh, he would like that—to get Aaron on the staircase, where he would have the upper ground. Aaron’s best shot at landing a blow was to force the man to come down, and strike as he reached the bottom of the landing, before he quite knew where his son was. They both knew it. To have the audacity to call out like that—

The princess stared at him, quiet and resolute and gripping the red silk hilt of her own knife.

He wanted to tell her to run, but there was nowhere for her to go. Up was the duke, and down were the dead ends of the dungeon and the barred way into the lower town. She must have gotten the same idea that he’d had: that no one would come this way by chance, and it was as good a hiding place as the old ways offered. These halls were meant for quick flight, not for games of cat and mouse. They were, after all, warded by the Letforget to keep enemies out. That rather fell apart when the enemy shared royal blood.

He could not let the duke come down here. Rose might not be the traitor’s first concern, but a proper coup didn’t leave heirs alive.

Aaron met the girl’s serious gaze, and pressed his good hand down on her shoulder. Stay. Then he stepped into the open.

“You speak so sweetly, how can any man refuse?” At the top of the stair the duke waited, sword drawn and lantern set rather far to the side this time. There was one lesson learned, then. “Make way at the top of the landing, or you can join me down here.”

The duke moved a gracious few feet aside, giving him room to come up safely, if only nominally. Aaron ascended. At the top, he settled into a stance mirroring the duke’s own, easing his injured arm away from his chest to hang at his side. He couldn’t very well baby it while he fought. If he lived, it would heal. Until then, it had better just mind itself, and leave him out of it.

“I don’t suppose that offer to surrender is still open.”

“I believe we’ve passed that road, son,” the duke replied, his sword ready.

It had been worth a try.

As before, it was the duke who struck first. Aaron managed to dodge it, simply by retreating past the point where the man would be overextended; the duke’s thrust hit only empty air. Sung stepped forward. Again: a thrust, and a retreat. Aaron had to get the man away from Rose.

Except that the lantern was back there, right at the top of the stair, clearly showing the scuffs of her small boots to anyone who was not focused on other matters. Like anyone unaccustomed to the dark, the duke would go back to collect it once he’d finished here.

Well. There was no helping it, then: Aaron would have to win. His dagger might be ill-acquired, but the woman who’d forged it had known her business. He would put his trust in her.

The duke thrust again, the steady patience of a victor on his face. Aaron caught the edge of the sword on his dagger, sending the larger blade glancing as he stepped into the man. If he had another working hand, now would be his chance to land a most satisfying punch. Instead, he contented himself with ramming against his father, shoulder to shoulder.

The duke stumbled back a pace. Aaron stepped in, and tried for a thrust to end things. The horn-hilted blade caught it, and a harsh shove from the duke sent Aaron backpedaling. He tried to come in low, high, left, right—he tried to use the agility of his lighter blade to counter the sword’s greater reach, to keep the duke on the defensive. It worked, for a moment, as the man was forced to deflect each little strike. But then he stepped back, and Aaron was not quick enough to follow. Sung had time to ready a thrust of his own, and he took it. Aaron spun to the side to avoid the strike, putting himself directly in the path of the duke’s shoulder. The man put his full weight behind the impact, slamming Aaron against the stone wall. He pressed an arm to Aaron’s throat.

Niall Sung looked for a moment like he wanted to say something. But there was nothing to say. He drew back his sword, just enough to get up the momentum to send it through cloth and all the things beneath. Aaron could not break free of his hold to dodge, could not bring up his dagger in time—

The man stilled.

There was a certain expression a person got when they knew they were beaten. Aaron was surprised to see it on his father’s face. The duke’s grip slackened. Aaron needed no further invitation: he brought the hilt of his dagger crashing into the man’s temple. Later he wasn’t sure why he did that, rather than a thrust through the duke’s ribs. Only that the man’s face had been a tempting target for some time now, and there was, as the Lady said, great satisfaction in simply hitting things.

Duke Sung crumpled. Behind him, Rose drew her knife out of his back as he fell, and took a hasty step away to avoid covering her shoes in blood noble.

“It was easy,” she said. “Really easy. It just slipped right in—”

“Thank you,” Aaron said. Then he took the liberty of sliding down to the ground, and catching his breath.

After a moment, Rose stepped neatly around the duke’s form, and leaned over Aaron. She pressed a hand first to his forehead, as if that had anything to do with matters; then she eyed him critically, from his bare feet up to the tips of his distraught hair.

“Your wrist is broken,” she said.

“A man with a broken wrist,” Aaron instructed her, “does not want to hear that he has a broken wrist.” He painfully dragged his injured arm back against his chest, and cradled it as gently as he could. He’d never had a broken wrist before. It was an experience he could have lived without.

“Is he dead?” Rose asked, looking down at the man at their feet. “Did I kill him?”

Aaron took a moment to stare at the duke. There was blood on his back, and it was growing. The white—sorry, the argent—coat did nothing to hide the stain, and everything to make it more dramatic. Still, there was something about the way it spread; too slowly for where she seemed to have hit. Aaron looked at the hilt of the blade. The unicorn’s horn, still wrapped loosely in the duke’s fingers. He nudged it out of the unconscious man’s grip with his foot, and kicked it a safe distance to the side.

“No,” he replied, after a moment. “And he won’t die from that, not if the bleeding is stopped. If you’re trying to kill a man immediately, try to hit a little more towards the center.”

The girl nodded solemnly at this advice.

Aaron shifted his grip on his own dagger. “Should I—?”

“No,” she cut him off. “You can’t kill him. The king’s first act must be to judge the traitor.”

Rose got back to her feet, brushing the dust from her skirts out of habit as her eyes settled on the man she had stabbed. Her scarf was on the ground over by the steps; not lost in the fight, but deliberately cast aside when she’d decided to enter it. Her hair clung in wild strands to her temple and neck where it had escaped from her braid; her face was set in those too-serious lines. The lantern light made her hair the red and gold of flame, while the shadows outlined her profile in black. Aaron caught a glimpse of the woman growing inside of the girl, and was glad her brothers stood between her and the throne.

The princess would make a terrifying queen.