Please, God, I pray furiously, my fingertips to my navel. Not Hector. Keep him safe. Keep all my guards safe.
A crazy thought occurs to me. “Hector, shouldn’t we yell for help?”
He actually laughs. “Yes, yes of course!”
So we do, every single one of us, and my voice soars over them all.
In moments, I hear running footsteps, the clang of steel on steel. Someone comes to our rescue.
The blood from Hector’s wound drips to the floor now. My head swims at the sight. Don’t you dare faint, Elisa.
Then something about the smell, metallic and hot, snaps me back to myself. It’s familiar.
It’s war.
I know exactly what Cosmé would do. “Hector, I need to break off the arrow shaft.”
“Wait . . . what?” His voice is breathy with pain. I hope the arrowhead has not embedded itself in bone.
“You may need to use that arm. Can’t risk the shaft getting knocked around. Please.”
He twists to give me an easy grip. “Hurry.”
Though I watched Cosmé do this a few times in our rebel camp, I never did it myself. My teeth are chattering and my hands shake, from the icy Godstone or from fear I cannot tell as I wrap both hands around it. Cosmé always braced the body part, snapped hard and fast.
He hisses from pain. “Snap lower,” he says. “As close to my ribs as possible.”
I move my hands until one rests against his back. The sounds of fighting come closer. Don’t think, Elisa. Just do.
With a grunt, I snap the shaft in two. The jagged end snags my palm, drawing blood. I toss the shaft to the ground and wipe my hand on my skirt.
Hector sways on his feet. Instinctively I wrap my arms around his waist to hold him up. He leans against me a moment, then straightens, breathing hard. “It’s all right. I’m all right.” But I’m not so sure. I know he can handle the pain, but his body could go into shock.
A flurry of bodies approaches. I see glinting blades, swinging limbs, a wooden shield. “To the queen!” calls a voice I recognize.
It’s Conde Tristán. He works his way toward us, accompanied by men dressed in the sky blue and ivory of Selvarica. The assailants are no one I recognize. I count five, but in the chaos I can’t be sure. They’re dirty and unshaven and clothed in little more than rags, but they wield quality blades and bows.
Tristán cuts through attackers with astonishing speed, a short sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. His fighting style is beautiful, almost like a dance. He and his companions give no quarter, and the attackers cannot draw their bows.
Now that we have reinforcements, Hector gestures for three guards to investigate the opposite end of the corridor, and they take off running. The wounded guard is swaying on his feet, and Hector yanks him back toward me, saying, “Don’t engage. Defend the queen.”
Only two attackers remain. Hector lunges at one and pierces him cleanly through the breast. Tristán leaps, whipping his sword around toward the other as I yell, “I need him alive!”
The conde adjusts midair, lands easily, sends the hilt into the attacker’s temple. The filthy man crumples to the ground. The Godstone’s ice fades and is replaced by soft warmth.
My guards, Hector, Tristán, the men from Selvarica all look around at one another, in that shared moment of relief and triumph I’ve seen a dozen times before. Bodies litter the corridor. Tristán nudges one with the toe of his boot and watches for movement. Nothing.
“Mercenaries?” Tristán says.
Hector nods. “They fought poorly, and their attack was ill conceived. They might not even know their employer.”
I point out, “There’s no way men dressed like that can afford weapons like those.”
“We’ll need to question the one His Grace conked on the head,” says Hector. “But he may not be able to tell us . . .” He sways.
I jump forward, lodge myself under his armpit, and wrap his arm around my shoulder. Blood soaks his shirt. It smears all over the skin of my neck, seeps into my bodice.
“Find Doctor Enzo!” I say to no one in particular. “Tell him to meet us in the commander’s quarters.”
Hector is almost limp in my arms. Fear stabs at my gut.
“Conde Tristán, can you escort us to the barracks?”
“Of course.” He gestures to one of his own men. “Stay with the unconscious one. Tie his ankles and wrists. Roll him onto his side in case he vomits.”
And we’re off, down the corridor toward the barracks. Hector sags hard against my shoulder, and his feet drag. My thighs burn with effort as each step pounds a prayerful rhythm through my head: Not Hector, not Hector, not Hector.