He was going to lose.
He couldn’t. If he lost against Isiodore, what chance did he have against King Tristan? He tried to push off the gate, but Isiodore wrenched Eli’s blade out of his hand with a twisting flicker of steel, and Eli stared into the same cold, merciless eyes that had met his gaze a few days before Eli was arrested. He’d known then what would happen to Eli.
Just like he knew now.
“Do it.” Eli spat into the ground between them. “Go ahead. Is this what you wanted, Your Grace? To do it yourself? Then here’s your chance.”
Isiodore stepped back, sword loose in his grip.
“This was a friendly match,” Isiodore said, unsmiling.
“Don’t lie to me.” Eli leaned against the fence, his limbs heavy as lead, lungs tight with pain as the exertion of the fight settled over him. “You’ve never been friendly. You never liked me. You always thought I washer.”
Isiodore said nothing. Rain fell between them like a sheet of glass, and for a second, it was as though Isiodore wasn’t quite real—just a vision on the gallows, one last trick of the mind before Eli closed his eyes.
“I asked you to train me, you know,” Eli said. “I sent you a letter. I begged you. I thought maybe—maybe if you would train me and I could get away from Mother, I could at least pretend to be who I really was for a few hours. I could get out of those dresses, those ribbons, away from her.” The sheet of rain wavered, rippling in the wind. “You know, she used to hit my hands with the back of a brush when I acted like him? I used to have his laugh, apparently. It’s gone now—I don’t even know what his laugh sounded like anymore. But you, oh, Isiodore de Mortain, the cleverest left hand of the king there ever was, you saw me and you believed exactly what she wanted you to believe—that I was just a copy of her.”
Isiodore stood there like stone, watching him. Tears burned hot over the mud on Eli’s cheeks.
“You could have saved me from her,” Eli said. “Instead you had me killed. You didn’t even save Sabre, and he’s more like Father than I’ll ever be. Did you hate Aline de Valois so much that you’d damn both her children?”
Isiodore stepped through the rain, and Eli drew himself up. If he wasn’t going to retrieve the sword and take down the King of the Wild Hunt, he’d at least die on his feet.
“Go on, then,” Eli said. “So you know nothing about me. What does that matter? It didn’t stop you last time. So do it. Be a big man and end it, you uptight, foppishbastard.”
Isiodore stopped, brows raised, as laughter rang out over the training yards. Eli twisted around to the source and froze as Emile de Guillory, former king of Staria, strolled across the muddy grounds in useless sleep slippers and rumpled clothes. Eli’s breath caught in his throat, and Emile’s smile was mirthless and wicked.
“Remarkable,” Emile said. “It’s like we’re speaking to a ghost. Stay put, de Valois,” he added, and Eli tensed—then realized, with a jolt of horror, that Emile was gesturing to someone else.
Sabre stood at the far end of the training yards, his face pale as a sheet, with Laurent de Rue gripping him as though he were using every ounce of strength to hold him back. Beside them, looking almost as stricken as Sabre, was Rey.
“I’d ask you to kneel, but you’ll probably lecture me next,” Emile said. “And I’ve heard enough lectures from redheaded de Valoises to last a lifetime.”
“Sabre wouldn’t dare,” Eli blurted, and Emile’s smile broadened.
“Of course he wouldn’t. Neither would your mother. It was your father who couldn’t hold his tongue. And no, I have no interest in pretending I don’t know who you are.” Emile pulled a heavy, ornamented gun from his belt and ran his fingers along the barrel, and Eli went as still as a deer sensing a wolf in the dark. “Isiodore took the liberty of having your grave exhumed two days ago. Imagine my surprise when we found it empty—almost as though the body had stood up and walked off.”
“Your majesty,” Sabre called out, and Eli flicked his gaze toward Sabre to see him straining against Laurent’s hold. “What is going on?”
“Don’t,” Eli said softly. Emile stopped, pale blue eyes fixed on Eli’s. “Don’t do it in front of him. Not again.”
“I’m curious to know how you survived the first time,” Emile said. He, too, kept his voice low. “I seem to recall you hanged long enough.”
Eli shrugged. He needed to stall so Laurent or Rey could drag Sabre off. He looked at Rey, but Rey’s eyes were wild with panic. “It’s like you said. Sometimes bodies get up and walk off.”
“Not without assistance. And I should note, while you were giving Isiodore a very amusing telling-off, you failed to admit to your own role in your mother’s plot. Or did younotintend to kill my son if he opposed your ascension to the throne?”
Eli glanced down at the gun. He’d heard rumors that King Emile had killed his own guard captain once. Was this the same gun he’d used, or was that just another of Eli’s mother’s lies? “I don’t deny it. But he is the king Staria needs right now. I don’t want Adrien’s throne or his life.”
“Or your brother’s?” Emile’s voice was silk-soft, evil as a knife cutting through flesh.
“Sabre’s innocent in this,” Eli said. His face flushed hot. “He was always innocent. You should have known that before you tossed him to the pleasure houses.”
“There’s the hatred I was expecting.” Emile stopped inches from Eli and tipped his chin up with a finger. “I’m not sure I like seeing it on that face.”
“What are you going to do?” Eli asked. “Execute me?”
Emile trailed his finger down Eli’s neck, tugging at his collar. Eli ground his teeth as Emile examined the old scars around Eli’s throat. “Did the first time fail to teach you a lesson?”
