Chapter 37
thirty-seven
Isahn kneels.
“Inever thought I’d get to see this again. Truly, what a treat. A perfect parting gift!” The king practically frothed at the mouth, deranged, as he spat in crazed delirium.
Even Ean stilled upon Isahn’s shoulder while Gasparo’s behavior escalated further. His lunatic jubilation, the blood dripping down his shirt—it chilled Isahn to the bone.
As if seeing George tacked up against the wall, unable to move, wasn’t horrifying enough, she gasped. Gulped for air, before a look of absolute dread usurped her persistent defiance.
Isahn’s heart thundered in his throat where it had been lodged for several minutes.
“He’s killing her,” he hissed to Ean, whom he’d previously shoved away from the peephole, unwilling to share as he watched terror-struck while the king abused his daughter.
Isahn needed to act. He’d forced himself to hang back, watched, waited for George to do something. But that “something” wasn’t coming.
Her face darkened from a lack of oxygen. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t save herself.
Isahn couldn’t say how he knew, but he could tell. The time for waiting was over.
Gasparo still faced them, the spies hidden away in the wall, but his eyes bore a faraway sheen. Georgetta was showing her father something, the “perfect parting gift” before he took his daughter’s life. Currently, the king couldn’t see a damned thing.
It was time to act.
“Chutzpah!” he shouted the code word to Ean, no longer caring to stay quiet. Not that he’d been doing a bang-up job of it anyway.
Earlier in the day, while the friends prepared George for her dinner, they worked out a backup plan.
Unfortunately, it hinged on Hildy being in the room, which she was not.
This was the backup plan’s backup plan, devised by Ean and Isahn alone.
Isahn hadn’t been familiar with the code word, but the elf convinced him it was a good one, borrowed from the pixies.
On cue, Ean zipped into the air, nearly cracking his small head on the stone ceiling. Isahn leapt up, thick cords of water coiling around him as he prepared to storm the room. Ean shifted a section of wall forward. Stone blocks blinked away before reappearing—smashing into the vision-magicked king.
Gasparo went down hard onto one knee as Isahn stepped forward.
Activity whirled around him: Ean zipping out above his head, a roar, the king spinning as he stood, hard hands clamping around Isahn’s neck.
He tried to scream, but nothing could pass through the pressure of the touch magic. Not a scream. Not a breath.
Someone shrieked, a high-pitched, wavering sound that came from the right.
Who was over there? The king turned to look as Isahn took his water magic to the grip on his throat, trying to rip it free.
A figure in gold fabric slipped into place behind the king.
Small arms raised up, and a massive amphora slammed down on Gasparo’s head with a thud.
The king issued a strange groan and wavered on his feet like he was considering falling.
The invisible hands choking Isahn lightened their grip, just slightly, and he sucked in a gasping breath as he shoved cords of water between the magic and his neck, creating a protective barrier.
“Ean!” Isahn yelled, catching sight of the king’s somewhat cross-eyed but hardening glare.
A flicker of gold zipped through his periphery, high, near the ceiling. Isahn looked up for Eanraig, and the king followed suit, tipping his head back to see. Beside Ean, a chunk of stone hovered—then dropped.
The crack was sickening, the king’s moan even worse, and his fall, so hard it vibrated through the floor tiles and up Isahn’s boots. Standing behind him, arms still raised, amphorae still in hand, a familiar-looking aide stood shaking.
“Nice work,” Isahn complimented the woman and Ean as he threw out boiling ropes of liquid to bind the shitbag king by his ankles and wrists, wrenching his limbs behind his back.
Gasparo’s struggle was inconsequential as his consciousness faded, but Isahn knew he’d be back.
They had to act fast. When the king’s limbs went limp and his magic ceased, Isahn swung around in horror to find George plummeting to the floor.
He sent out a wave of cushioning water moments too late, and it drenched her instead of helping as she crumpled in a sodden heap.
“Sorry! Sorry!” He raced over while displacing a pitcher full of water to ice the doors closed.
If enemy guards were alive on the other side, they’d likely have heard the commotion and come running already.
Hopefully, Hildy and Burke had been able to get the upper hand, maybe Dunstan and Wynnie stepped in, too.
But Isahn didn’t want to take the risk. Gasparo’s legionaries were used to ignoring shouts and cries of pain.
But entire walls being blown out? That made a ruckus.
The makeshift lock wouldn’t hold for long; however, it should give those outside pause while the situation within was brought to a conclusion.
Isahn skidded up to George, dropping to his knees on the polished stone floor. Holding her tight to his chest, he murmured, “You’re all right, you’re all right.”
“Thank you,” she rasped.
“Of course.” When he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, he wanted to squeeze her hard, to fold her into him and never let her go. But he wouldn’t risk hurting her further, so he inhaled her, all rose and patchouli.
Neck straining, she peered over his shoulder. “Is he...?”
“Not yet.”
Isahn was distantly aware of Ean apologizing to the aide cowering in the opposite corner. Amidst the elf’s ongoing platitudes and promises that she was now perfectly safe, Ean also informed Isahn and George the hall was in allied hands.
Isahn hadn’t felt a jab of touch magic from Dunstan giving the all-clear. He’d probably missed the sign while focused on Georgie. The tiny faerie, on the other hand? The poke had probably launched the poor kid across the room.
George grasped Isahn like her life depended on it. It didn’t any longer, but certainly had a moment before. Her fingertips dug into his shoulder blades like she could slide in beneath them and never forfeit her hold.
He hugged her back, aiming for a gentle grip while pressing more kisses to the top of her head. “Are you all right?”
Bracing her by the shoulders, he tilted George away so he could look her over. Deep bruises already purpled her neck. Her eyes were blackening, and there was blood.
“Where are you bleeding? Do you know? Let me see.” He started to turn her body to get a better look, but she stopped him with a hand to the chest.
“Isahn. I’m fine. It’s the back of my head, maybe my arms. I’m not the person to worry about.” She looked pointedly at her trussed and unconscious father.
“I’ll do it,” Isahn announced with certainty. He stood, and with great care, helped Georgetta to her feet. “I’ll do it for you.”
She shook her head ever so slightly.
He wasn’t sure if it was in denial or disbelief, so he continued to plead his case, “I don’t want you to have to bear the weight of his death on your shoulders alone.
If this all goes awry, you won’t be put through a trial for the king’s murder.
It’ll be me. Just a rogue watercourser who snuck into Domos and started tupping the princess. ”
George snorted. “I won’t let you do that. The second part, I mean. By all means, please feel free to end that man’s life. He doesn’t deserve another moment of my attention. I only stepped up because no one else was getting it done.”
Chuckling, knowing her reasons ran far deeper than that, he kissed her on the nose.
“You won’t be put on trial,” she continued. “I’ll take the blame, or the credit, unless you’re desperate for it. It’ll be easier to ascend if his death is at my hand.”
Isahn could just hear Ean saying to the aide, “Ye’re not paying attention, right?”
“Understood,” he answered into George’s curls. “I couldn’t ask for a better situation. I get to avenge the wrongs he’s done to you—to Domos. And I don’t have to deal with the consequences? It’s perfect.”
“You’re perfect.”
“You are.” Isahn pecked George softly on the lips.
“Are ye serious right now!?” Ean called them back to reality.
“Can you wake him?” Georgetta eyed her father’s form. “For the very end. Wouldn’t want him to miss it, you know.”
“I’ll try.” Isahn crafted his signature knife, a blend of water magic imbued with the most frigid and scorching temperatures he could produce.
The weapon was solid, impenetrable, ice, paradoxically tempered by heat.
He pressed a gallant kiss to Georgie’s hand before allowing her to lead him to the king.
Isahn felt no fear, no trepidation, only a sense of calm righteousness as he doused the man in a torrent of frigid water.
With a sputtering groan, Gasparo awoke—somewhat.
George used her magic to fling the stunned man onto his back. With his limbs bound up behind him, her father rolled onto his side, a huge gash across his forehead dripping blood down his temple and onto the tiles.
“You fucki—”
“Ah! Silence.” George clamped his jaw shut, and Isahn added his magic to the mix, a watery gag, just to be safe. “You do not get to speak. Not now. Not ever again.” Her foot connected with Gasparo’s nose. Blood spattered across the mosaic.
She began to retreat, but doubled back to crouch by his side. Her voice was low, measured, sure, when she said, “Thank you, Father, for making me queen.”
Isahn slipped into Georgetta’s place when she walked away and gave him a nod. He said nothing to the disgraced king, didn’t even look him in the face. He only grabbed the back of the outgoing monarch’s head and yanked, exposing his neck beneath his pointed beard.
With a single unceremonious slice, like slaughtering a cow, it was done.
Isahn dropped the hold on his magic. The knife, the bindings on the dead king, the water drenching Georgie, it all vanished.
Silence reigned for several long seconds.