blood in his mouth, realized he’d bitten down on his tongue as he fell And then Walter loomed above him.
He saw one of Walter’s booted feet rise and he rolled away.
But not fast enough. Walter’s heel slammed into his side, dug into his back as he twisted, pinning him to the table. Something hard gouged into his stomach, trapped beneath him and the table and he hissed at the pain, Walter’s weight digging it in deeper as he leaned into his foot.
And then he remembered what it was: the knife. The knife he’d used to try to kill himself in the forest. The knife Eraeth had begun training him with weeks before at the same time he started to teach him the Alvritshai language.
“All those years,” Walter said, grinding his heel in harder, his teeth clenched with the effort. His breath came in haggard gasps. “All those years in the forest, near the Well, learning from the sukrael, learning how to speak to them, learning to manipulate them. All those years trying to hurt you, trying to catch you away from the Well, away from the cursed white stone of the city, so that I could make you suffer as I had suffered. All those years learning to live with myself! All because of you and your damned father, because of that stupid expedition.”
The weight pressed into Colin’s back released, and he shifted, rocked far enough that his hand could scrabble in the loose folds of his shirt, reaching for the handle of the knife. The tip of Walter’s sword appeared in his line of vision, digging into the wood of the table a few inches in front of his face, and he stilled, fingers curled tight around the knife’s handle, hidden from Walter’s view by his body.
“If it hadn’t been for you,” Walter said, his voice close, leaning forward, weight on his sword, “I would have been the Proprietor of Portstown in my father’s stead.”
“No,” Colin said, voice calm. He tensed, hand tightening its grip on the knife. “Your father only thought of you in one way.” He turned slightly, so he could see Walter’s face, the half-Shadow, half-man bent slightly forward, brow creased in consternation. “As his bastard son.”
As he spat the last word, Colin flipped onto his back and brought the hand holding the knife out from under his body and up, inside the curve of Walter’s arm. Walter lurched back, but he was too late.
The knife drove into Walter’s chest with enough force to sink to the handle. Colin felt the blade strike bone, felt it scrape across it, shunted to one side, before puncturing deeper.
Walter screamed, pulling away with enough force to rip the knife from Colin’s hands. His sword tore free of the table. Before he’d taken two steps, the scream turned into a liquid gargle as blood from his lungs filled his throat. Colin swore as he scrambled away, to the opposite side of the table. He’d missed the heart. And now he had no weapons at all.
On the far side of the table, Walter’s scream gurgled out into a harsh cough as he leaned forward, spitting blood. He reached toward the dagger’s handle protruding from his side, and with a wrench, he yanked the blade free. He screamed again, staggering to one side, nearly collapsing. Using his sword as a brace, tip dug into the earth, he steadied himself, still coughing, still spitting blood, although not as much as before.
Then he raised his head.
The lower half of his face was covered in blood, and when he grinned-a snarling, vicious grin-his teeth were stained with it. His face had gone pale, the swirling, mottled blackness more vivid in contrast. His hand, still holding the knife, clutched at his side, blood pouring over his fingers, saturating his black shirt.
“I-” he began, then broke into another fit of coughing. More blood-a dark, red, heart’s blood-snaked from the corners of his mouth.
When he recovered, he was no longer grinning. His face was harsh, caught between rage and a grimace.
He’d hurt him. Hurt him more than Walter had thought possible. Colin could see it in Walter’s eyes.
“I don’t have time for this,” Walter said, low and pained, but clear.
He drew himself up, wincing with effort, and considered Colin for a long moment, seething. Colin searched frantically for another weapon, but the only weapons available were being used by the Alvritshai, the Legion, and the dwarren surrounding them, and he couldn’t touch them, couldn’t drag them into his time frame. Not without restoring time first.
“I don’t have time,” Walter repeated.
And then he drew his hand away from his side, fresh blood spilling out as he released the pressure there and adjusted his grip on Colin’s knife. Turning it, he flicked his wrist and threw the blade.
But not in Colin’s direction, Colin realized in horror, even as the knife slowed in midair, returned to real time, no longer under the influence of Walter’s or Colin’s grip. Walter hadn’t thrown the knife at him because he’d known Colin could move out of its way after it returned to real time.
Instead, he’d thrown it at one of the only other people in the tent that Colin cared about:
“Aeren,” Colin said, eyes widening in horror.
Walter smiled grimly And then he blurred… and vanished.
21
Awave of weariness washed over Colin the moment Walter Traveled. He raised a hand to his face, his arms trembling, tremors coursing through his legs, wincing at the small cuts that riddled his body. When he tried to take a step forward, he stumbled, nearly fell And his grip on time slipped again.
Sound rushed back, motion, the sharp tincture of spilled blood.
Colin cried out, seizing hold again, his hands closing into tight fists in reaction.
It had only been a moment, but it was long enough for him to see the knife Walter had thrown fly toward Aeren, enough for him to see that it would hit the Lord of the Evant in the chest.
Breath hissing out through his teeth, Colin staggered to where the knife shivered in midair. Walter had been close to Aeren when he threw it. There wasn’t much space between the blade and Aeren himself, barely enough for Colin to slip between the two.
Colin reached out with both hands and grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled, trying to move it, to make it budge.
Nothing.
He growled in frustration, even though he’d known the gesture would be useless. He’d never been able to change anything once it had happened. He hadn’t even been able to brush the strands of hair from Karen’s eyes. He’d never be able to move the dagger.
But perhaps he could shift it if he just loosened his hold on time.
Steadying himself, hands wrapped firmly around the handle, he let the part of his mind that held time relax, just a little, like letting a contracted muscle release.
The blade slipped forward, slowly, the sound of the fight in the tent surrounding Colin like a low, muted murmur. He began pulling on the knife, applying a steady pressure, even as it edged toward Aeren. Sweat broke out on his face, and he gritted his teeth, the muscles in his hands and fingers cramping. The knife shifted forward an inch, then two, and Colin felt his hold on time growing tenuous.
He began to growl, the sound rising as he exerted more effort, until-the growl escalating into a roar-he released the blade and fell back, halting time again.
Panting, one hand rising to wipe the sweat from his face, he inspected the blade, its angle, its path.
Nothing had changed.
He spat a curse. Because now the blade was a handspan closer to Aeren. He could barely squeeze between the two.
Still cursing, he began to pace. “Think, Diermani damn you, think!”
He paused in front of Aeren. The lord was looking toward where Colin had stood, one hand still gripping Eraeth’s arm, hard, his grim, determined expression beginning to shift toward hope, the transformations subtle. He’d begun to turn, toward Eraeth, or perhaps Thaedoren. Colin could see it in the musculature of his neck, in the angle of his body. He had no idea the knife hung two handspans from his chest.
Colin couldn’t tell the precise location where it would strike him, but he could see that it would likely be fatal. It might miss the heart, if he turned fast enough, if the blade struck bone, if…
