Page 118 of The Crimson Throne
He’s holding a blade.
Aimed for my heart.
And I, fool that I am, cannot even move.
Samson,I want to say, his name choking my throat, trapped there so that I cannot even breathe.
He looks dead. It’s not just his slack face, his empty expression…
He has no aura. None at all. That realization stills me. I have never seen this before. Asleep, yes, there’s nothing but a wisp, but this hollow space around him, the utter lack of color, of life…
Samson’s arm crashes down on me, the tip of the blade sinking into my skin. Sharp, metallic pain bursts through my senses, and I stumbleback at the same time as something fast whizzes by, glancing off Samson’s arm and helping to deflect the blow.
An arrow. Blood blossoms over the new cut on Samson’s forearm, but it barely stops him. Dimly, I’m aware of the arrow striking the wall behind us, a woman screaming, the sound of hooves as the glaistigs rush to us.
But my attention is focused on the way Samson steps closer, the way his blade rises again, preparing to deliver the killing blow. He shows no pain at his injury, nor any mercy before me.
“This isn’t you. This isn’t you.” The words pour out of my lips, a prayer I cannot stop chanting.
Nothing.
He had control before. Something must have happened. Must have changed.
I sent him to Darnley.The last thing I said to Samson was an order to go to the most loathsome man in the country.
The man who knows what Samson is. Who has had Red Cap weapons before.
Maybe he’s used some other weapon on Samson, something to trigger his Red Cap bloodlust…
Or maybe Samson was the weapon all along.
Rage brings my magic back to me. I raise my hands as Samson strikes, the blade sliding off the shield I make. Behind me, I’m aware of Mary and the baby being dragged away by guards. Samson shifts his weight, attacking again ruthlessly, slamming the blade so hard into my shield that I feel it start to give way. At least he’s distracted by attacking me, allowing the queen to get to safety.
The Green Lady slams into him from the side, and Samson goes flying, the silvery glint of his blade catching in the firelight as it clatters to the floor. Another glaistig leaps up, grabbing Samson by theshoulders and driving him into the stone floor so hard, his body goes limp. I stagger forward, reaching for him, but a rush of men pushes me back like stormy waves beating a capsizing ship. They’re all shouting:
“Darnley’s man tried to kill the queen!”
“Seize him!”
“Protect Scotland!”
The glaistig melt away, letting the men take Samson now that he’s incapacitated. I catch the Green Lady watching me, and my hand goes to my chest, blood smearing but already dark and thick; that wound will heal. She nods at me and backs away.
“Those costumed players were quick to help,” I hear one of the men mutter.
“Let me through.” I push past him, struggling to get to the center of the crowd that’s formed.
Samson is already bound with ropes wrapped around his middle, prone on the floor, but by the time I get to him, his eyes blearily open and lock instantly with mine. His aura has returned, a sickening green shade of guilt.
“Alyth,” he whispers.
One of the men kicks Samson, swift and hard, right in the stomach. The breath wheezes out of him. “Don’t you dare talk to the lady,” he snarls. Joseph.
I know without any words exchanged between us that he’s thinking of his brother’s murder. The rage snarling across his twisted face is palpable.
I put my hand on his elbow. “No one was seriously hurt,” I say in a soft voice, but my eyes are on Samson, on the way he visibly melts in relief even as his eyes seek mine. There’s no malice in them. Only confusion and fear.
Other men reach down and grab Samson’s ropes, dragging him up roughly. Samson doesn’t seem to care; he stares at my chest, at the blood streaked across my pale skin. He looks as if he’s going to vomit, his eyes wide, his expression filled with horror.
