Page 103 of Heartbreak Prince

Holding the bag by its string, I whirl it around and around in circles before letting it fly. As it arcs through the air, the last sheep’s head flies out of the bag’s open mouth. Two wyverns collide in pursuit of it, and the other beasts become embroiled in the ensuing battle over the food, ignoring the shrill commands of their frustrated riders.

The assassin on the carpet skillfully avoids the mayhem and streaks after us. I’ve already deactivated my agility and accuracy glyphs, but I engage my luck glyph and my right-hand shield, fending off a few incoming blasts of magic. By now, the Redeemer who’s following us should have spent all his glyphs as well.

We are nearly within arrow’s flight of the Tularesk border. Once we reach the gate, we can claim political asylum, and they will protect us.

But Severin is flagging. He has flown beautifully, yet his stamina is not infinite, especially when he’s forced to fly so evasively at such high speeds. His energy is beginning to fade.

“Just a little longer,” I urge him. “Please, Severin. You can do this. You can get us there.”

The assassin tucks his boots into the handles of his carpet and stands up, unslinging a crossbow from his back and pointing it toward us.

I have nothing left except my second strength glyph, my knives, and a few more throwing stars in the pouch at my waist. All of Vawn’s useful glyphs are spent, too.

“Stay behind me,” I tell him.

But Vawn grabs my shoulder. “He has a crossbow, Syth. He’ll kill you.”

“Then I’ll die fulfilling my duty.”

“Fuck that,” he snaps. “I’m going to give myself up.”

“Like hell you will, after everything I went through to get you this far.” I struggle against him as he tries to move his body around mine and place it between me and the assassin. “Stop it, Vawn, stop—”

I press my strength glyph, and I punch him right in the face. I know exactly how much force I need to knock a man out without permanently damaging him, and I use a little less than that on the prince. The blow knocks him out cold.

The Redeemer held his fire while we struggled. When I turn to face him, he calls to me through his crystalline mask. “Give me the prince, girl. There is no need for you to die. Deliver him to me, and I will see that you receive the reward.”

No price could equal Vawn’s life, but I may as well play for time, if I can. I tilt my head as if I’m contemplating the offer. “How much is the reward again?”

He names an amount somewhat lower than the one I saw on the wanted poster.

“So much?” I whistle. “And who exactly is offering such a fine price?”

“The Exemplar, leader of the Redemptive Authority.”

“That title means nothing to me. Who is behind the mask?”

“That is privileged knowledge.”

“Are you important enough to know the secret?”

He hesitates, and his crossbow lowers a little.

“Ah.” I cluck my tongue, attempting a mimicry of Vawn’s glib tones. “You have no idea who the Exemplar is, either. That’s the difference between us, I suppose. I like to know who I’m working for. Without that information, I would never have agreed to put on one of those sparkly helmets. It must be terribly dark in there. Can you even see?”

“Silence,” snarls the Redeemer. “Choose now, wench. Give up the prince, or die.”

“Wench?” I raise my eyebrows. “Little bit of advice, when you’re trying to lure someone to your side, maybe show a bit of respect and avoid calling them things like ‘wench.’ Tends to sour the negotiations. Instead, you could say something like—”

My hand whips out, a movement so quick it’s a blur. Instantly I throw a second star, and a third. No glyphs—just my skill. All three lodge in the assassin’s chest in the span of a single second, and he stumbles back, nearly losing his grip on the bow.

“Severin, stop,” I shout. He halts abruptly, and as the assassin’s carpet rushes up from behind, I leap onto it. The hurtling impact of my body knocks the assassin down, and we grapple, rolling on his carpet’s surface.

He strikes me twice, once on the cheekbone and once in the mouth, but I manage to get hold of his crossbow and smash it into his face. When he goes limp, I roll him off his carpet’s edge.

We’re closer to the ground than we were, so I doubt the fall will kill him, but if he lands on his front, it’ll drive those throwing stars deeper into his body.

The assassin’s carpet hovers in place, uncertain, while I spring back onto mine. “Go, Severin.”