Chapter 14

Wyl and Romen fought in frigid silence.

Silence as the castle at Werryl grasped the shock of attack—fifteen of the palace staff were dead, another dozen were injured and the rest lay in their beds, drugged. Silence as the Briavellian Guard raced back to their King upon realizing that the threat that most of them had been dispatched to deal with was a hoax. Briavel was not under attack and their clash with a strange company of mercenaries was little more than a skirmish, the foreigners fleeing having barely crossed swords or lost a single man.

And silence as both men, professional fighters, lost themselves in a battle for their lives. The only sound, in fact, was the harsh ring of their blades. Faces set with grim determination, they dueled in synchrony. Romen, Wyl realized, was indeed a superior swordsman to Celimus. He did not let his emotions get in his way and, like Wyl, he fought with cunning, although with little patience. Lots of bravado and flamboyance, yet each move was lightning-fast and deadly.

Everything Wyl threw at him, every trick he had learned from Gueryn, every stroke he had taught himself. Romen countered. He was fast, agile, strong, but most of all, Romen was a strategist. He could think several strokes ahead, was planning moves in advance of where he was fighting now. If Wyl could have stopped their duel, he would like to tell his opponent how much he admired his skill, but there would be no halting now, no more sardonic banter, no more quarter given.

Romen clearly intended to kill, Wyl knew, unless he could strike the death blow first.

They fought on, both their minds blanked of thought other than the focus on their opponent’s weapon and movement. The moon had risen high and the Briavellian Guard had almost returned to the city gates. Aides would have come looking for their King if any were alive or well enough to do so. The pair of swordsmen had no witnesses to their life-and-death struggle.

Both were showing their fatigue; hair damp with their efforts and faces shining with sweat, they knew it would be only moments now before one made the fatal error. Tiredness prompted mistakes and, although they redoubled their concentration, their bodies were beaten and could not respond as well as they hoped. Evenly matched, neither was getting ahead. Each recognized the signs in themselves of slowing down and knowing this alone would probably cost them their lives. It was the first time in their lives either of these men had felt true fear that the other man might prevail. It showed on their grim expressions. Gone was the almost permanent amusement Romen Koreldy carried on his face and Wyl had long ago withdrawn completely into himself.

It was Wyl who ultimately made the bad decision. He knew it the second he lunged hard after feinting twice. He saw the slight opening and decided if he was fast enough, he would have Romen impaled on his blade. He made his attempt but although his mind still worked at a high speed, his body was no longer working in tandem.

Romen anticipated what was happening. It was as though he were watching Wyl come at him at a speed ten times slower than normal. His mind was playing tricks but he had heard men say that when the death blow comes, the world around you slows down. It was happening to him now. This was the stab that would kill him. Somehow—Shar alone knew how—he managed to drag himself just enough off balance to dodge the blade so that it only skimmed his side, ripping through surface flesh. And then, as Wyl followed through. Romen struck.

Romen’s blade ran General Wyl Thirsk of the Morgravian Legion through, its fierce tip emerging on the other side of its victim’s body. Wyl’s eyes widened in shock and pain but mostly from the realization that he had lost his fight.

It was up to Romen now to save the two women Wyl loved. “Keep your promise,” he gurgled as he dropped his sword and Romen pulled his own back and out of the dying man.

Wyl slid to the floor, closed his eyes and waited for his heart to stop beating and the pain in his belly to leave him. Death felt welcome.

But a new sensation suddenly gripped his body, and without knowing it he arched his back high from the floor in a spasm of that acute pain. At first he thought this was how death must feel as it gathered him into itself but the intensity of the surge forced him to open his eyes—his two ill-matched and alarmingly different eyes.

Romen too was staring at him in shock, but bent double in his own agony. It was as if they were sharing the same convulsive pain. Wyl felt himself lifting now; all that was him was being pulled, dragged from his shell in a tearing, ripping sense of departure. If this was death, why was Romen wearing a mask of such terror and agony?

The suffering mounted toward a crescendo and just as Wyl knew his life was about to pass over to Shar’s keeping, he glimpsed what he grasped was the soul of Romen Koreldy as it too crossed over in terror and disbelief.

But Wyl was not passing to Shar. Only Romen’s soul was being given up. And Wyl himself—all that made him in mind and spirit—was actually crossing into the body of Romen Koreldy. He thought he mouthed something. Could not be sure if he had, yet he wanted to say something to Romen.

Was this death or life?

The sensation of pain and confusion continued for what felt like an eternity until Wyl suddenly became aware that he was still standing, arms forward with a white-knuckled-grip around the sword hilt. He was the one who staggered backward to clutch at the table, letting go of the weapon, dragging in his breath. No longer drowning in pain, he looked down upon the body on the floor.

He was unaware that he stared through ill-matched eyes but he did know that he looked down upon the corpse of Wyl Thirsk.

Wyl held out his shaking hands. They were the long, neat fingers of Romen, not his own short fingers with the soft ginger hair just below the knuckles. And then he looked at his side where he bled. This was the near miss and testimony to how close Wyl’s blade had come.

No! His blade had come, damn it!

It was true, then. Beneath him, his own body was already cooling and with it, he believed, it had taken the soul of Romen.

Dumbfounded and disoriented, he stumbled around the room taking in the scene of death. He heard voices, men’s voices; guards were running through the corridors. In the bedlam that was his mind he realized they would hit the stairs in moments and he would be trapped. Forcing himself out of the chaos of his thoughts and not daring to think anything through further. Wyl grabbed the arms of his previous body and dragged it toward the privy. It was his only chance.

He threw his sword down the hole and then heaved the corpse over the lip. He heard it land at the bottom with a sickening crunch. The voices were at the top of the stairs now—he was just moments from discovery. No time to climb down with care. Wyl clambered into the drophole and. holding his breath instinctively against the assault of its smell, he let go. He too hit the bottom of the drophole hard, having jumped from such a height. But his landing was softened by the body. His true body.

With no thought beyond the moment and working purely on instinct, he settled Wyl Thirsk’s corpse on his shoulder and set off at a labored trot. Moving awkwardly in Romen’s body, he wondered what in Shar’s Name had happened to him.