Enchantée(121)

“You must go,” Camille said. “He will see—it will be worse for both of us—”

Lazare’s eyes were nearly black with emotion. “I will not let this happen.”

She thought of Sophie, hidden somewhere, waiting to be married; Séguin’s lips and teeth on her own cheek as he drank her tears; the altar boy with the marriage contract in his hand vanishing into the shadows. “But how, Lazare? He is a magician. He cheats at everything. He wants to kill you.”

“Not if I kill him first.” That easy smile.

Oh, Lazare. “You’ll do this for me? Even though I am a magician? If the king finds out, you will be outlawed, punished, your reputation ruined—”

Slowly, lovingly, he traced the line of her cheekbone with his thumb. “Since that night—when we fought—I’ve learned I never cared for those things. I only thought I did.”

He was about to say something more when Foudriard called him. They were waiting.





65


For a moment, all was stillness.

Not even a bird sang.

Lazare and the Vicomte de Séguin faced one another, one fair, one dark. Ten brief paces between them.

An impossible distance.

Yet nothing at all.

The seconds—the Baron de Foudriard and the Chevalier Lasalle—waited apart, each at one end of the field. A soft dawn wind tugged at their raven cloaks. Next to them on the ground, sword cases lay open, gleaming blades nestled against red cloth. In each one, an empty space.

Séguin’s face was statue-still, a mask of poise. With the slightest of gestures, he indicated Camille should cross the field to stand on his side.

She gave a fierce shake of her head: no. He would have to come over and drag her if he wanted her to leave her friends. When he saw her refuse, he set his shoulders back, nothing more.

Unlike Séguin, Lazare had stripped off his coat. Dressed in his waistcoat and white chemise, he seemed young and somehow small. Camille always thought of him as so grown-up, but beneath the wide sky, he looked his seventeen years. Vulnerable. The breeze played in his hair; his face was alive with intent as he raised his sword. With a terrible pang, Camille realized that this was not simply an act demanded by aristocratic rules of behavior. For centuries aristocrats fought duels to settle conflicts. It had been their way of being above the courts, above the law. But this was something else. This was a fight to the death.

Didn’t you hear what Séguin called me?

Sauvage.

Behind the two still figures, fog lifted off the lake in loose gray skeins. Drops of water pattered from the leaves. Séguin raised his sword. Camille clenched her fingers around Chandon’s arm.

“Allez!” shouted the Chevalier Lasalle.

The world was sliced open.

Lazare ran, swinging his sword. Séguin leaped forward to meet him.

The blades rang out as they parried, each boy cutting and blocking, stabbing at the soft places that opened up: a rib cage under a coat, an arm. Lunging forward, Lazare caught Séguin’s blade with his and wrested it to the ground. For a moment, the blades were almost still, grinding against one another. With a grunt, Séguin threw off Lazare’s sword and paced away, unconcerned about turning his back to Lazare. As always, there was no discomfort in his face—only an absolute and terrifying certainty.

He pivoted on his heel and they charged again, each of them slashing, striking. Séguin swung at Lazare’s head—Foudriard shouted—and Lazare ducked. The blows kept coming, steel on steel.

But there was something wrong with Lazare’s sword. Deep notches appeared in its edge, as if it were made of some lesser metal. Worried, Camille said, “Chandon, what’s happening to his blade?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded bewildered. “A cheat of Séguin’s, some magic I have never seen.”

As Séguin ran at him, Lazare feinted and sliced through Séguin’s coat, but drew no blood. Over and over again, Lazare slashed at his opponent. Each time, Séguin slipped away like fog. Then he moved in, methodically cutting at the places that Lazare, in his fury, left exposed.

Throat.

Heart.

Flank.

But his blade did not meet flesh or bone and Séguin got no closer to Lazare. The next time Séguin raised his sword, Lazare jumped to the side, and struck, his blade hissing through Séguin’s sleeve and slicing the palm of his hand. Séguin put it to his mouth to stop the bleeding.

“Arrêtez!” the Chevalier Lasalle shouted. “First blood!”

Breathing hard, poised on his toes, Lazare waited to see Séguin’s reaction. But Séguin did not listen to Lasalle calling for him to stop. He did not even hesitate. Taking advantage of the pause in the action, he lunged forward again, cutting Lazare across the chest. Lazare pressed his hand against his torn chemise; his fingers came away sticky, crimson.

“Stop!” shouted Foudriard as he ran toward them, pulling his own sword.

But Lazare rushed at Séguin as if the world and its rules were nothing now. Wielding his sword like a whip, Lazare struck Séguin’s weapon so violently it fell from his hand. Séguin stumbled backward and slipped in the wet grass, his hands out behind him.

His face went white with rage.

Ten paces away, Lazare paused, sword in hand, smoldering.