Rickard easily evaded the blade, then whirled his left sword over his head and lightly tapped the same spot he had earlier. The sword in his right hand touched the matching spot on the other shoulder. “Two and two.”

From the other man’s sour expression, Rickard could tell he’d just used up all his points. According to the rules, Blackheart was now unconscious and bleeding out. Grumbling, he dropped to his knees but went no further. “Well, I guess I’m dead now.”

“Then thou hadst better look it,” Rickard said through gritted teeth, nudging him with the dull point of his sword.

BRIDGET

Stand on the Bones

“Leave us,” King Tristan said to his guards.

“But my lord—” one began.

“Never question me. Is that understood?” His voice was quiet and all the more dangerous for that.

“Yes, sire.”

He did not speak to Margarit until the guards’ footsteps had faded away. “The people want to see red running down the headsman’s axe. Even now there are peasants sleeping next to the stone so that they can feel your blood freckle their skin.”

Bridget paused. For the past week, she’d been reading King of Swords aloud to Ajay at lunch. A fast talker, she’d already gotten through a big chunk of it. “Just a sec.” She took a bite of the roti—a type of flatbread—that was part of his contribution to their unspoken trade of food for words. For a moment, she stilled her bouncing knees (sitting outside, she was always chilled, but it was a small price for spending time with Ajay) while she scribbled down the page number and Is blood lucky? in her notebook.

With each passing day, the weather had gotten colder and the outdoor tables less populated. Today it was in the low forties. The only other people outside were a couple in the far corner, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Bridget and Ajay were sitting side by side, their backs to the cafeteria. On Friday, Ajay had declared that seeing their classmates distracted him from the fictional world he was trying to enter.

Today’s chapters, full of cruelty and betrayal, had been some of her mom’s favorites.

Better the headsman’s axe, Margarit thought, than the oubliette King Tristan favored for his worst enemies. The single way in or out was via an iron grille in the ceiling. Once you were inside, it was only wide enough to allow you to stand. Its name came from the French oublier, meaning “to forget.”

The year before, Tristan had ordered his own nephew, accused of plotting to overthrow him, lowered into the oubliette. The poor boy had been forced to stand on the bones of those who came before him. His screams were whispered about throughout the kingdom. Death, when it finally came, had been a mercy.