by Callie Bates
She turns her face up, startled, then wipes her cheeks. “He told me, when we were captive together. He lived as a blacksmith in Darchon; he had a good business, a wife, three children. He even had a grandchild. They had magic, all of them, but it was a small thing. It wasn’t until after the Caveadear woke the land that it started growing into something more—and then the Tinani crown began to crack down on sorcery.”
“The emperor of Paladis sent witch hunters,” I say. “Ciril’s children…”
“Yes, but King Alfred sent out his own army as well. Not all the sorcerers were rounded up by witch hunters; there were too many people accused, it was a massive panic. Ciril came home one day to find soldiers rounding up his wife, their children, the grandchild—all of them. He flew out of control and tried to attack them by magic—he wounded at least two men. But the soldiers retaliated. They killed his entire family, right there in the street.”
My blood runs cold. “Did Ciril escape?”
Felicité nods. “He summoned lightning and set fire to the entire block of houses, and he ran. He made for Eren, because he’d heard that we were welcoming refugees. On the way, he fell in with another sorcerer, a man from the southern reaches of the Ismae.” She swallows hard. “But they were pursued, though Ciril didn’t know it. One evening where they camped, Ciril went off to catch a fish while the other man made a fire. He heard shouting and came running back, but it was too late. His friend was already dead. An entire squadron of soldiers surrounded their campsite, and Ciril hid in the shrubs. He listened to them, while they…” Felicité chokes and whispers, “They cut off his friend’s hands and feet. They drove nails through his…his…”
I grip her hand. Quietly, I say, “I know.”
She looks at me. “He heard the men talk about their employer. Aristide Rambaud, the Duke of Essez.”
Of course. I release a breath. After all this, I finally have proof against Rambaud—and now I need him as my ally. Well, I’ll do what I have to, and if we win, Rambaud will be made to suffer the consequences of his actions.
“Ciril was sick with himself for all of it,” Felicité whispers. “He blamed himself for everything. He said he shouldn’t have sought revenge on Rambaud; he should have gone to you and told you the truth.”
“But he wanted vengeance himself.” It’s something I can understand. I sigh, rubbing my hand over my mouth. “He was a hero in the end, Felicité. We’ll see he’s remembered that way.”
As long, I think, as the rest of our plan works.
It sounds like it’s begun. A new roar is building in the air—the echo of people’s voices in Royal Square. As we approach the top of the street, I glimpse the square at the bottom of the low hill. It’s crowded with a river of people, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. More are flooding in from the other streets. Even the tightness in my chest, and the exhaustion in my legs, eases at the sight of them. Jahan utters a startled laugh, and Elanna lifts her head with new strength.
“They’re here for you,” she says to me.
I look at her. “For us.”
A smile touches her lips. She doesn’t disagree.
As we approach, we’re sighted by the crowd. “The queen! The Caveadear!” The people are shouting, then part for us to pass through to the scaffold surmounting the fountain, where three nooses hang. I draw in a breath—I am unbearably thirsty—and we plunge into the crowd.
People bellow around us, shouting, stomping. Their rage, their fear, their boldness sweeps over me, lifting me up almost like a physical thing. We’re swept up onto the scaffold where Rhia is waiting with Victoire, Juleane, and Hugh. “She’s all right?” Rhia whispers, nodding to El.
“She will be.” I glance around the people flooding the square. “Philippe? The others?”
“They had just brought them to the scaffold. We got here just in time.” Rhia nods. “There he is.”
Indeed, Philippe is below us in the crowd that presses against the palace gates. He’s mussed and dirty but leading a chant, his fist in the air. “Euan Dromahair! Euan Dromahair!”
They want him to come out. They want him to see us, and run.
Through the wrought-iron gates, I glimpse the plumed helmets of the royal guard. They’re holding their bayonets at the ready. Lathiel worms out of the crowd behind us. “I broke the guns,” he says in an aggrieved voice, “but they haven’t set them down.”
“Probably because of him,” I say, pointing. Even at this distance, I can make out the man in the shining gold helmet who’s walking through the guards’ ranks.
“Augustus,” Jahan says, like a curse.
The chanting in the crowd dies down; even Philippe has stopped agitating the others. Everyone turns quiet—so quiet that we hear, on the other side of the gates, Augustus’s exhortation to the guards.
“I don’t care if you can’t fire! Open the gates and spear them through!”
A rustle echoes through the crowd. I know people are staring up at me, wondering whether they should run.
But I’m staring at the palace guards on the other side of the gate. Men who, except for the few Paladisan commanders, are Ereni, even Caerisian. They are our people, and Rambaud promised to speak with them. I know their names, their families, their histories. Yet now, under Augustus’s pressure, they’re wavering. I hear the thready, uncertain sound of them. The tremor of their fear.
I claim Rhia’s water flask and take a drink, soothing my parched throat. Readying myself. Then I step away from Rhia, from Felicité. I stand on the edge of the scaffold where they were going to execute Philippe and the others, and I draw in a breath.
I begin to sing.
I sing a song of Eren, for Eren. A song of mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, standing out here in the square with their hearts breaking for the men inside the palace gates. I pour into it all my strength and determination, all my hope and even my fear. I let my heart dictate the song.
My eyes are closed; I’m feeling the power of the words, the music, within myself. But then I hear them—more voices, joining mine. A woman, a man, a child. Everyone in the square is beginning to sing. More of them, and more, the weaving of our voices spreading over the palace, over the city, over all of Eren and Caeris. Everyone inventing their own words, but the melody the same.
We sing, and the earth quivers. The fountain below the scaffold trembles, and water erupts from its spigots, seeping over the edge of the fountain and onto the cobblestones, wetting people’s shoes and stockings. The sky grays over, clouds floating over brilliant patches of blue. The finest mist begins to fall. It’s as if the land is demanding freedom, too.
A cry rises from the other side of the gate. “Silence them!” Augustus Saranon roars.
But the soldiers have heard us. Our song is, after all, their song.
First one man turns, in a blur of steel. Then another, and another. They put their backs to the gates and turn on Augustus Saranon and his Paladisan commanders. A shout goes up, but I can no longer distinguish who’s who.
Then there’s movement at the gates—Philippe and the others. The gates swing back, and the crowd surges in, into the palace courtyard, a flood that swamps Augustus Saranon and his commanders. I’m moving with it, the others on my heels, sweeping into the courtyard.
My father hasn’t emerged.
Augustus and the Paladisans have been cornered—trapped in the inner court, beneath the royal balcony. The prince’s gold helmet shines; he’s hiding behind the bulk of his men, forcing them to be brave for him. I start to maneuver toward them, but then a movement in the colonnade catches my eye. Aristide Rambaud is leaning from a doorway, beckoning me in.
My pulse pounds in my hands. I glance for Elanna, but she’s already seen Rambaud and my reaction. She gives me a quick nod; she seems steadier on her feet now. “I’ll keep Augustus alive, if I can,” she says, pushing away before I can prote
st. She calls, “Let him live!” and some of the Ereni guards groan in disappointment.
I work my way toward Rambaud. Rhia’s following me. “I’m not letting you in there alone.”
I don’t have a chance to respond; we’ve reached the colonnade, and Rambaud drags me inside, then slams the door behind Rhia. I wait for him to make some derisive remark, but he just nods toward the east wing. “They gave an order to slaughter the prisoners. Hurry!”
“But we’ve taken Laon,” Rhia protests. “There’s no reason to kill them—”
“That hardly matters to Euan Dromahair. Or,” Rambaud adds bitterly, “my former ally Grenou.”
Grenou. My hands tighten into fists. I might have known.
“We have a few minutes before they carry out the order,” Rambaud says, hurrying us up the steps to the east wing. “I slipped out when Euan was giving the command. Come.”
He pushes open the door to the upper floor, and we emerge—
Face-to-face with two guards. Both are so startled they simply stare.
“Alain!” I exclaim. “Sebastien!”
“Queen Sophy,” Alain says. He clasps my hands in obvious relief. “Did you take the city?”
“We did, but we need to free the prisoners from these cells, and fast. Help us?”
He and Sebastien both nod, and Alain wrestles out a ring of keys, striding quickly down the hallway to the first door. Rambaud casts me an ironic glance. “Here I thought we would have to use some persuasion by force. I seem to have misjudged you yet again.”
“The guards and I have always gotten along well enough,” I tell him. “It’s only Grenou who—”
But I stop, because Alain’s gotten the door open, and he turns to us with a high-pitched sound of rage. “There are children in here.”
Children? I rush forward, pressing into the cramped room. I don’t know whose children they are, but they must belong to an Ereni sorcerer—that, or they have displayed magic themselves. The three small figures are watching me from behind a single pallet bed. I drop to my knees, holding out my hands. “It’s all right,” I whisper. “You’re safe. We’re taking you out of here.”
One child steps forward, and then the others. The smallest throws her arms around my neck. I pick her up, and she fits her warm, quivering body against me, locking her legs around my hip. She smells of prison and fear, and my heart pounds with renewed hatred for my father. The other children are older, too wary to touch me, but they approach as I gesture them back into the hall.
And stop short.
“There Her Majesty is.” It’s Captain Grenou, his voice heavy with irony. He’s standing at the end of the hallway, flanked by a company of ten guards. Alain and Sebastien have fallen back, their weapons raised, protecting Rambaud, who stands exposed at the opposite end of the hall.
Two doors stand open between me and Grenou. I don’t see Rhia.
Grenou isn’t watching me, though. His gaze has fixed on Rambaud, and his tone has changed. Quietly, he says, “I didn’t expect this of you.”
“I could say the same in turn,” Rambaud replies flatly.
“Grenou,” I interrupt, and he swings toward me, “this building—the entire city—is surrounded inside and out. You’re trapped here. If you kill us and these prisoners, all the people in Laon will know. They’ll see you die.”
His eyebrows lift. “You think I’m going to kill you?”
“Yes. Or you can join me.” I meet his eyes, but I see only anger there. Revulsion. “You can join all of your people rather than fight against them.”
He takes a single step forward. “Join the Bastard Queen? The woman who deposed the Eyrlais, and stole my promotion to captain of the royal guard?”
I stare. That’s why he hates me?
“Perhaps I would,” he says softly. “If you hadn’t made me serve under that mountain bitch. But you did.”
Raising his bayonet, he steps forward—
And a figure lunges from the cell door beside him. Even with a broken arm, Rhia’s aim is deadly accurate. She knocks aside Grenou’s arm and steps within it, slashing her dagger straight across his neck.
He looks extremely startled before he falls.
The other guards stand frozen as she wrenches the blade free. “Anyone else care to insult me?”
I press the child’s face against my shoulder so she doesn’t see the blood. Weariness hugs my very bones, but I can’t pretend to be sorry Rhia made this choice. Quietly, I say, “Alain, Sebastien, open the other doors, if you would.” The guards have lowered their bayonets; they seem to be arguing among themselves, looking from Alain and Sebastien to Rhia, Rambaud, and me.
The prisoners are emerging from their cells now—including High Priest Granpier. His robe is rumpled, his hair tousled, but he appears otherwise unharmed. He rushes to me. “Sophy! Thank all the gods.”
“I’m glad we found you.” I embrace him with my free arm, then see Rambaud watching us. I make a quick decision. I hand the child over to Granpier, and say to him and Rhia, “Look after the prisoners, would you?”
“Of course,” he begins, hefting the girl easily.
Rhia steps over, suspicious. “What are you—”
“Granpier and the prisoners need your help,” I tell her firmly. I look at Rambaud. “But I have an appointment. With Euan Dromahair.”
* * *
—
EUAN DROMAHAIR HAS not been watching the proceedings in the square. He doesn’t seem to have heard the crowd banging down the doors of the palace, or Elanna shouting for the Paladisan guards to surrender along with Augustus. Instead we find him in the Diamond Salon, seated in a velvet chair before the fireplace. He’s drinking sherry from a small, cut-glass cup. His guards watch us warily from the sides of the room.
He doesn’t even turn when we enter.
“Father.” The name sticks in my throat, but I fist my hands and wait, though fierce aches knead my legs. I’m tired down to the pit of my stomach.
He looks around at that. A wordless, pulsing rage hums off him. He stares past me at Rambaud, who stands with his hands curling into fists.
“You,” Euan Dromahair says, but not to me. He’s looking at Rambaud. “You brought this here?”
This. Me.
“We made a mistake,” Rambaud says with great politesse. “We have realized you are the pretender to the throne.”
Now Euan Dromahair does get to his feet. He’s dropped the sherry glass; it crashes to the floor, and his shoes crush it to dust.
“This is your queen?”
Rambaud simply nods assent.
“I’ve come to offer you a bargain, Father,” I say, and Euan’s pale, angry eyes whip to me. “We’ve claimed Laon—and all of Eren and Caeris. The city and the kingdom are ours. Phaedra Saranon is dead, and so is Captain Grenou. The palace guards turned on Augustus Saranon; he’s a captive now. It won’t be long before the people break through the doors of the palace. Before they arrive here, in this chamber, and demand your surrender or your life.”
He just stares at me.
I meet his gaze. “But you are my father, much though we both wish it were otherwise. So I’m here to make you an offer. You can walk out there at my side and face the people. I will tell them that we’ve reached an arrangement, and you’re going into retirement in a lovely house beside the sea. And you will. You’ll want for nothing. Food—comfort—everything will be yours. You will live there undisturbed for the rest of your days.”
Euan’s head tilts, as if he’s considering my words. He says, “You would give me a house on the sea.”
“A lovely house, with servants”—though he would only interact with them through a barred door—“and everything you could want.”
“I have a house on the sea,” Euan Dromahair says, and my stomach sinks. “I have servants. I have everything
I want.”
I stare at him. “If you don’t cooperate, you’re going to be killed.”
Without answer, he strides over to the nearest guard and seizes the bayonet from the man’s startled hands. With a smooth, practiced gesture, he puts it to his shoulder and sets his finger to the trigger.
I draw in a slow breath. He’s mad—he must be. The song he makes is low, dangerous.
“I am the king of Eren and Caeris. And you are just like your mother. Nothing more than a whore.”
My mouth snaps shut.
He fires.
But not at me. He fires at Aristide Rambaud—and the duke drops to one knee. Blood slips, red, between his fingers.
Euan looks at me. He smiles. Smiles. “I’m the king now,” he says. He grabs a bayonet from another guard, who lets him have it.
Behind me, the door bursts open. I risk a glance over my shoulder. People are scattering into the room—Elanna, Jahan, Rhia, Victoire, all our followers. Rambaud’s already kneeling on the ground, the life sweating out of him. If we don’t act now, Claudette will lose her father. And if I don’t act, someone else is in danger of losing their life to my father.
So I reach for Euan Dromahair—with my mind. I reach for the humming life that makes him up, the tremulous gray wisp that animates his body. His soul. I whisper the words, powerful enough to pull him apart: “Damn you.”
My father’s gaze has gone wide. He drops the musket; it barks when it hits the floor, spewing out a shot that sprays into the plaster of the wall. Euan stretches out his arms. Balancing himself. He’s dizzy. The sound of him has turned thin and stretched. The gray wisp is fighting me, struggling to stay inside him. It’s trying to claw its way back into his head.
I dig the bone flute from my pocket and play a note. High, piercing. Disruptive.
All the glass in the room shatters. People cry out. The force of the magic knocks me to my knees, but I play the note again. And again.
Euan Dromahair stumbles. He’s losing his balance—losing the fight to keep the wisp of soul in his body. My music is pulling it out, demanding it release. I play it again. My magic might not be great, but it is enough. It is enough to save the people I love.