Kingsbane

by Claire Legrand

  Rielle slipped into the warmth of Corien’s words, reaching desperately for comfort. She turned back once, found Audric lying on his back in the trees. Illumenor blazed to life at his side.

  Come to me, Corien urged her. Rielle, hurry. The city won’t be safe for much longer.

  She didn’t understand what that meant, but she didn’t ask. It didn’t matter. The city was no longer her concern.

  She ran through the gardens, following the thread of his voice. The familiar trees swallowed her; she was blind with sadness, tears tightening her throat until she could hardly breathe. But the patient thrum of Corien’s presence illuminated a path, guiding her out.

  And as she ran, her despair began slowly, inexorably, turning the corner to anger.

  52

  Eliana

  “Every night you will dream of my return, and every nightmare will echo with the pounding of my fists. You fear me, even now. You are right to fear me. I will not rest. I will never rest. I will rise up against you, and I will come with stars blazing at my fingers—”

  —The last recorded words of the angel Kalmaroth

  The city of Festival was awash with light.

  It sat high on the mountainous shore, looking out over the ocean—an orderly city, built on terraced cliffs that climbed up from the water like mammoth steps to some castle in the sky. The buildings were constructed of white stone, the roofs of overlapping white and gray tile, the roads a soft heather gray like a dove’s downy underbelly. Courtyards spilled over with greenery, and abundant sprays of flowers punctuated each neighborhood. The air was warm and salty; gentle waves dark as night left the gray beach streaked with white foam. Beyond the shore, sitting dormant at the vast docks, were several enormous ships, painted orange and gold with torchlight. The Jubilee, it seemed, extended even into the water.

  And the brilliance of it all, the sheer splendor—thousands of gold lanterns hanging from every door and window; strings of buzzing white galvanized lights draped from shop to shop and apartment to apartment, capping the roads in brilliant grids. Candles everywhere, dripping wax onto windowsills and wrought-iron gates, smoke from torches and incense pots blackly sweetening the air.

  Dani had described what it would look like, had even taken Eliana on a brief tour through the estate to show her oil paintings of past Jubilees. But nothing could have prepared her for the reality of Festival’s wildest, brightest night.

  The streets teemed with people, a constant parade of bodies sauntering and whirling their drunken way from building to building, each room bursting with parties. Capes, gowns, and long glittering cloaks swept the crowd along, hemmed with feathers dyed azure and gilt and scarlet. Bare arms and legs wrapped around bare backs and hips, each stretch of exposed skin dusted silver and turquoise with shining powder. And on every face, a mask—velvet, hemmed with satin ribbons, rigid and sculpted to resemble animals. Foxes, bears, and birds most of all, their beaks hooked and grinning.

  Eliana had attended many such parties at Lord Arkelion’s palace back in Orline—but that had been another life, and it had been some time since she’d worn a fine dress, pasted on a false, demure smile, and entered an environment such as this.

  And besides, none of Lord Arkelion’s fetes had ever approached the size and splendor of this one. A city-sized feast, which Dani had said would last for days, the frenzy of it never diminishing. Through windows thrown open to receive the night air, Eliana caught glimpses of couples in the throes of ecstasy, ballrooms effervescent with color and light, dining halls crammed full of bodies.

  And it was nearly impossible to tell, on such a night, which bodies were human and which were angel. Only the black eyes would give them away, and their unusually fluid style of movement, impeccably graceful. But some of the masks had mesh for eyes, and not even angelic bodies were entirely immune to the stupefying effects of alcohol.

  Eliana’s skin crawled from the noise and from the oppressive heat of so many people packed in such close quarters. Given that, she was particularly grateful for what Dani and Ester had done to her hair. Not long enough to gather into a plait, it was now a short, riotous spill of dark curls, the ends of which brushed her jawline. Remy had taken one look at her, gathered her into a fierce hug, and then whispered that he would miss braiding her hair before parties.

  So she had let him help her fashion it into something of a style—two slender braids, starting near her temples, their ends held in place amid her curls with a cluster of black pins. Her mask was black too—soft and velvet, lace-trimmed, with gossamer ribbons that tied at the back of her head. A more delicate, more elaborate version of the mask she had worn as the Dread of Orline. And as she moved through the streets of Festival, it felt like a shield behind which she was only too glad to hide.

  She reminded herself that in thirty minutes’ time they would have made their way through the choked city streets and be safely aboard a cargo ship called the Dovitiam, ready to disembark and leave this continent far behind.

  Then Simon touched her elbow, making her pause.

  She stopped, bending down to adjust her skirts, and glanced over at him. He stood close by, next to the courtyard wall of a narrow manor house, candlelit sapphire blooms spilling over the stone. Another masked man, whom Eliana recognized as one of their Red Crown scouts, was in conversation with him, neither of their voices audible over the street’s jubilant racket.

  But whatever they discussed, it couldn’t have been good. As she watched, Simon’s body sharpened into the shape of anger.

  A few seconds later, the scout melted back into the crowd. Eliana watched him go, quickly counting the twelve others in their team—six before them, six behind, stretching down the road like floating links in a chain that seemed suddenly fraught and fragile.

  She drew a deep breath to steady herself, met Simon halfway.

  “What is it?” she murmured.

  He put a hand on her waist and gently pulled her close. Lips against her ear, he said tightly, “New intelligence. The ship isn’t here yet. Should arrive in three hours.”

  Her body went heavy with fear. Any moment, the army would arrive on Festival’s doorstep.

  “We can’t linger on the street,” she said at once. “We’re too exposed, even dressed as we are. And I’ll go mad if we stand here waiting for three hours. Is there a safe place we can wait?”

  “No safe places anymore.” He wrapped her hand in his. “Follow me.”

  • • •

  A mile down the road, in the easternmost ballroom of Lord Tabris’s palace, Eliana made for the second-floor mezzanine.

  It was a laborious process that took her the better part of ten minutes, each of which was excruciating. Simon had ordered their team to enter the ballroom separately, in the name of discretion, and now, navigating the crowd, the air ripe with wine and sweat, Eliana had never felt so alone in her life.

  A waltz chased her upstairs, the enormous orchestra at the far end of the room playing so loudly that were the room not so packed with revelers, the music would have drowned out everything but shouts. As it was, a steady hum of laughter and conversation floated atop the lilting, somewhat disjointed melody—a waltz, yes, and unexpectedly joyous, but also a bit off-balance, as if composed by someone whose perception of the world were skewed.

  Finally, she reached the mezzanine and clung gratefully to the stone railing, each slender pillar carved to resemble wings. She grabbed a glass of red wine from the platter of a servant gliding by and drank it so quickly her eyes watered, desperate for even a thin gloss of calm over her nerves.

  Alone, she waited for Simon and thought once more through the outline of their modified plan.

  Their team would scatter throughout the palace, ready to move the moment they received word from their scouts of the Dovitiam’s arrival. Harkan’s team waited in the mountains south of the city, ready to intercept the imperial army and pick
off as many soldiers as they could. Two other teams flanked his, ready to assist. Three more teams patrolled the city, from the palace down to the docks, waiting to create diversions as necessary, which allowed Eliana, Simon, and their escort a clear path to the docks. There, they would reunite with Remy and Dani’s team, and once aboard the Dovitiam, they would all sail for the Vespers—the tropical island country where the water was warm, the islands themselves lush with greenery, the Empire presence scattered and careless. There they would wait, and hide, for as long as they could. Simon would practice threading; Eliana would push her power beyond its current limits. Together, once they were both stronger, they would again attempt to travel back to the Old World.

  And on that second attempt, they would not fail. Eliana would not flee or allow Rielle to intimidate her. She would get through to her mother, even if it took days of fighting to accomplish.

  At least, that’s what she was determined to tell herself, over and over, until she started to believe it.

  She forced her breathing into an even rhythm, focusing on the kaleidoscope of dancers below her. It was taking too long for Simon to join her, and her panic had just begun to quietly crest when at last he arrived at her side and placed his gloved hand over her own.

  “Too many goddamned people,” he muttered by way of apology.

  She blew out a breath, so giddy with relief to see him that she drew him down for a kiss.

  His hands settled at her waist, and when he lowered his mouth to her neck, the cold lines of his mask pressed against her skin. His mask was as hard as hers was soft, a dull silver metal in the shape of a grinning bull.

  Frankly, she hated the look of it. They’d had limited choices, choosing from whatever masks Dani had stored from previous Jubilees, but this particular one was bordering on grotesque.

  She did, however, love the coolness of it against her overheated skin.

  She slid her fingers into his hair, holding him against her. “Can’t we just stay here?” she murmured, and for a moment, his body strong and familiar under her hands, she could close her eyes and pretend they lived in a different world.

  Simon pulled back from her, a smile curving beneath the rim of his mask.

  He raised her hand to his lips. “Come. Dance with me.”

  • • •

  The orchestra favored waltzes, each one merrier than the last, and it wasn’t until the fourth one they danced together that Simon came abruptly to a halt.

  Eliana nearly tripped over his feet. His hands tightened around her, steadying her, and he stared over her shoulder, his eyes suddenly unreadable.

  Someone tapped her arm; she turned, her body tensed to run.

  A man clad all in black stood before her, roughly Simon’s height, but more muscular, bullish. He gave a low, unhurried bow, sweeping his cloak aside. He had a high, stiff collar, a silver chain about his waist. His mask was shaped like a raven, its iridescent feathers gleaming black-blue. The mask covered his entire face, and its hard black beak muffled his voice, distorting its true colors.

  “I’ve been watching the two of you. You dance exquisitely together.” He held out his hand to Eliana—a black glove, the gauntlet rimmed with feathers to match his mask. “I wonder if I might have the honor?”

  She cobbled together a coquettish smile. “You flatter me, sir. But I did promise my partner a whole night of dances.”

  “How selfish of him, to keep a jewel such as you all to himself.” He looked past her at Simon. “I think you can understand my disappointment.”

  And then Simon, his voice smooth and careless, said, “Of course, Admiral.” He squeezed her hand once, then released her. “Darling? I don’t think you recognized the Admiral. This celebration is in his honor, after all. Surely you can spare him a dance or two.”

  Eliana’s body seemed to fall away from the ballast of her heart. She was a pounding, pulsing thrum of fear. Admiral Ravikant. One of the most powerful angels in the world. She wanted desperately to look back at Simon, but instead she curtsied and shot the admiral a dazzling smile.

  She struggled to wipe her mind blank. She imagined it as a spotless plate of glass, all polished gleam and clean edges.

  “Forgive me, Your Excellency,” she murmured. “I didn’t recognize you, given your current dress.”

  “Ah, of course. The danger—and the appeal—of a masquerade ball. And why I cannot resist them.” He took her hand, the press of his fingers against her palm like the soft dig of a blade. “Forgive me, child. I don’t know your name.”

  “Scarlett,” she said at once, and then grinned a little, biting her lip. “At least for tonight.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, and then spun her past Simon into the heart of the dance.

  • • •

  She focused on her feet. She kept her mind fixed on the admiral’s hand holding hers, and his other hand gripping her waist, and on not losing her head completely and tripping over her skirts. The frantic rhythm of her pulse entirely mismatched the orchestra’s waltz.

  She did not allow herself to think of her name, or of Simon’s. Not of Remy, or Patrik, or any of the other hundreds of rebels arranging themselves throughout the city, preparing for her escape.

  Each waltz spun faster than the last, more and more dancers falling away, laughing too high and too happily. Eliana could hardly keep up with the admiral’s strides, and each time she stumbled, his grip tightened.

  “You seem troubled, Scarlett,” the admiral observed, after they had passed several dances in idle chatter. “May I ask why?”

  She licked the sweat from her upper lip. She had lost count of their dances, lost track of time. How many hours had passed? She would not look for Simon; she refused to even think of him. But her mind was slipping, each spin knocking her a little further out of alignment. She did not feel him teasing for entrance into her mind, as Corien had done, but perhaps Corien hadn’t been trying to be careful. The admiral might be capable of wrapping himself entirely around her thoughts, stealthy and sly, before she could notice.

  “These waltzes are rather frenetic, Your Excellency,” she said, deciding that a little honesty would satisfy him. “I can hardly keep up with you.”

  “Well, then. We can’t have that.” He fell quiet for a moment, and then the orchestra halted for the briefest instant before beginning a new waltz—much slower, with sparser instrumentation. A lilting harp, two dueling violins. A single female vocalist.

  “There, now.” He smiled, his voice curling. “Is that better, Scarlett?”

  She wished he would stop calling her that. Each time he did, she worried he would creep closer to the truth.

  “You are a generous man, Your Excellency, and a considerate partner,” she replied.

  “Ah, but Scarlett,” he said. “I am not a man.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to that, other than an obsequious apology, a few compliments about his prowess on the dance floor.

  He responded to none of it, his silence stretching ominously until the waltz concluded. He stopped in the heart of the ballroom to bow before her.

  “It’s a pity, Scarlett,” the admiral said, brushing his mouth across her hand, “that we didn’t have more time together.”

  His lips did not touch her. Instead, the beak of his mask scraped across her sleeve.

  Then the room exploded.

  • • •

  Chaos overwhelmed the masquerade.

  Revelers shoved past each other as they rushed for the exits, trampling the fallen and tripping over their gowns.

  Eliana searched for the source of the detonations, but she could see only smoke and clouds of dust, rivers of people fleeing into the streets. A shoulder whacked her, then an elbow. She staggered, and the next time someone smashed into her, she let her fist fly and knocked them flat. Beneath her gloves, her castings were flaring to life for the f
irst time since returning from the Old World.

  When she turned back to the admiral, he was gone.

  But Simon was there, shoving his way toward her against the crowd’s current, revolver in hand. She met him halfway, and he crushed her to his chest with his free arm.

  “Are those ours?” she asked of the explosions. “Our teams must know something.”

  “Those blasts were angelic,” Simon replied, his voice carved from ice. “The army has arrived.”

  Harkan. A chill shook her sweat-slicked body and her chest clenched around her heart. His team would be first in the army’s line of fire. She shut her eyes, sent a feeling of love Zahra’s way, and hoped it would reach her, that she would send it to Harkan. A message of hope, of thanks.

  Stay alive, Harkan. Fight them, and come find me. We’ll wait as long as we can. I’ll make them wait for you.

  Simon looked ready to spit fire. “We have to go to the docks. Now. We can’t wait for the others.”

  “Has the ship arrived?”

  “We’ll find another, if we must,” he said darkly. “And I’ll cut down anyone who tries to stop me.”

  Together, they ran.

  • • •

  Outside the palace, the streets were on fire.

  Cannon fire shattered the city to pieces, smashing rooftops to the ground and igniting stored fireworks meant for celebrations later in the night.

  Angels in gold chain mail and gleaming armor flooded the streets. They marched down every road, the Emperor’s winged crest emblazoning their chests. Burnished wings capped their helmets like horns, and they swept through Festival like a wave. They killed indiscriminately. Bodies littered the ground—bloodstained gowns, slit throats heavy with beads, glittering bodices pierced with arrows. Torches had been smashed, tapestries and feasting tents now consumed with flames.

  As Eliana ran, ducking flying debris, keeping close to Simon, her thoughts spun wildly for Harkan.

  If the army had arrived, then his team had already engaged them. Maybe they were holding off a stream of them, keeping at least some of them at bay. Maybe they had abandoned their post, sensing the futility of it, and were on their way to join Eliana at the docks.