“If,” King Bastien said slowly, “they see that we have the most powerful human to ever live as our guardian?”
Corien, at last, returned. He’s not wrong, came his low voice. There has never been a human like you, Rielle. And there never will be.
Rielle fought to keep her smile hidden. That, she sensed, would not help her case.
Finally, King Bastien took a deep breath and reclined in his chair. “You three,” he said, looking at Rielle, Audric, and Ludivine in turn, “have had far too much practice concocting schemes together. It is difficult to argue with such a front.”
“My love…” began Queen Genoveve urgently.
“It’s settled, then.” King Bastien placed his palms flat on the table. “The remaining six trials will be public events, open to all. What did you call it, Brydia? A spectacle?”
Grand Magister Florimond inclined her head. “Perhaps too flippant a word.”
“No, it is a good word. A celebratory word. And that’s what this will be: a celebration of Celdaria’s might and the power of its citizens.” King Bastien looked to his son. “A clear sign to every soul living that Celdaria is not afraid of strange storms or shifting lands. Or old tales of death and doom that have no bearing on our future.”
For a moment Rielle feared Audric would say something else, further invite his father’s anger, but then King Bastien left the room, his kingsguard flanking him. The others followed shortly after, Audric hurrying out after his mother, and Rielle’s own father disappearing before she had the chance to speak to him.
“Well,” Ludivine said brightly. She grabbed Rielle’s hands and grinned. “I don’t know about you, but after that? I could use a drink.”
16
Eliana
“Lift your eyes to the eastern skies
Wait for the sun, and with it—rise
We will march down the roads gone black with the dead
We will tear down their walls and paint their crowns red”
—A rowing song composed by suspected Red Crown ally Ioseph Ferracora during the siege of Arxara Bay
Eliana awoke beneath a threadbare quilt, in a small dark room, to the unwelcome sight of Simon sitting near her.
He reclined on a wooden chair, one long leg resting on the other, and held a glass of reeking alcohol.
Eliana sat up, remembering to grit her teeth as if the pain from the blow to her head had lingered.
“You have five seconds to tell me where we are and where Remy is,” she said smoothly, “and who knocked me on the head, and where I can find them, before I disembowel you.”
“And good morning to you, dearest Dread,” said Simon, with a salute of his glass. “I must say, you are looking particularly, well, dreadful, if you’ll forgive the joke.”
“Where are my knives?” She realized, with a jolt of shock, that she was no longer wearing her ruined party gown. In fact, she was no longer wearing anything, except for the pendant around her neck.
“You piece of shit,” she said quietly. “Where are my clothes, where are my knives, and where is my brother?”
“Remy is safe and sleeping. Navi as well if you’re curious. Though I’m sure you’re not.” Simon tossed her a heap of clothes. “Aster wanted to tend to your wounds and get that blood-soaked gown off you. Maybe to make up for her sister knocking you on the head and then, it seems, drugging you? I scolded Marigold roundly for wasting quality goods on you, but she was unrepentant.”
Eliana picked up the tunic he had tossed her, grimacing at the frayed hems and patched sleeves. “Who is Marigold?”
“Aster’s sister. Try to keep up.” He knocked back the rest of his drink and set down the glass. “Anyway, every time Aster tried to dress you, you kicked her. But worry not, she’s a tough one.”
She glared at him until he said, “Ah,” and turned around to face the wall.
“Interestingly,” he continued, “you had no wounds that Aster could see.”
Eliana’s pulse quickened. She tugged on underwear, undershirt, and trousers—too baggy for her, not to mention fusty and faded, but at least they were clean.
“Disappointed that I was lucky enough to emerge unscathed from our valiant escape?” She pulled on the stained linen tunic. “I bet you’d love to have seen my body marked head to toe with scars to match your own, wouldn’t you?”
“Actually,” Simon replied, “I wouldn’t.”
She waited for elaboration, and when none came, she examined the jacket he’d brought her—a moth-eaten, bell-sleeved affair with a dull embroidered collar that had once certainly been gaudy and now looked simply pathetic.