Touraine shook her head. This couldn’t—this wasn’t—
It didn’t matter how eagerly Aimée shoved her head into the noose or how she smirked at her blackcoat guards. She was terrified. Touraine could see it in the performance and the quick flicker of her eyes toward the crowd, maybe looking for a familiar face. Aimée was being made an example of, and she knew it.
No. No. No—“Luca, no!” screamed Touraine as loud as she could. Kept screaming it, even as Noé tried to drag her back, out of sight. Blackcoats were coming for her now, too—
“Luca! Luca, stop them!”
“Lieutenant, we have to go. They’re coming—” Noé pulled harder, and she yanked herself free, ran to the gallows until she could see the whites of Aimée’s eyes.
Luca saw her, and the cool mask dropped, replaced with a frightened young woman for just a second. She mouthed something, but Touraine didn’t wait for it.
Because Aimée’s mask dropped, too, and for a second her fear was plain. She held Touraine’s gaze. “Lieutenant!” She smiled ruefully, like she did whenever Touraine beat her at a hand of cards.
Then the blackcoats had Touraine by the arms, with an arm around her neck, and she couldn’t breathe. Or maybe—or maybe it wasn’t them, and maybe it was the sobs choking her—
“Pray for fucking rain!” yelled Aimée. The wooden floor fell from beneath her feet.
CHAPTER 38
A SICKNESS
The rebel Sands dropped with a gagging sound and the smell of voided bowels. That wasn’t what made Luca’s stomach writhe with barely suppressed nausea. Nor was the disturbing angle of the hanged Sands’ necks or the rapidly changing colors of their faces from smooth, wet sand to blotchy purple.
Well, it was in part, but not near as much as her role in it. And her role in it didn’t make her as sick as knowing Touraine had seen her do it.
Now Touraine was silent, limp in a dead faint, in the arms of a pair of blackcoats. Luca hoped it was just a faint. More soldiers had formed a protective cordon around the gallows while the civilians were forcibly dispersed. Thankfully, the people left willingly, no matter how or what they muttered. Luca didn’t need another city-destroying riot. Was it the sting of Cantic’s metaphorical whip that kept them placid, she wondered, or the honey Luca herself had promised?
And there was that phrase again. We pray for rain. A natural thing to pray for in the desert. Now it was a rallying cry for the rebellion. She hoped the people would ignore it. The message of the hanging was clear: joining the rebels will only bring you pain.
“Release her!” Luca demanded of the blackcoats holding Touraine, as she limped down the stairs.
Luca still hadn’t discovered the knack for praying, so she tried hope. The soldier was breathing but pale.
“What did you do to her?” she asked the blackcoats.
“Nothing, Your Highness,” one of them said, bowing awkwardly with his half of their burden. “She passed out before we got to her.”
Luca pressed a hand to the other woman’s face. Too warm, but clammy at the same time. Touraine was ill. “Take her to my carriage.”
Instead of obeying, the soldiers looked over Luca’s shoulder.
Cantic glared down her nose between Touraine and Luca. “We’ll take her to the brig and sort out what’s to be done with her later.” She wrinkled her nose. “She looks sick.”
The blackcoats flinched. One of them dropped the arm he held. The other held on to discipline but only just. Their face went pale under a spate of sun freckles.
“I’ll have her seen by a doctor at my home,” Luca told Cantic stiffly.
The general’s eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon? This soldier is a traitor to the empire. When I released her into your custody, you said her life was forfeit. We should hang her right there, right now.” She sniffed with anger. “The last thing she deserves is a doctor.”
Luca drew herself up and sniffed back. “With all due respect, General, Touraine isn’t a soldier, and her crime was not against you and the military. My business with her is my own.”
She rounded on the poor blackcoats, who were looking anxiously between their commanding officer and their future queen, as if they realized they probably shouldn’t have been witness to this dispute.
“Take her to my carriage,” Luca repeated. “Be gentle with her, and you’ll be compensated for your trouble.”
With apologetic salutes to the general, they picked Touraine up and started to drag her away. Still, the woman didn’t wake. Luca bit her lower lip. What if she didn’t wake again?