The brief panic halted in the face of pure shock.
In that interval of horror, Luca laid Touraine down, resting the woman’s head in the dirt as gently as she could. Touraine stared at the sky, but Luca saw her eyelids flutter. Golden irises in bloodshot eyes. The relief in her heart didn’t last. If Touraine died right now, Luca would hate herself forever. On the other hand, if Aranen wiped out the compound—or worse, the remaining Balladairans in the city—there would be no living with that.
She stood, good and bad leg weak and trembling, and walked to Aranen. The priestess stared at Cantic’s corpse, then at her own hands. Luca held herself as straight as she could. She looked nothing like royalty, in a blood-soaked shirt and plain trousers. She probably smelled like sick, like everything else in this sky-falling compound. The broadside artists would have fun with this moment if she survived it.
“Please don’t hurt anyone.” She lowered her head. She didn’t deserve to ask it of Aranen, of any Qazāli, but she would try.
Aranen turned to her. Her eyes had turned the dull gold of an antique. Then she made to pass Luca, and Luca flinched. Another musket fired and hit Aranen in the shoulder. Blood blossomed and spread through the dirty cloth, but as Luca watched, the wound slowly closed.
Sky above and earth below. Luca’s mouth worked soundlessly until she found her voice.
“Stop!” She threw her arm out to stave off another attack.
Aranen brushed past her, but she only walked to Touraine.
Half of the audience had already fled, to barracks or for the Quartier or the city proper—wherever they could convince themselves was safe. Nowhere. Nowhere is safe, Luca thought.
Many of those remaining were blackcoats. She met their grim or frightened gazes with her own, whatever good the solidarity would do. “Lay down your weapons. No matter what happens, the Qazāli go free today. Rebels. Conscripts. They are not to be harmed today or any day after. We’re leaving.
“Have mercy on us, Aranen.” Luca spoke to Aranen’s back, in Shālan. The priestess was consumed with Touraine’s body, running her hands along the woman’s torso and legs.
“You have cost me everything,” Aranen finally said.
Luca wanted to say that it wasn’t her, but Aranen didn’t deserve such weakness. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Aranen stood and fixed her eyes on Luca again, and Luca knew without doubt that the priestess was not the one appraising her. Every petty thought, every insecurity, every moment of cruelty was exposed. She wanted to throw herself to the ground.
The priestess stepped toward her, hand outstretched, and Luca shrank back. Cantic’s dead body was barely two paces away.
Where does a queen’s life weigh in the balance of her kingdom?
Aranen pressed a hand against her cheek. Luca leaned into it, eyes closed. She yielded.
Heat, or maybe light, or maybe none of that but something rolled through Luca’s body. It coiled inside her chest, sliding between her lungs, slipping into the gaps of her intestines. It itched, a fierce tingling that made her want to rip herself apart. It shot up and down her legs, bouncing, heedless of the pain it caused her. At her heart, it felt like a caress, like a fist wrapped around her life, thinking to squeeze.
Balladaire has lost. I’ve lost us.
And then Aranen broke contact. Luca sagged to her knees, gasping for air. She’d been spared. Touraine’s eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling steadily.
“Thank you.” She rested her forehead on the ground at Aranen’s feet before she could push herself back up again.
To everyone else—her people, the Sands, the rebels—she said in Balladairan, “Citizens, my countrymen. Gather yourselves. It’s long past time for us to go home.”
CHAPTER 42
THE RAIN （AND YET ANOTHER BROADSIDE）
Luca still hated public speaking. Her stomach flipped over and over as she dressed. She eyed her uncle’s letter on the bedside table as she buttoned her shirt.
Bastien was waiting for her. He didn’t fault her for his father’s arrest, and he’d helped her manage affairs since the surrender. What day had it been? She would have to count back later—the day the Balladairan Empire cracked would be important for the history books. And her name next to it.
She’d sent a note to Aranen every day to see if Touraine had woken up. And every day the response had been the same. No. Luca wanted to delay the speech until she knew whether Touraine would stand by her side, but the city was growing restless. And even though she didn’t plan to leave Qazāl until she knew Touraine’s fate one way or another, the citizens of Qazāl needed to know she wasn’t their ruler anymore.