I get my answer after a grand total of three steps, when a Sentinel seizes me from behind. He pins my arms to my sides, holding tight. I groan like an annoyed child, exasperated beyond frustration, as my hand drops the knife.
“No, no, no,” Samson says as he steps into my path. The Sentinel won’t even let me flinch. “We can’t have this.”
Now I can see what this is. Not a rescue. Not for me. A coup, an assassination attempt. They’ve come for Maven.
Iral, Haven, and Laris cannot win this battle. They’re outnumbered, but they know that. They prepared for it. The Irals are schemers and spies. Their plan is well executed. Already they’re making an escape through the shattered windows. I watch, dumbfounded, as they throw themselves out into the sky, catching gales of wind that fling them out and away. Not all of them make it. Nornus swifts catch a few, as does Prince Daraeus, despite a long knife protruding from his shoulder. I assume the Havens are long gone too, though one or two flicker back into my vision, each one bleeding, dying, assaulted by a Merandus whisper’s onslaught. Daraeus himself puts out one blurring arm and catches someone by the neck. When he squeezes, a Haven blinks into existence.
The Sentinels who turned, all Laris and Iral, don’t make it either. They kneel, angry but unafraid, burning with determination. Without their masks, they don’t look so terrifying.
A gurgling sound draws our attention. The Sentinel turns, allowing me to see the center of what was once the feasting table. A crowd clusters where Maven’s seat was, some on guard, some kneeling. Through their legs, I see him.
Silver blood bubbles from his neck, gushing through the fingers of the nearest Sentinel, who is trying to keep pressure on a bullet wound. Maven’s eyes roll and his mouth moves. He can’t speak. He can’t even scream. A wet, gasping sort of noise is all he can make.
I’m glad the Sentinel holds me still. Or else I might run to him. Something in me wants to run to him. Whether to finish the job or comfort him as he dies, I don’t know. I desire both in equal measure. I want to look into his eyes and see him leave me forever.
But I just can’t move, and he just won’t die.
The Skonos skin healer, my skin healer, skids to his side, sliding on her knees. I think her name is Wren. An apt name. She is small and darting as her namesake. She snaps her fingers. “Take it out; I have him!” she shouts. “Out, now!”
Ptolemus Samos crouches, abandoning his guarding vigil. He twitches his fingers and a bullet pulls free of Maven’s neck, bringing with it a fresh fountain of silver. Maven tries to scream, gargling his own blood.
Brow furrowed, the skin healer works, holding both hands over his wound. She bends as if to put her weight on him. From this angle, I can’t see the skin beneath, but the blood stops gushing. The wound that should’ve killed him heals. Muscle and vein and flesh knit back together, good as new. No scar but the memory.
After a long, gasping moment, Maven hurtles to his feet, and fire explodes from both hands, sending his entourage reeling backward. The table before him flips, blasted back by the strength and rage of his flame. It lands in a resounding heap, spitting puddles of blue-burning alcohol. The rest ignites, fed by Maven’s anger. And, I think, terror.
Only Volo has the spine to approach him in such a state.
“Your Majesty, should we evacuate you to the—”
With wicked eyes, Maven turns. Above him, the lightbulbs in the chandeliers burst, spitting flame instead of sparks. “I have no reason to run.”
All this in a few moments. The ballroom is in shambles, full of shattered glass, upended tables, and a few very mangled bodies.
Prince Alexandret is among them, slumped dead in his seat of honor with a bullet hole between his eyes.
I don’t mourn his loss. His ability was pain.
Naturally, they interrogate me first. I should be used to it by now.
Exhausted, emotionally spent, I slump to the cold stone floor when Samson lets me go. My breathing comes hard, like I’ve just run a race. I will my heartbeat to normalize, to stop panting, to hold on to some shred of dignity and sense. I cringe as the Arvens lock my manacles back into place; then they pass the key away. The manacles are a relief and a burden both. A shield and a cage.
We’ve retreated to the grand council chambers this time, the circular room where I saw Walsh die to protect the Scarlet Guard. More room here, more space to try the dozen captured assassins. The Sentinels have learned their lesson, and they keep firm grips on the prisoners, not allowing any movement. Maven leers down from his council seat, flanked on either side by Volo and Daraeus. The latter fumes, torn between livid rage and sorrow. His fellow prince is dead, killed in what I now know was an assassination attempt on Maven. An attempt that, sadly, failed.
“She knew nothing of this. Neither the house rebellion nor Jon’s betrayal,” Samson tells the room. The terrible chamber seems small, with most of the seats empty and the doors firmly locked. Only Maven’s closest advisers remain, looking on, gears turning in their heads.
In his seat, Maven sneers. Almost being murdered doesn’t seem to rattle him. “No, this was not the Scarlet Guard’s doing. They don’t work like this.”
“You don’t know that,” Daraeus snaps, forgetting all his manners and smiles. “You don’t know anything about them, no matter what you might say. If the Scarlet Guard has allied with—”
“Corrupted,” Evangeline snaps from her place behind Maven’s left shoulder. She doesn’t have a council seat or a title of her own and has to stand, despite the many empty chairs. “Gods do not ally with insects, but they can be infected by them.”
“Pretty words from a pretty girl,” Daraeus says, dismissing her outright. She fumes. “What of the rest?”