*
A black snake wound through the city. From the palace battlements, Kestrel could see the snake flash little scales of gold. She strained hard to discern the front line of the black-clad soldiers. It felt as if someone had clamped a hand down over her nose and mouth. Her fear had an airless quality.
Verex gently touched her arm.
The emperor noticed. His expression was unreadable. Verex stared back, defiant, and Kestrel felt a little better.
The battalion marched up the mountain, the boots of more than a thousand soldiers striking down on the stone road. Black flags and gold swallow-tailed pennants snapped in the wind. Kestrel took a small spyglass from her skirt pocket.
“Undignified,” the emperor said. “Do you think your father will want you to see his face before he sees yours? Is he an enemy, that you would peer at him? You will show respect for my friend.”
Kestrel flushed. She put the spyglass away.
They were the only three on the battlements: the emperor, the prince, and the lady. The rest of the court had collected in the inner yard, filed according to their rank, stiff and silent. Many of them knew what it meant to fight. The rest thought that they did. They all stood to attention.
Then Kestrel heard the shifting black troops march closer, and she could see, at the head of the line, one man on a horse, leading the rest.
Kestrel’s heart seemed to hatch inside her and let go something that soared. Her father must be well. His injury couldn’t have been bad, or he would have been borne to the palace on a litter.
Kestrel no longer cared for dignity. She ran for the stone steps leading down from the battlement. She raced down the staircase, tripping over the hem of her dress, catching at the railing, cursing her heeled shoes.
She burst into the yard just as brass horns sounded their fanfare. The barbican gates heaved open, and the battalion marched in.
The general rode his horse straight toward Kestrel. That winged feeling inside her faltered. Her father’s face was gray. A wide bandage wrapped around his lower torso leaked blood.
The general halted his horse. The battalion stopped behind him, and the walls of the yard rang silent.
Kestrel stepped toward him.
“No,” said her father. She stopped. He dismounted. It was agonizing to see how slow he was. Blood streaked his saddle.
Again Kestrel would have gone to him. Once he stood on the paved ground, she would have offered her arm. Not in an obvious way. Couldn’t a daughter walk arm in arm with her father? But he raised his gauntleted hand.
She came close anyway. “Let me help.”
“Don’t shame me.”
The general’s words were said low, through clenched teeth. No one heard their exchange. But Kestrel felt as if everyone had, and that every single person gathered there knew everything there was to know about her and her father as he led the way inside the palace, and she was forced to follow behind.