By the time I make it to the bottom steps, I don’t even care about the people who are staring and shouting incomprehensible words. It feels as if layers of skin have scalded right off my feet, leaving them raw and agonizing, as if I’ve been walking over a mile of fiery coals.
And the queen’s pain continues. Steady. Punishing. So constant that I can’t take in a full breath, my heart feeling like it can’t complete a full beat.
I’m sweating buckets. Everything inside of me shakes and reverberates with echoing agony that’s sapped all my strength as I’m led down a narrow path. The bodies of the Matrons close in on me as we get closer to the building. I can see a sea of people gathered, shouting, hands in the air as if this is some kind of frenzied event.
Then I’m led up the charring steps of the domed building. When I get to the top, the women part like waves, and I see I’m on some kind of outdoor stage. The building is at my back and the canvas-covered city square in front, so full of people that I can’t even see the ends of the crowd. They’re not wasting any time. There will be no waiting in my room, no other ritualistic Cleansing.
This is it.
I’m shoved inside a circle of thin pillars on the stage, and as soon as I am, the queen’s magic is suddenly removed. In their haste to shove me inside, my shoulder and arm smack against the poles, and the gold ball drops from my hand. I don’t dare draw attention to it though.
I can’t enjoy the release of the queen’s pinched pain, because I’m trapped. Trapped and on display, reeling from pain and forcing myself not to pass out.
I try to shake the poles that surround me, but they don’t move a bit, and I’m far too weakened anyway. They stretch up at least ten feet, and they’re no thicker than my wrist, leaving the same measure of gap between them. The space inside the enclosure is a small circle, the same pillared door slammed shut at my back. The only relief I have is the fact that I’m in the shade now from the building’s overhang, so the tile floor of the stage is blessedly cool against my scorched feet.
But then I look up and see the seven chairs set just beyond me, facing both the crowd and my enclosure, all filled with the monarchs of Orea.
They must be in order, from First to Sixth Kingdom.
The chair for Fourth is noticeably empty.
At the end, in First Kingdom’s chair, sits King Euden Thold, a man with dark skin and a serpent crown on his head that glitters with gems of green and black. The moment I see him, I remember his power, because it’s wrapped all over him, tame under his control. There’s a viper draped around his shoulders. A cobra coiling the length of his arm. Another snake with a rattle at his ankle, and a bright green snake looped in his lap.
As if she’s not bothered in the slightest by their serpentine presence, Queen Isolte sits poised beside him, while another man who must be her mustached and blotchy-faced husband sits at her other side. King Neale Merewen.
And to the right of him sits Queen Kaila.
My stomach twists like I’ve grabbed it with two fists and wrung it out like a rag. Beside her is the empty chair meant for Slade, which makes my stomach twist in an entirely different way.
Where is he?
Next to that, in Fifth Kingdom’s spot, sits a man I’ve never seen before. He looks far too young and nervous to be in charge of an entire kingdom. But I suppose that’s the point. This is the newly crowned King Hagan Fulke.
One of King Thold’s snakes is on the new king’s armrest. Hagan tries and fails to hold in his grimace, clearly uncomfortable with the serpent’s presence, though too nervous to do anything about it.
He should have though, because in a blink, the snake suddenly sinks its teeth into his hand in a lightning-quick move, making him jerk back. King Thold chuckles and calls the snake back, but while King Hagan should have a bleeding, punctured hand, instead, there’s nothing there at all. He may be a timid sort of person, but apparently, his skin is impervious to fangs.
Beside King Hagan, the chair is empty, the last one in the lineup, meant for Sixth Kingdom. Meant for Midas. Yet he’s not here, and at least I can get some satisfaction from that.
But the scraps of that meager satisfaction disintegrate when King Neale Merewen stands, voice booming across the square, reverberating off the circular wall behind to amplify his speech. “The monarchs of Orea join here together to assess the accused and uphold the integrity of Orean Law.” He turns to me, eyes disapproving, flat hair tucked back in thinning strands. “As King of Second Kingdom and upholder of the royal decree, I now declare that the royal Conflux has commenced.”
CHAPTER 62
SLADE
I’ve been flying for days. So many that they’ve bled together with every darkened dusk stitched in the sky.
Argo is fast, but he has to take breaks to sleep and to hunt, and this amount of distance would normally be broken up with either a fresh timberwing at the coast or with plenty of rest between.
I had no such advantage.
We’ve had to deal with storms that dumped water on us, beating wind, and an improvised route. Yet crossing over Weywick Sea was the worst. I made sure to cross the shortest amount of distance over the water, having us stop right at Third Kingdom’s outermost island, but even so, we nearly didn’t make it across.
When Argo landed on the shore of Second Kingdom, he collapsed. I stayed with him at the tiny canal that fed into the sea, and I was damn lucky that he woke up and had the energy to hunt for fish.
But every moment we couldn’t travel was a pressure physically felt. Every second I didn’t move meant I wasn’t catching up to Auren. I knew that Manu probably had changed timberwings at least twice, while I was pushing Argo further than I had any right to.
But I had no choice.
I rushed to leave, which meant I had no supplies other than the clothes on my back, the ribbon in my pocket, and the sword and dagger at my belt. I sold that dagger to a fisherman in exchange for new clothing and some travel rations. It was only once he saw the lines of power creeping down my hands that he paled and ran away, though he was wise enough to keep the dagger.
The oppressive desert heat of Second Kingdom has already made me sweat through my leathers, and Argo takes an entire day and night to recover. He’s fast though. Faster than any timberwing I’ve ever seen. If it weren’t for the break he had to take, I have no doubt that we would’ve caught up to them.
We should’ve caught up to them the night Auren was taken, but the bastards evaded me. They must’ve had more of a head start than I realized. Even though I was trying to have Argo track them, the path he was traveling kept changing, as if they were purposely eluding us and taking weird as fuck routes, which they probably were.
Argo doesn’t have much left in him. His wings are tired. His speed is next to nothing. It’s even worse than that night we raced toward Deadwell, because the punishing heat is sapping what’s left of his strength.
As for me, with the sun beating against me like furious fists, minimal food and water, and only blips of rest here and there, I’m running on pure fucking rage.
Rage, and the unmistakable guilt-laden fear.
Because they took her. They took her, and I wasn’t there. I know she told me she was glad of how things happened in Ranhold, of how she needed to save herself. I know she’s strong. That she can take care of herself, rescue herself.
But I should’ve fucking been there then, and I damn well should be now.
So I will fucking get to her.
Her ribbon practically scorches inside my pocket, a reprimanding reminder for the hurt that already happened to her when I wasn’t there.
I need to be there this time.
I’m getting closer. I should reach Wallmont within the day. Everything hinges on them taking her there. Because if they’ve taken her somewhere else...evaded me once more...
No. I won’t think of that.
We’re maybe just a few hours away from the capital now, and a new surge of hope claims me.
Almost there, Auren.