“That,” said King Bastien, “is a terrible risk.”
Queen Genoveve set down her goblet with some force. “A risk we cannot take. My love, this is nonsense.”
“The city guard,” Rielle insisted, “the royal guard, the holy guard, every acolyte from the temples. All of them can be on alert, ready in case I falter.” She took a deep breath. “But I won’t falter. I’ve been taught well by my father and by Tal.”
“Taught while hidden within secrets and lies,” the Archon added.
Rielle ignored him. “They can continue my lessons, with the help of everyone on the Magisterial Council.”
She glanced at Grand Magister Florimond. The woman inclined her head. “I, for one, will be glad to help Lady Rielle in this.”
Rielle gave her a small smile. “Word will get out, my king, about the trials. About me. Too many people know what’s happening for rumors not to escape. Think about how our people will react if they find you’ve been keeping such a secret from them. Enough lies have been told, enough secrets kept. I had a part in that, and I don’t wish to any longer.”
King Bastien returned to his seat, considering her in silence.
“If we tell the people everything…” Audric added, coming to stand beside her.
“And if they can see Rielle’s power and control for themselves…” said Ludivine, on Rielle’s other side.
“Then that will show them you trust her.”
“And they, in turn, will trust her,” Ludivine added. “And you as well, Uncle.”
“And,” finished Rielle, “if there are dark turnings elsewhere in the world, perhaps they will then think twice about setting their sights on Celdaria, if they know we are united. If there are no secrets to exploit.”
“If,” King Bastien said slowly, “they see that we have the most powerful human to ever live as our guardian?”
Corien, at last, returned. He’s not wrong, came his low voice. There has never been a human like you, Rielle. And there never will be.
Rielle fought to keep her smile hidden. That, she sensed, would not help her case.
Finally, King Bastien took a deep breath and reclined in his chair. “You three,” he said, looking at Rielle, Audric, and Ludivine in turn, “have had far too much practice concocting schemes together. It is difficult to argue with such a front.”
“My love…” began Queen Genoveve urgently.
“It’s settled, then.” King Bastien placed his palms flat on the table. “The remaining six trials will be public events, open to all. What did you call it, Brydia? A spectacle?”
Grand Magister Florimond inclined her head. “Perhaps too flippant a word.”
“No, it is a good word. A celebratory word. And that’s what this will be: a celebration of Celdaria’s might and the power of its citizens.” King Bastien looked to his son. “A clear sign to every soul living that Celdaria is not afraid of strange storms or shifting lands. Or old tales of death and doom that have no bearing on our future.”
For a moment Rielle feared Audric would say something else, further invite his father’s anger, but then King Bastien left the room, his kingsguard flanking him. The others followed shortly after, Audric hurrying out after his mother, and Rielle’s own father disappearing before she had the chance to speak to him.
“Well,” Ludivine said brightly. She grabbed Rielle’s hands and grinned. “I don’t know about you, but after that? I could use a drink.”
16
Eliana
“Lift your eyes to the eastern skies
Wait for the sun, and with it—rise
We will march down the roads gone black with the dead
We will tear down their walls and paint their crowns red”
—A rowing song composed by suspected Red Crown ally Ioseph Ferracora during the siege of Arxara Bay
Eliana awoke beneath a threadbare quilt, in a small dark room, to the unwelcome sight of Simon sitting near her.
He reclined on a wooden chair, one long leg resting on the other, and held a glass of reeking alcohol.
Eliana sat up, remembering to grit her teeth as if the pain from the blow to her head had lingered.
“You have five seconds to tell me where we are and where Remy is,” she said smoothly, “and who knocked me on the head, and where I can find them, before I disembowel you.”
“And good morning to you, dearest Dread,” said Simon, with a salute of his glass. “I must say, you are looking particularly, well, dreadful, if you’ll forgive the joke.”
“Where are my knives?” She realized, with a jolt of shock, that she was no longer wearing her ruined party gown. In fact, she was no longer wearing anything, except for the pendant around her neck.
“You piece of shit,” she said quietly. “Where are my clothes, where are my knives, and where is my brother?”
“Remy is safe and sleeping. Navi as well if you’re curious. Though I’m sure you’re not.” Simon tossed her a heap of clothes. “Aster wanted to tend to your wounds and get that blood-soaked gown off you. Maybe to make up for her sister knocking you on the head and then, it seems, drugging you? I scolded Marigold roundly for wasting quality goods on you, but she was unrepentant.”
Eliana picked up the tunic he had tossed her, grimacing at the frayed hems and patched sleeves. “Who is Marigold?”
“Aster’s sister. Try to keep up.” He knocked back the rest of his drink and set down the glass. “Anyway, every time Aster tried to dress you, you kicked her. But worry not, she’s a tough one.”
She glared at him until he said, “Ah,” and turned around to face the wall.
“Interestingly,” he continued, “you had no wounds that Aster could see.”
Eliana’s pulse quickened. She tugged on underwear, undershirt, and trousers—too baggy for her, not to mention fusty and faded, but at least they were clean.
“Disappointed that I was lucky enough to emerge unscathed from our valiant escape?” She pulled on the stained linen tunic. “I bet you’d love to have seen my body marked head to toe with scars to match your own, wouldn’t you?”
“Actually,” Simon replied, “I wouldn’t.”
She waited for elaboration, and when none came, she examined the jacket he’d brought her—a moth-eaten, bell-sleeved affair with a dull embroidered collar that had once certainly been gaudy and now looked simply pathetic.
“Decent clothes aren’t something you rebels care much about finding, I suppose?” she muttered, nevertheless shrugging on the jacket.
“If you’re finished.”
She made quick work of her wild hair, braiding it into submission. “Give me my knives, and I’ll refrain from hitting you for at least five minutes.”
“Have you always been this unspeakably irritating?”
“Has your face always looked so temptingly carvable?”
“You wanted to know where we are,” Simon said, gesturing toward the door. She pushed past him into a dim stone hallway. A path of wooden planks lined the earthen floor. Following the distant sound of conversation, she turned a corner, passed two doors set clumsily into the wall, and emerged onto a wooden platform overlooking an underground pit. The walls glistened from the slow drip of water.
The pit’s floor was covered in people: refugees, clothed in rags. Faces dark and pale, grown and young, all marked with dirt, ash, and blood.
And around the perimeter—standing watch on platforms, moving through the gathered refugees with supplies and stretchers—were rebels. Some wore rifles strapped to their backs; others carried daggers at their waists.
Suddenly Eliana felt neither tired nor irritated.
Simon had brought her to a Red Crown encampment.
Immediately, she leaned against the platform’s railing, as if overwhelmed by the sight laid out before her. She let out a sigh of pity just loud enough for Simon to hear.
And she began counting:
Two rebel soldiers patrolling the pit’s floor. Six more distributing supplies. Five platforms around the room, one soldier stationed at each. An open crate of potatoes against a nearby stretch of wall; a dozen more, similarly marked, stacked beneath that.