He’s about to execute her, and he’s demanding that she translate his words for her captive people. It only drives my understanding of him deeper into my darkening heart.
Sander pushes Halina forward, and she grips the railing of the parapet and gives him a resentful glare before turning back to the crowd. She shouts her words in Vasterutian, and they no longer sound round and honeyed—now they ring with a ferocity that makes me wince.
“I have to stop this,” I whisper to Sig. “I can’t stand here and watch him kill them.”
Sig’s fingers clamp over my shoulder. “Not close enough,” he whispers back. “Wait.”
Nisse raises his arms. “Open the city gates,” he roars.
Halina wears a strange, grim smile as she shouts her words in Vasterutian. As the warrior blows his horn three times to signal Nisse’s command to the few guards stationed near the gate, a strange ripple of energy seems to run through the crowd.
The horn out in the city blows a single, high-pitched note that cuts off suddenly.
Nisse’s victorious smile fades as he peers down the long, wide road that leads straight downhill from the tower to the city gate. We all turn to see what he’s looking at; nearly a mile up the muddy road, a long procession of black-robed riders emerges over a rise. They ride with their heads low to their mounts, galloping at full clip, not the way I would expect soft priests to approach. I squint as the noonday sun glints off metal, a shimmer that’s nearly blinding within the black horde.
All of the riders are heavily armed.
“Oh, heaven,” I whisper as the truth crashes down. “Those aren’t priests.” And I don’t know who they are, but I’m guessing I am staring at an advancing force of Korkeans and Ylpesians.
Halina said they were allies. She told me the Vasterutians hadn’t been able to get riders out of the city since they’d sent a plea for aid to Kupari. She’s the one who volunteered Vasterutian scouts to go fetch the refugee priests, right when Nisse was most thirsty for magical allies.
She wasn’t betraying me—she was betraying him.
Something tells me those scouts rode without stopping to the other southern city-states. And then Halina spread the story that the rebel warriors were planning to escape, ensuring that nearly all of Nisse’s force was occupied with the rebels—and very few of them remain here at the tower to guard Nisse. She made sure I “overheard” the story; it only bolstered the knowledge Nisse already had.
“We have to get to Thyra,” I cry, pushing back my hood to get a clear view of the parapet.
It’s already in chaos. As I lunge forward, trying frantically to push through the churning, shouting mob of Vasterutians, some of whom have already charged the few warriors in the courtyard, Sander shoves Halina toward a window farther along the parapet and whirls around with his dagger in his hand.
Nisse sees Sander’s attack just in time and gets his dagger up to block the strike. I stare, wide-eyed. Sander did jump, then. Just not in the direction I believed. Love for him beats in my breast as I watch him take on the older warrior, fighting with a strength and frenzy that I know well.
A cry of pain draws my eyes to the right. Thyra has taken advantage of the moment. She has one of Jaspar’s daggers in her hand. Jaspar draws one from his boot, a wooden smile on his face.
“Close the gates,” Nisse howls as the Vasterutians around us let out a fierce, ragged war cry. He kicks Sander in the stomach and backs up a few steps. “Close the gates!”
But instead of three quick notes, the horn sounds off in one long, eerie tone, cutting over the noise of the riot in the yard. I glance over to see the warrior who previously had the horn lying on the ground, clutching his head while a stout Vasterutian woman fills her cheeks and blows the horn yet again.
There is utter mayhem all around me. The southern warriors will be here in minutes. Sander, Nisse, Jaspar, and Thyra are still grappling on the parapet. One Vasterutian tackles Sig, who crashes into me but then whirls around with balls of fire bursting from his palms. This ignites a very different type of chaos, with Vasterutians scrambling to get away from us. It draws the attention of the fighters in the parapet. Thyra’s blue gaze meets mine. Ansa, she mouths. Her smile is exquisite relief.
But the distraction costs her dearly. Jaspar backhands her, so hard that her head hits the stone wall of the tower. At the same time, Sander slices Nisse across the arm, sending the older warrior staggering back. He falls, and Sander descends on him, raw determination shining on his face.
He chose Thyra. My fellow raid prize chose mercy and loyalty and faith. He chose to break from our brutal past and trust in a fragile future. I suppose whatever strong thing you choose should depend on how you define strength, he said to me. And now I know what his answer was.
His blade shines as he brings it down.