“I just want to see her,” I say. I truly can’t say what will happen when I do.
He nods with a slow, playful curl of his lips. “So do I.” He leads me into the crowd, weaving between carts and clumps of onlookers. I’m struck by how different they look from that last harvest day, how cowed and pinched.
When we enter the square, I peer at the platform, the place where I presided over so many harvest ceremonies with my Valtia. The steps that lead up to the grand platform are crowded with men, and they hold everyone’s attention. Elder Aleksi is a few steps below the top, his thin lips arranged in a deep frown that creases his otherwise smooth face. He’s holding a wool cushion, upon which rests the crown of the Valtia, its agate glinting with amethyst and carnelian perfection. The elder is utterly still, as if he’s been frozen in place, but his eyes slide over the crowd in a way that makes me crave a hiding place. All the priests are clustered below him, their eyes downturned, their hands tucked into the folds of their robes. I count feverishly and realize they’ve already replaced the six Oskar and I killed this morning with apprentices. Armo is among them, looking wan and nervous. Sig goes still when he sees his former friend, his gaze calculating, but my attention is already on the eight people assembled on the steps below the priesthood.
They aren’t temple dwellers.
They aren’t even Kupari.
Five are men, three are women, and all of them look like warriors. Their cloaks are black and pinned at the shoulder, leaving their right hands free to reach for the iron broadswords fixed to their thick leather belts. Tucked beneath their muscular arms are metal helmets. A young woman and an older man stand one step above the others. Her light-brown hair is cut short and her body is lean and angular, but her eyes are wide-set and blue, her cheekbones high, her chin narrow, giving her a delicate sort of ferocity. The man next to her, with a grayish-blond beard and massive shoulders, might be her father—the set of their mouths is similar—but while the girl looks wary, he looks amused. Superior. Arrogant. I am drawn to her—and repelled by him.
And beyond any of that, I am horrified. Hissing whispers wind like snakes among us. Soturi. Here, in the city. They’ve sent a delegation, perhaps from Vasterut, and for some reason these raiders are being allowed to witness one of our most sacred, crucial ceremonies—the crowning of our new queen. Our city councilmen stand awkwardly behind them, casting nervous glances at the would-be invaders.
“The air reeks of desperation,” Sig whispers in my ear. “Can’t you smell it?”
I smell his sweat-and-iron scent, but little else. It doesn’t speak to me of desperation, though. It’s the scent of war. “What do you think they’re doing here?” I incline my head toward the Soturi, some of whom are glaring at the people in the square, their palms lingering over the hilts of their swords.
“They’re here for the same reason we are,” he says, tugging me forward, pushing through the crowd until we’re in the center of the square. “They sense weakness.” His hatred vibrates up my arm as he watches the elder on the platform. I pull my hood lower as Aleksi’s dark gaze sweeps over us, but Sig merely moves us a little closer.
The sound of a trumpet slices through the anxious muttering in the square, signaling the procession’s departure from the Temple on the Rock. I look up at its greenish copper dome, which rises high above the buildings on either side of the northern road. She’s coming. My heart pounds. Sig’s fingers are firm and hot over my sleeve. The crowd lets out a cheer. Many shout their thanks to the stars. Their voices are cracking and desperate, a wail rather than a roar.