“Sometimes we hate others for the things we hate in ourselves.”
He nodded. “Once, you accused me of going after radiants. You were right.”
“Such is the curse of being me.” I watched him from the corner of my eye. “So that’s your power? You make things appear?”
“Appear and disappear. I’ve only done it a few times, and rarely anything big.”
Same as I usually animated only small things. “James and the bridge are exceptions, then? You let go of the bridge pretty quickly.”
“Too many things, or too big, and it takes a toll.”
Oh, how I understood that. “A boy who makes things appear and disappear, and a girl who brings things to life.”
“What a pair we make,” he said. “I don’t know how you’ve managed. James, the wraith boy, plus all the things you’ve animated in addition to that. You must be incredibly strong.”
I didn’t know about strong, but I’d definitely grown accustomed to the stress of magic. “Keeping him alive.” I shook my head. “That’s not how my power is supposed to work. But James is alive. Chrysalis, too.”
Slowly, the puzzle pieces began to fit together.
“But maybe magic things are different,” I mused. “Maybe I brought Chrysalis to life because he’s made of wraith. James because he’s made of magic.”
“The Cathedral of the Solemn Hour was made with magic.”
“With. Not of. The materials were mined and shaped with magic, not conjured from nothing.”
“But James was.” Tobiah glanced at the door, anguish heavy in his eyes. “I wanted to ask for so long, but that would have meant admitting the truth about James and myself.” He leaned his weight onto the desk and hung his head. Strands of hair fell over his eyes, and he heaved a long sigh. “That was cowardly of me.”
“It was,” I allowed. “But also completely understandable. Saints, Tobiah. You know the things I’ve done—or not done—because of fear.”
A cold, uncomfortable silence followed, like the memory of Meredith’s lifeless body on the chapel floor.
“I need to talk to James.” He looked up at me, eyes red with stress and exhaustion and grief. “He’s my best friend. Magic or no magic, that never changed.”
“You’re a good man, Tobiah Pierce.”
“I want to be.” He touched my hand, a faint brush of his knuckles over mine that warmed deep into my stomach. “I’ll find you later.”
I lingered in the study for a few more minutes, wondering if I actually needed to return to the ball. But how would it look if I abandoned it completely? Tobiah had avoided dozens of social events so he could go out as Black Knife, which left his people believing he was lazy and unfriendly.
No matter what I wanted to do, I needed to fulfill my duty as queen. Which meant dances and dinners, in addition to the real work of running a limping kingdom.
Grudgingly, I started toward the ballroom again, Oscar at my heels.
“Your Majesty!” Sergeant Ferris raced toward me from the opposite end of the hall.
“What is it?”
“Prince Colin,” he said, gasping. “He’s attacking Aecor City.”
FORTY-TWO
“PRINCE COLIN? YOU’RE sure?”
Sergeant Ferris nodded. “He has part of the Indigo Army and Aecorian loyalists.”
I’d suspected that much, but I hadn’t expected his attack to come immediately.
“Where is his army now?” I asked.
“The lowcity, engaged with the Red Militia.”
“The Red Militia?”
Sergeant Ferris dipped his head. “Yes, Your Majesty. The Red Militia is also attacking.”
“Saints.” That was just what I needed—both enemies attacking my city at once. “Let them fight it out for a while, but clear the civilians. Move them into the castle if you need to. Fill the ballrooms and staterooms. Just get people to safety. Coordinate with Captain Rayner.” I frowned at Ferris’s and Oscar’s uniforms side by side. “I suppose Patrick’s people are wearing red, and Prince Colin’s are wearing blue?”
Sergeant Ferris nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
For ten years, my world had been red against blue, but I could no longer tell my enemies by the colors they wore. “We need something,” I said. “Something that’s just ours.”
“Not ospreys, then?” Oscar crossed his arms.
“No. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Red Militia is using that. We need something else.” I hesitated, but it was the only thing. “Black knives. Use paint, ink, pitch—I don’t care. Put them on the fronts, backs, and sleeves of all of our people’s uniforms. We need to identify our friends.”
Sergeant Ferris’s eyebrows lifted toward his hairline. “Your Majesty—”
“When we first met, you asked if I was Black Knife.” Noise from the ongoing ball punctuated my pause. “Yes. I am Black Knife. And so is your king.”
Oscar’s mouth had dropped open, and Sergeant Ferris turned ashen.