The Sharpest Blade (15 page)

“Cadig!”
A single male voice calls out the fae equivalent of huzzah. A shiver runs up my spine because I don’t know if it’s a pro-Lena yell or a . . .

Others take up the call, one at a time, starting from whoever first said it and moving through the crowd to the left and to the right, and soon, everyone’s yelling it. They’re yelling other things I can’t translate, too. Their words become a chant—a passionate chant—and I take an uneasy step forward, moving closer to Lena’s side.

Lena doesn’t budge; she remains standing in the sunlight, her expression grim and determined.

I glance at the crowd again. It’s moving, but not aggressively. Are they celebrating?

The “
cadigs
” and chants escalate. Swords are drawn, but they’re raised in the air, pointed at the clear blue sky. Yes, they’re celebrating. They’re elated to see the ledgers burn.

Lena waves her hand, and the small bonfire at her feet shoots higher. The crowd cheers, and someone slips through the guards’ perimeter. Trev moves between the fae and Lena, but the man just throws what looks like an empty crate—maybe from one of the merchant’s kiosks?—into the fire before he retreats, sword stabbing victoriously into the air.

Another fae makes it past the guards, then another. They each add to the bonfire, throwing more crates—some that aren’t quite empty—and cloaks and papers and anything they can get their hands on. Lena maintains her position as the flames grow; so do I despite the heat coming from the burning pyre, and a tingle runs through me when I realize I’m watching history. I’ve only seen scenes like these on television: the celebration in Baghdad when Saddam’s statue was toppled, the open elation in Egypt when Mubarak stepped down as president.

A flash in my peripheral vision makes my head snap to the left. A ball of flame, bright even in the full daylight, shoots into the air. It dissipates a couple of hundred feet up, but on the other side of the plaza, a second fireball is launched. Fire-wielders are in the crowd, ones who are at least as strong as Trev.

Lena’s guards are having trouble holding back the fae. Some of them are chanting Lena’s name now. A few call out
nalkin-shom
, too. That’s when I realize what we must look like from the crowd’s point of view: Lena, dressed in tight-fitting black pants and a silky blue shirt that swoops over both her shoulders to cross in the middle of her chest, and me, a human covered in blue lightning standing with her behind a gathering mountain of flames with the silver palace as a backdrop. Lena might need to work on her speech-giving skills, but she’s a pro at making a scene.

The crowd shifts again as fae jostle each other, everyone trying to get a better view and to get closer. A few more people slip past Lena’s guards. Most of them retreat back to their places but not all of them do.

“Lena,”
Trev says, yelling to be heard over the crowd and the flames.
“You must go back inside now.”

I agree with him. She’s made her point, and this could all get out of hand in a matter of seconds.

The fire crackles and licks at the air; and then, finally, she nods once. As I turn to follow her back to the palace, a blur of red and black moves through my vision. My brain recognizes the pattern a second later, and a warning bell goes off in my mind. I turn back to find it.

There. A name-cord. It’s braided into the hair of a fae who is
not
celebrating. He’s loud, and he’s angry. He grabs the arms of the people nearest him, yelling in their ears, pushing and pulling them. Then his gaze cuts across the plaza to another mass of people. I focus on them and spot the red-and-black name-cord worn by another fae.

Elari.
More than just a few. They’re strategically placed in the crowd, and they’re inciting the fae around them.

While I’m watching, one of them motions to another, then jabs his fist forward, toward the great doors, which are still open and waiting for our return.

Oh, shit.

“Trev!” I shout, trying to get his attention, trying to warn him. He doesn’t hear me, but I’m not the only one who realizes the risk of those open doors. Kyol is there. His gaze sweeps across the plaza as a dozen swordsmen emerge from the palace behind him, forming a line.

The giant doors slowly start to close, but before they’ve moved more than a foot, someone nearby, undoubtedly an
elari
, shouts out a call to storm the palace.

“L
ENA!” KYOL BELLOWS
the same instant I do. I grab her arm.

She jerks away with a glare.

“Elari,”
I snap. “They’re mixed in with the crowd.”

The glare remains as she scans the fae around us—fae who are much too close now. The south doors won’t shut in time to keep them all out. Dozens of people have heeded the
elari
’s call to storm the palace. Kyol’s swordsmen are trying to hold them back. They’re outnumbered, though, and the crowd surges forward.

Mob mentality. The fae were on the verge of getting out of control
before
Lena appeared. Now, with a few not-so-subtle suggestions from
elari
, they’ve tipped over the edge, their celebrations turning into mindless violence and destruction.

“We have to get in another way,” I yell into Lena’s ear. Either that, or we have to get out of here. Find some place in the city to hide until the fae disperse.

“We’ll go to the eastern entrance,” Lena says. She grabs my arm like it was her plan to go there from the beginning, then directs me through the crowd. Her sword is still in its scabbard—mine is, too—but the air vibrates with the fae’s chants and shouts and stomping feet. We’re going to have to fight our way back into the palace, I’m sure of it.

The gaps in the crowd around us shrink, then disappear. Lena shoves her shoulder into them, creating a few inches of space at a time, but our progress is slow. Too slow. An
elari
sees us. A woman. She’s moving through the crowd, dagger in her hand and hate in her eyes.

The weapons belt Trev fastened around my waist only has a sword. The people around me are pressed too close for me to draw it. I try digging my elbow into the nearest fae’s stomach, try shoving him away and turning for more space. I get the sword halfway out, but someone shoves it back into its scabbard.

I look for Trev, then for Kyol, who feels like he’s only a few feet away, but all the faces around me belong to strangers.

All
of them.

I whip around, searching for Lena. She was right beside me. How could I have lost her?

I duck beneath a swinging elbow, then shove my way forward half a foot. There’s so little space to move. The familiarity of the situation settles over me, the press of the crowd, the panicked shouts that begin to rise all around me. My chest constricts, remembering how close I came to being crushed to death at the concert in London. Several humans died that night. Fae might die here today.

I won’t, though, and neither will Lena as long as I can find her.

Someone runs into me. I throw my weight back into them then slip through a narrow gap I opened. I’m looking everywhere for Lena, but all I see is a mob that’s becoming increasingly angry.

A hand locks on my shoulder. I grab the fae’s wrist and twist. Or try to. The arm doesn’t budge. I follow the arm to the fae’s shoulder then to his face.

Aren, and beside him, hidden beneath the hood of a dark gray cloak, is Lena.

“Thank, God,” I mutter out loud.

Aren shoves away a fae who slams into me, then he holds up a cloak that’s the same dark gray as Lena’s.

“For you,
nalkin-shom
,” he says, his silver eyes practically sparkling.

I want to ask him why the hell he’s happy, but I just grab the cloak and slip into it. Aren tries to pull my hood up, but I stop him, turning and waiting for . . .

Kyol. He and two of his men carve a path through the crowd. Most of the fae scramble out of their way when they see the lord general and his men, or rather, when they see their swinging swords, but a few of them don’t back off. Their swords meet Kyol’s in attacks that are halfhearted. They’re just causing trouble and are caught up in the moment. They’re not
elari
.

Kyol shoves one last fae away, then grabs my arm.

“Where’s Lena?” he demands. I nod toward my right. Lena’s stony silver eyes meet his unflinchingly.

“Go,” Kyol says, fury riding on his order. Pain pulses behind my eyes. It feels like someone’s taking a jackhammer to my brain. I reach for Kyol’s hand, intending to calm him, but he pulls back. His eyes lock on me, and he grates out, “Move.”

What the hell did I do?

No time to verbalize that question. Aren and Kyol and his men create an opening in the crowd. They’re effective, splitting the masses like a sea, and the farther we get away from the southern doors, the thinner that mass becomes. We don’t escape unnoticed by any means, though. A few fae figure out that only someone who’s important would be hidden beneath a cloak and escorted by a lord general and a sword-master. They trail us, some of them shouting profanities, others begging for help. I scan the faces of the followers, searching for the red-and-black name-cords of the
elari
or anyone else who looks threatening, but Lena’s guards keep everyone away.

We make it to the eastern entrance relatively easily and, quite surprisingly, unscathed. I think I might have one bruise on my back from an errant elbow, but other than that, there’s just a stitch in my side from running to keep up with Lena and the others’ quick pace.

The guards close the doors behind us, sealing us inside the palace. Inside where it’s safe.

Supposedly safe.

My heart rate doesn’t slow down. With the number of
elari
I saw in the crowd—at least five of them—I can’t escape the feeling that we made it out of there far too easily.

 • • • 

HALF
an hour later, when I’m waiting in the private chamber at the back of the King’s Hall, I’m still uneasy. It looks like I’m the only one, though. Aren’s sitting on the edge of a table against the far wall, grinning and demanding Trev give him details about what Lena said and did, and how the fae on the plaza reacted. He’s positively giddy, high from the energy of the crowd and the scuffles we had to get through to escape it.

Lena’s here, too, but she doesn’t interject any insight. She’s staring at a collage of drawings and writings on the back wall. The drawings are penciled sketches of the high nobles of the Realm’s seventeen provinces, four of which were recently appointed by Lena. They’re split into three groups. I recognize Kelia’s father, Lord Raen, in the smallest group, and I assume he and the other four high nobles there with him are the ones Lena is certain will approve her. The sketches in the second and, by far, the largest group have writing under their names. I can’t read Fae, but my guess is that she’s listed details about the high nobles and possibly ideas for how she might go about persuading them to vote for her.

The last group is a group of one. Lord Ralsech, the high noble who’s declared his support for the false-blood.

I’m not sure if Lena is really looking at the collage, though, or if she’s staring through it to the tunnel on the other side. Her arms are folded across her chest, and her face is hard and smooth. She wants to be visible, on the ramparts of the palace or at least seeing the nobles and merchants and endless number of other fae who want an audience with her, but Kyol insisted we hole up down here. That tunnel, hidden behind a foot-thick slab of rock, is the palace’s only emergency exit. Only a few fae know about it. In fact, aside from Kyol and perhaps Naito, I’m not sure if anyone outside this room knows of its existence.

“Where is he?” Lena demands. I know she’s talking to me even though she doesn’t turn. She’s asked me this question a dozen times now, and finally, I can give her a different answer.

“He’s on his way,” I say.

Not for the first time, Trev gives me an odd look. He knows we’re talking about Kyol. I don’t think he’s figured out we have a life-bond yet, but he will soon if Lena doesn’t watch what she says. I’m not sure she cares if he knows, though. That either shows how much she trusts him—or it shows that she’s not aware of his existence.

When the door to the chamber opens, Lena turns. Kyol descends the narrow staircase that leads up to the King’s Hall. When the blue-white light from the magically lit orbs illuminates his face, his expression is as calm and stoic as ever. But I know how furious he is, and not just because I can feel his rage vibrating across the bond. It’s his eyes. The edges of his irises are so dark, they’re almost black, and they’re a shade of silver that reminds me of a hurricane coming to shore.

My headache—the one that’s been lingering since Kyol learned about Lena’s ledger burning—increases tenfold when he looks at her now.

“What were you thinking?” He doesn’t raise his voice, but his words cut through the air, echoing in the small chamber. I have to give Lena props. She doesn’t so much as flinch when his gaze bores into her.

“I was thinking,” she says, emphasizing the last word, “that I needed to gain the people’s support.”

I shift uncomfortably. That’s kind of close to what I told her to do earlier, but I absolutely did not suggest the ledger burning.

“The people’s support will come when the high nobles approve your reign.”

“Which will never happen if I don’t act,” she bites out. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Taltrayn, but they aren’t exactly rallying behind me.”

“They can’t rally behind you if you’re dead.”

“Your concern is touching, but it’s unneeded.”

“Lena,” Kyol grates out. His hand tightens on the hilt of his sword, and I realize his patience is running thin. That’s impressive considering he’s the most calm and tolerant man I know. “Your actions started a riot.”

She crosses her arms. “My actions started a celebration.”

“They’ve lost their minds out there. People will be hurt. There are fires to put out.”

“And those fires will be put out.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

Lena turns to Aren, who’s silently watching the exchange the same as Trev and I are.

“You approve,” she says.

A crooked, haphazard smile leaps to his lips. “You know I do.”

“See,” Lena says to Kyol, and a mix of emotions twists through him: anger, annoyance, and a good dose of protectiveness, too. That last one surprises me. It hasn’t passed through our bond in that quantity except when it was focused on me, and I think some part of him might . . .
admire
Lena for what she’s done. He doesn’t exactly approve, of course, but she took action. She did something for the people, for the Realm.

“You have to consult us before you do something like this,” Kyol says.

“I consulted McKenzie.”

When Kyol slowly levels his gaze on me, my eyes widen.

I shake my head. “I just helped her carry the ledgers.”

“Ease up, Taltrayn,” Aren says, sliding off the table. “The people are happy, and Lena is safe and unscathed.”

When Kyol looks at Aren, the tension in the chamber doubles. I doubt the two men have spoken more than a dozen words to each other since Kyol formed the life-bond with me. They were enemies for years, and I’m fairly certain any respect they feel for each other now is begrudging at best. Neither man would be upset if the other happened to die and enter the ether.

Something tickles in the back of my mind. The two guards who survived Atroth’s death. How did Lord Hison find out about them?

I shut that line of thought down quickly, ashamed it ever entered my head in the first place. Aren wouldn’t let that information slip out just to off his competition. I’ve told him a million times that he doesn’t have to worry about Kyol.

On the other hand, death is the only way to sever a life-bond.

“Not unscathed,” Kyol says quietly, concern moving through him once again.

“Not unscathed?” Aren repeats, tilting his head to study Lena.

Lena’s gaze remains icy as she stares at Kyol.

“You’re not putting your full weight on your left leg,” he says. “And you haven’t removed your cloak. A knife wound, I presume.”

I frown down at Lena’s leg. It’s mostly hidden beneath her cloak. How he can tell she’s not putting weight on it, I don’t know.

“Lena,” Aren scolds as he crosses the room.

“It’s barely a scratch.”

“A scratch deep enough that you feel the need to hide it,” Kyol says.

Aren takes her cloak off. Her left hip is stained red, and when he lifts the bottom of her shirt, the cut he reveals is definitely not just a scratch. It’s a gash that runs from just above her hip bone to her lower back. Her
very
low back.

Aren shakes his head. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“She didn’t want you touching her ass,” I mumble under my breath.

Under my breath is, apparently, loud and clear enough for the fae to understand. Their heads whip my way. Lena looks annoyed, Aren lets out a laugh, and even Trev has a small smile on his face.

Not Kyol, though. His expression is still stony, but the tension I feel in him abates some.

“It’s not life-threatening,” Lena says, giving me a glare before she turns her attention back to Aren. “Someone else’s injury might be, and you’re exhausting yourself.”

“My magic is fine,” he says.

“
You’re
not fine,” she counters. “When was the last time you slept?”

His expression hardens. “When was the last time you did?”

Her silence makes his point for him. No one’s getting enough rest. Well, except me. I had three weeks to recover from the invasion of the palace and the fight to retain it.