Chapter
5

Lirra

THE CHIEF JUDGE OF SHAERDAN, THE KING of Malam, and the men carrying Leif disappear between the pillars.

Their exit rips the lid off order in the entry hall. Right away, the dignitaries from the other kingdoms close in and crowd the remaining guards, slinging questions and demands like tavern rats throwing back ale. They press for information, and when satisfying answers aren’t given immediately, the sound of their discontented voices swells.

“Who started it?”

“What kingdom are they from?”

A woman strides into the crowd, dressed in sand-colored evening robes, head held high atop a long, slender neck. A servant takes notice and bows, whispering her name to the others. She is Queen Isadora of Plovia.

“Why did this happen?” she asks, but her words are lost in the loud conversation.

Her assessing gaze homes in on King Gorenza. Her nostrils flare, so slightly I doubt anyone but me has noticed. The lanterns’ glow barely touches her rich, black hair, so dark in fact, it seems to absorb the light as she strides across the foyer to greet the northern king.

I trail a few paces behind her, needing to know the answer to her question. Grief knots my throat. I cannot let go of how quickly the fight escalated. Baz’s shift into rage was lightning swift, which is nothing like the dockworker who’s been flirting with me for months. So, why did this happen?

“It was the Malamians,” says a guard in the thick of the group. “They were harassing a Channeler.”

That much is true. But Malamians harassing Channelers is nothing new. And it’s never resulted in a brawl like the one tonight. Could it be Shaerdanians have finally hit their tolerance limit?

Disdain for Malam’s prejudices spurs another round of murmurs from the Shaerdanian guards. Someone brings up the Purge. Another claims Channeler treatment hasn’t changed much in spite of the abolishment of the Purge.

“Hate never listens to new laws,” says one of the Plovians.

“Those Malamians cornered the woman at the well. She’s alive only ’cause a kinsman jumped in,” a guard near me shouts. “Shaerdanians take care of their own.”

True, the people of Shaerdan look out for Channelers. Whereas, in Malam, they were hunted for nearly two decades.

“Course they do. But let’s not overlook that it was Leif O’Floinn from Malam who risked his life to help the Channeler woman.” This comes from an older man. He looks as though he’s skinned a bear and is proudly displaying the spoils on his face.

Before sneaking into the summer castle, I read Da’s notes on who would be traveling in Aodren’s retinue. The grizzly bearded man is Benjamin Bromier, the Lord of Segrande.

“Maybe he jumped in to take down the Channeler,” a guard argues.

Lord Segrande’s casual demeanor is gone in a flash. “Watch it, boy. That’s the captain of Malam’s royal guard you’re talking about. He’s a supporter of the Channelers, as is the rest of Malam. He’s known as the Channeler Defender.”

“Leif might be a supporter of Channelers, but he’s not like other Malamians.” The Shaerdanian guard’s argument is ballsy, considering Lord Segrande looks primed to tear him apart.

The only person in this room who actually saw the start of the incident is me.

It’s true, men with Malamian accents were suspicious of the Channeler woman’s water play. Their actions were unsavory, but they didn’t corner a woman who was alone. She was joined by other Shaerdanians before things spiraled. It was the Malamians who were outnumbered and a Shaerdanian man who threw the first punch. I consider clarifying, though I’m not sure it’ll matter.

“They’re hurting our women.”

“Bunch of feebs.”

“Watch it.” Lord Segrande’s threat thunders over the crowd as he searches for the speakers.

I cringe. The guard’s slur for giftless people isn’t fit for a royal audience. The phrase might be intended for the Malamians, but at best, it’s a tasteless smear spoken by a moron, because the cut includes himself. Men do not have Channeler abilities.

“Their people should’ve never been allowed near the tournament or market.”

Someone chuckles darkly. “You know they won’t come to the Channeler Jubilee.”

“String the bludgers up.”

“Enough!” King Gorenza’s shout conquers the others. The stocky man, a couple decades older than me, with shoulders wider than a door, is nothing if not imposing. “This insolence would never happen in my country. Gather all involved,” he commands the guards. “Return immediately to the fountain and track everyone down.”

Everyone?

Surely, he doesn’t mean me. I had nothing to do with the fight.

My neck crawls. I’m in a crowd of guards who have just been ordered to capture me. Better get scarce. I move to the perimeter of the room. The shadows near the corridor where Leif was taken provide decent concealment. Everything in me calls me down the hall to Leif, to see how my cousin is faring. But I know his room will be surrounded by guards.

“This is not your kingdom to command, Gorenza.” The soft rebuke comes from a man standing just inside the pillars. He’s a walking artifact in red robes. Compared to Lord Segrande and King Gorenza, the man is ancient. White-peppered brows sit above eyes that might’ve been black once, but now are the color of morning mist against a canvas of brown, papery skin.

“I demand order.” King Gorenza’s voice grinds like a millstone. “Ku Toa should too, Fa Olema.”

The second man, Olema, hums a brief, noncommittal tune.

“I wasn’t aware that Kolontia had developed a liking for Channelers,” says Queen Isadora.

King Gorenza eyes her. “My concern is for safety during the summit,” he says coolly.

“Of course. But, might I ask, whose safety?”

“All of ours.”

I don’t want to leave Leif, but I cannot stay here and allow them to catch me. How can I get out of here without someone noticing me? My cap flew off at the fountain. Most of the pins have popped out of my hair. Aside from a few pieces trapped on top of my head, the rest hangs around my shoulders in tangles. Dirt covers the stable hand clothing, and two tears, darkened with dried blood, show my injured knees. I may as well be a princess walking into a tavern.

I take the first few steps toward the door and then pause. What if Leif doesn’t make it through the night? Seeds. The thought sinks a dagger into my heart. Chief Judge Auberdeen and King Aodren are with the healer, seeing to Leif. They’ll be heavily guarded and impossible to sneak past.

I could wait in King Aodren’s room for word. Then I won’t be far from Leif. And while the king is at Leif’s side, I could busy myself by searching for Da’s letter. The idea is tempting because it’ll let me be here for Leif. But with all the guards around, I might get caught. Also, considering His Majesty’s earlier refusal, I know if he catches me trying to steal the letter, he won’t be a font of information about Leif or my da. Better to leave and return tomorrow when the furor surrounding the fight has died down.

Leif will survive. He’ll be fine. The healer here at the summer castle is one of the best. She’ll keep him alive.

I sneak around the pillars and slip out the door.

I’ve barely made it into the courtyard when a man peels out of the shadows, flanked by two guards. “Lirra Barrett, stop right there.”

“Judge Soma.” I jolt.

The frown he wears sharpens his nose and cheekbones into blades made colorless by the moonlight. A chill slips over me, lifting the fine hairs on my arms.

Da has one hard-and-fast rule when it comes to business. Don’t get involved with anyone or anything too big. Our business deals aren’t connected to or part of anything that would bring about government- or kingdom-wide consequences. For this reason, we do not interact with members of the chief judge’s counsel. However, Judge Soma used to be a kinsman intent on building a name in shipping. Before he worked his way into the ruling authority, he had transactions with Da.

“Hullo, Judge.” My best cheery smile lifts my cheeks. Hopefully it’ll detract from my odd dress.

“Where are you going?” His commanding stance, coupled with the way his nose sniffs the sky when he speaks, is nobility born, nothing like his common upbringing.

“Home,” I say as if I’m not uneasy. “It’s late, and I’ve chores in the morning. No doubt you’ll have a long day of summit meetings tomorrow.”

His expression warms a tad. “That I do.”

“Well, I must go before my stepmother worries. Good night, sir.” I start to curtsy, remembering a second too late my lack of skirts. The result is an awkward bob.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot let you leave.” Judge Soma motions to the guards.

I lunge in the direction of the gates, but the guards move quickly. Their hands seize my arms, digging into my skin when I try to twist away.

They force me to turn toward the keep. Images of being trapped in the castle’s prison flash through my mind. The thought sucks the air away. I slump so I’m dead weight and suck in enough breath to bellow at them to release me.

“Let me go!”

Their ears are garbage. My shouts don’t work. I yank to free myself, and the man on my left sinks his fingers into my shoulder, immobilizing me with pain.

“That’ll do, Lirra.” Judge Soma’s boots click on the cobblestones. His fingers shoot out and take my chin like an angry parent might force their child’s attention. With the moon and castle lanterns behind him, he’s cast in shadow. His brown hair is an inkblot attached to a stick figure. Fury kindles in my belly. I squirm and consider biting him. He has no right to handle me.

I want to sink my teeth into his hand, but I resist the temptation. He has two guards helping him. Three against one aren’t good odds. Best I’d get is blood in my mouth and a backhand to the face.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, but his grip on my chin is too tight, so it comes out as “Waddyawanfrome?”

Judge Soma releases his hold and smooths the sleeves of his shirt over each wrist, then runs his hands down his velvet vest. “I saw you in the castle entry. You heard the Kolontian king. You were involved this evening. Until it’s sorted out, you will be detained.”

Vines made of ice twist around my lungs. “But I had nothing to do with it!”

“You were seen at the fountain.”

“I was helping two boys. They were caught. If I hadn’t run in, they might’ve been seriously hurt.”

His gaze shifts to my knees and then to the dirt on my tunic and trousers. Does he think I was fighting too?

“I didn’t hit anyone, I promise. Look at my hands.”

The guards’ grip on my arms doesn’t loosen, so at best all I can do is wiggle my fingers.

Judge Soma shakes his head. “The command has been given. By a king, no less. I’m sorry, Lirra. I have to follow orders, and you were there.”

Inside the lower levels of the keep, beneath the kitchen and far below the armory, there is a room with no windows, barely breathable air, and temperatures that make me think they’ve imported the gray sky from Kolontia. Bars separate a dozen cells in this cave, touched by the flickering light of a single lantern.

This is where they take me, tossing me in one of the cells without a second look. The lock clicks as it latches, and the guards walk away. The second they’re out of sight, my heart turns frantic and tries to punch free of my chest.

I can handle darkness. I can manage the cold. But the cells are tight, barely room to lie down. The bars are closing in on me, and I can’t breathe. The feeling of suffocating has me leaping off the bench and tugging at the bars.

“They’ll be back soon,” a woman says, and I stumble over her legs. Moving a step to my left allows the solitary lantern’s light to fill the tight space in our cell. The woman who spoke is the Channeler from the fountain. Discomfort has dammed my throat, so I nod and turn to pace the few pitiful steps that the cell will allow.

Across a walkway, in the cells opposite mine, I spy the shapes of several men. One lies on the bench; another takes the floor. A few sit along the back wall, deep enough in the darkness to prevent me from being able to see them well. I keep staring, though, because eventually my eyes will adjust.

Even here, Da’s training kicks in. I’m looking for details, searching the scene for information that might come in handy someday in the future. After a minute or so, I can make out the two kinsmen who came to the fountain.

“Baz,” I whisper. “Is that you?”

His head jerks up so more of the yellowish lantern light shines on his rakish features. The uneven cast adds a kink to his already-crooked nose. It’d be ugly on some men, but it’s charming on him.

“Of all the places to run into you, Lirra.” I think a smile lifts his cheeks.

His jest eases some of my anxiety. I tell myself to be grateful that I’m trapped with Baz, someone I know, because it makes the confinement almost bearable. At the very least, it helps me to stop focusing on the crush of the bars.

“They’re bringing in everyone involved in the fight,” I say.

His brows stretch upward, and his mouth pops open. In the shadows, he could be mistaken for a ghoul. “You were out there too?”

“I wasn’t throwing punches, but yes.”

He rubs his forehead. “How did I not notice you?”

I’m wondering that too. Anytime I get within a stone’s throw of the docks, Baz appears at my side, slinging out ridiculously flirtatious comments and trying to convince me to go dancing with him. I’ve declined his offer at least a dozen times, knowing he chases a dozen other girls. His persistence was flattering, then it was annoying. Now it’s incriminating. I’m not so full of myself to think I turn every man’s head, but Baz always seems to know when I’m around.

“I’m not surprised. You were so . . . angry. Beyond angry,” I say, straight to the point. “It didn’t seem like you.”

He scrubs his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Brawls are rare on the docks, but the few times one has broken out, Baz was never involved. He’s not the violent type. “Baz. You broke a man’s face. With your knee.”

He murmurs something to the fellow beside him. It’s too quiet to distinguish, but the man sits up straighter. They share another whisper, and then both Baz and his friend face me, attention unwavering and taut with agitation. His change in demeanor confuses me.

Earlier, I thought their rage was spurred by other events that might’ve happened before they entered the fray. Now I’m left to wonder . . .

“I haven’t seen that side of you, is all.” I conclude with a shrug, as if their reaction isn’t suspect.

Our conversation has garnered interest from the adjacent cell of Malamians. From what I can see in the dim light, the foreigners’ faces are mottled and bloody. One man’s profile is disfigured from swelling. He’s the one whose face Baz broke.

That’s when I realize Baz and his friend are barely bruised. In comparison to the foreigners, they’re practically as fresh and flawless as spring daisies. There’s something very wrong here. Who knew Baz was such a skilled fighter?

“Baz.” I consider my words, looking for the right ones to go digging for whatever he’s hiding without putting the two men even more on edge. “Is everything all right?”

“Keep yer nose outta his business,” says Baz’s friend.

All right. So I’m not a master at this yet. They’re hiding something, and not the too embarrassing to share kind of something. From Baz’s hunch and the other man’s threatening posture, it’s a secret they’ll fight to keep. Probably more dangerous than anything I should scout, but I’m too angry to tuck the blunt side of my personality into hiding.

Squaring my stance, I meet the other man’s hard stare. “You made it everyone’s business when you started a fight in a public square. It could’ve been settled with words. People could’ve walked away. Not everyone did. And now we’re all stuck down here. I want to know why.”