Chapter
20

Lirra

WE’RE SITTING IN ORLI’S BEDROOM.

When Orli was kidnapped, her mum painted all the furniture in this room the color of clouds on a perfect summer day. Even the linens were replaced to brighten the room and fill her family with hope. It’s beautiful, pristine, and sterile.

“I won’t let anything lead back to you,” I tell Orli, who will be playing the role of my coachman tonight.

I cannot see her responding expression. The afternoon light, pouring through the curtains, causes too much of a glare. In the driver’s costume, she’s a smudge of maroon against the colorless background.

“You’ve already said that, and I believe you.” She steps away from the window and plucks the carriage driver’s cap off the bed. Dust tumbles off, a hazard of taking things from Da’s cellar, and a light coating falls to her bed linens.

I start to conjure a small wind to blow it clean, and then remember where I am.

“Smack it out,” I tell her. “I didn’t realize it was so dirty.”

“You’re worrying over nothing. No one will notice that tonight.” She twists the cap in her hands, around and around again. “It’s fine.”

“You’re sure you’re not nervous?”

“Maybe a little.” She studies the hat in her hands. “But aren’t you? Isn’t King Aodren? With crowds from every kingdom, it’s only natural to feel some nerves.”

I peer into the oval mirror over the dresser, and pin a curl to my head. “He’s quite impressive with a sword. Mesmerizing even,” I say, unable to hide my wonder. “He doesn’t seem to be nervous when he fights, but that’s because he’s so focused.”

She moves to stand behind me so I can see her reflection in the mirror. Her skin is a shade darker than mine, though her eyes are two shades lighter. Orli is beautiful.

Until she shoots me an annoying, all-knowing expression. “He seems to have your thoughts completely arrested.”

I frown. “That’s not true.”

“Oh? You haven’t brought up your glider once since arriving an hour ago.”

I haven’t? I think back over our conversation, and it’s all been about Aodren. “Well, that’s because I’m almost done.”

Her lips purse to the side. “Weren’t you almost done three days ago?”

“Aye, but then I was imprisoned and all that.”

She laughs. Smug Orli.

I shove another hairpin in my hair. “Look, I only brought him up because I didn’t want you to feel pressured. I can make other arrangements.”

She snags a pin off the dresser and pushes it into a spot on the back of my head. “Really? You have another plan in mind?”

“No. But—”

“You’re ridiculous.” In the reflection, Orli gestures to her outfit, a horseman’s coat, tailored trousers, boots, a cap, and, poking from my satchel beside her bed, a dust cover for her face. “No one is going to recognize me. I’ll be hidden in plain sight.”

“Tie on the dust cover, at least. Make sure it fits with the cap,” I tell her, and when she complies, I turn around to face her, my head tipped to the side, scrutinizing the scene. The curls from the unpinned side of my head sweep over my shoulder.

Dressed from head to toe in a driver’s outfit, complete with a dust cover for her mouth, the only part of Orli that can be viewed is the slash of deep skin around black lashes and pale-blue eyes.

“You’re right. I don’t recognize you, and I brought the outfit.”

She grins. Like me, she understands that it’s often easier to face a crowd when pretending to be someone else.

I finish pinning my hair into the perfect coiffure befitting a noblewoman. After I step into the sapphire dress with a wide-spread skirt and gold fastenings, Orli helps me cinch the ties. With each tug, the size of my waist, in relation to other curves, seems to shrink.

This gown is my least favorite disguise because it lacks utility. Unlike my other dresses, stitched with a dozen clever pockets intended to hide things, this gown was made to enhance “certain womanly features,” as Eugenia would say. In it, I feel stripped down and bare. Once belonging to my mother, this gown is a fanciful reminder of what life might’ve been if the Purge had never happened, if she hadn’t been killed, if Da hadn’t fled Malam to save me, leaving his noble title and land behind.

I do not miss the life I never knew, especially if it meant wearing dresses like this every day. I wish my fleeting curiosity about that life would end. It makes the one I’m happily living now feel like a lie.

“You’re sure about the crowds?” While Orli has been out in public loads of times, she hasn’t been to an event that has brought together people from all five kingdoms. I fear seeing all the Malamian maroon will trigger her memories of the past. But I don’t say this.

She rolls her eyes. “Stop acting as if I haven’t been around people before. Stop treating me like my mum does.”

“I just want you to be comfortable.”

She sweeps her arms around at the bright white room. “And do you really think this is where I’m comfortable? I’ll find my place. For now, I’m going with you where I can be of help.”

Truth is, I don’t need her help. Aodren does.

Asking this of her, and knowing that her last association with him was in Malam, riddles me with guilt. But she’s taken the mention of him in stride. Perhaps she’s right. I need to stop worrying about her so much.

When we’re finished readying our appearances for the evening, we load up in my father’s carriage.

Aodren mentioned that he wanted to sneak into the tournament, for fear that if he were to show up in all his royal glory, he’d be besieged by spectators. A reasonable fear considering he’s received a lukewarm, if not chilling, reception from the other kingdoms. He has many enemies. And to avoid embarrassing the guards again, he’s going to exit the castle as himself, riding with his dignitaries, who will then deposit him at my chosen location.

Orli drives the carriage to a tree-lined back road that runs south of the cathedral on the cliff. To the northeast, rolling fields crawl away from the ocean and the cliff, and stretch out to meet the summer castle. Going farther east, the hills flatten to make way for the tournament field. But here, where the stretch of forest marches past the church to tumble down the cliffside, we won’t be noticed.

A scant league to the northwest, the sun sets behind the cathedral’s spires, its rays wrapping the towers like a mammoth gilded crown. Appropriate, since we’re waiting on a king.

It isn’t long before a plume of dust lifts from the gravel road, announcing his arrival. In contrast to the approaching carriage’s royal seal and shiny maroon paint, the carriage in which I wait is dull gray, lacking all adornments. Da, who prizes invisibility and anonymity above all else, had it specifically designed to be nondescript.

The royal ride slows to a stop a dozen paces away. The horses paw the gravel, huffing out their annoyance at having been stopped. The door swings open to a view of a midnight-blue tufted-velvet coach. Lord Segrande, Leif, and Aodren exit. Baltroit stays behind.

I’m thrilled to see more color has returned to Leif since two nights ago. He’s recovering fast.

I wrap a silk lady’s veil over part of my hair and around the lower half of my face so only my eyes are visible. With my skirts bundled in my arms, I step out into the dewy evening.

“Milord.” My fingers trill a dainty wave. In my best Malamian lilt, I say, “Might I have an audience with you?”

Aodren stops midstep and frowns in my direction, an adorable line creasing his forehead. “Lirra?”

I lower the veil of hair, and recognition dawns on Leif’s face. But it is Aodren who takes long strides to cut the distance between us.

He yanks off his glove and seizes my hand. This wasn’t part of the ruse I envisioned.

Even so, the contact of his skin sends a zing of excitement through me as he draws my fingers upward. The end-of-day stubble on his chin scrapes the top of my hand. I laugh awkwardly, and start to pull away from this silly charade. But then his warm, intoxicating breath whispers against my skin. The barest press of his mouth follows, and I’m done. Thoughts vanquished. Done.

“A fine carriage, my lady.” He withdraws and takes in the rig. He looks to Orli, where she’s seated on the driver’s bench. The budding thrill I feel must be for her tonight. It will be good for her to see some of the tournament. It’s certainly not because Aodren just kissed my hand.

“Complete with a coachman?” Aodren says.

“A friend. Orli.” I manage to wrangle two thoughts together.

“Hullo, Your Highness,” whispers Orli. She bends into an awkward bow from where she’s perched.

“It’s a pleasure. Thank you for your help this evening.”

And with that, the timid expression slides off her face. She beams at him. Aodren’s kind words are so at odds with the man I thought he was a week ago.

Lord Segrande calls out across the distance, “All well?”

Aodren gives them a sign and waves them away. Leif shouts his approval for my appearance, which makes me blush, and then they’re off.

I sweep out my arm, gesturing to the open carriage door. “If you wouldn’t mind, Your Highness.”

“Please, a lovely lady must always enter first.”

Right. Ladies first.

Because he is himself, Aodren takes my hand to assist me into the carriage. For my part, I pretend his touch does not send thrills through me. My ridiculously rioting heart and I swoop into the carriage.

We roll up to the champions’ tent, and as expected, crowds press around the royal carriages. People chant the names of their favored competitors. No one pays attention to the gray carriage that parks around the side of the tent.

Nearby, a cheer rends the air. I exit and see some people cheering for Baltroit. Some booing.

While attention is diverted, Aodren steps out, expresses a quick thank-you, and escapes into the safety of the tent.

Orli’s gaze homes in on the amassing crowd. All around us, sounds of the tournament swell. Lanterns gleam, lighting the way to the field. It’s a cacophony of talk and laughter, shouts and applause. She sits stiller than death, her focus on the floating Channeler lights that help illuminate the field.

“Orli, are you all right?”

She doesn’t blink as she nods.

“Take the rig home,” I insist. “I’ll get back on my own.”

Her hands tighten on the reins, the deep tone of her skin taking on a gray hue. “I’ll wait.”

I know she wanted to see Aodren fight, but it’s obvious she’s overwhelmed. The post-melee celebration will be worse if it’s anything like years past, when it was more confrontation than actual celebration. It’s not uncommon for heated debates to escalate into brawls. And if some of those people have taken the imposter Sanguine . . . Orli cannot wait here.

“I think I made a mistake by pushing you to come,” I admit. “You should drive back.”

“You didn’t push me,” she says, her spark returning. “Sorry, I was caught off-guard by the lights. I’m fine now. I’ll watch from up here, and after King Aodren fights, I’ll head to the cathedral.”

I bite back a groan. I know she’s capable of making her own decisions, but I can’t help the urge to protect her. “Yes, good plan.”

We part ways. Near the elevated platform where a few of Shaerdan’s judges have gathered with their families, I spy a familiar face, a tall sailor friend of Baz’s. He stands a head above most people around him. Would he know something about the oil?

Keeping the veil over my cheeks and mouth, I wiggle through the growing crowd, until I secure a spot directly behind him. Then I wait. The best crumbs are gathered by the patient mouse.

Melee-goers fill the extra spaces around us, until we’re all fish in a barrel. Baz’s sailor friend peers over his shoulder. My dress has grazed the backs of his legs. I pretend I need to get by, which he allows. I climb up the steps of the platform and move to the edge to keep him in my sight. The height gives me a view that I hadn’t seen before.

Another fellow moves in so I can no longer see the tall man; however, they appear to be talking. Do they know each other? The second fellow is wearing a pouch in front of his left hip. The lid sticking out of the pouch looks connected to a bottle. Sanguine?

When the second man abandons the sailor, I follow.

The man weaves through the crowd and leaves the tournament field. He passes the area where lines of tents have been set up in preparation for the Kingdoms’ Market that begins directly after the tournament and will go until the end of the summit. Market traders from near and far have come to sell wares. If my search tonight turns over nothing new, the Kingdoms’ Market will surely provide answers. All the prominent traders will be gathered together. One of Da’s men, Duff Baron, will have a booth. He or his stepdaughter, Prudence, might know something about Sanguine. Prudence is a friend and just as involved in her stepfather’s business as I am in Da’s.

The man makes his way toward the competitors’ tent. Lingering by a cart, I keep myself in the shadows.

The back flap of the tent moves. Someone from inside is conversing with the man. I’m not close enough to see who it is, but then the person inside the tent reaches out into the incriminating moonlight and takes an offered bottle.

It’s Otto, Shaerdan’s champion. I overheard him the first night of melee.

He uncaps the bottle and tips it to his lips. Alarm blasts through me. My mind jumps to Leif with a dagger protruding from his chest.

I wait for the man to leave and then I sneak around the back side of the tent. I have to let Aodren know.

A crowd rushing by the tent slows my path. Then the guard refuses to let me past, forcing me to go the other direction. When I finally reach the opening, a healer stands as gatekeeper for anyone going in and out.

“Please, may I speak with King Aodren?” I say as polite and patient as an anxiety-ridden girl can be.

“I’m sorry.” The woman glances past my shoulder and then with confusion says, “He’s already gone.”

At my back, the crowd bellows to life. Chants fill the tournament arena. It’s a war cry. Feet stomp, shaking the ground. Drums beat. Trumpets rend the night.

The competitors have already taken the field. The melee has started.

No, it cannot be too late.

I haul my skirts up and run toward the field, unsure what can be done now, but knowing there must be a way to warn Aodren. If it weren’t for the wide reach of my skirts, maneuvering through the crush would be easier. I’m a chorus of “pardon me, excuse me, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

The crowd is impassable.

Too many have gathered shoulder to shoulder, hungry, wide-eyed carrion birds, gleeful at the possibility of carnage. I duck under a raised arm, slip around a father holding his boy atop his shoulders. Shouting, jeering, laughing, loud faces blind me to what’s happening on the field. The distance between me and Malam’s platform might as well be leagues for how impossible it is to maneuver around everyone.

The crowd releases a collective “Ooooohhh,” followed by gasps and cringes.

Anxious, I push forward and wade more aggressively through the sea of people.

Part of the field comes into view. An Akarian warrior fights the fierce Kolontian, Hemmet. Both of the champions from Plovia have already fallen. Aodren and Baltroit and the Shaerdanians aren’t visible. Too many people taller than me block my view. I need to get past them to see the entire field.

A man’s hand hooks my elbow and tugs me back. His gaze dips to the scooped neckline of my dress. “I could use some pretty company.”

I slam my heel into his instep. “That kind?”

The bloody arse hops back, spitting out slurs and curses, which, if I were truly a noble kinswoman, would make me faint from shock. People around us yell for him to be quiet. His disruption frees up enough room for me to wedge past another couple of men.

And then the field comes into view.

Baltroit’s poleax clashes with the same weapon held by Folger Falk from Shaerdan. In a quick sweep, Baltroit crashes a blunted ax against Folger’s helmet. The second man spins. He swings to block. No bursts of energy or fueling rage come from Folger. In fact, he’s barely managing to keep up with Baltroit’s powerful blows. Folger must not have taken the oil like his co-competitor, Otto.

Their attack and retreat move them down the field, opening a clear line of sight to Aodren. Thank the gods, he isn’t one of the fallen. His sword meets the blade of an Akarian warrior. He is masterful. Around me the crowd gasps and claps as Aodren seizes control. He advances. His strike drives the warrior back.

A ruckus of cheers echoes through the crowd. I glance around, first seeing the many lanterns like gold splotches of light against the dark sky. Then, nearby, the faces of spectators. They cheer and clap for Aodren, giving support to the unexpected competitor. Pride bubbles in my chest.

Aodren’s blade swings down, striking the warrior. She falls, knocked unconscious. And when she doesn’t stand after a few seconds, the crowd roars, their chants counting out the seconds until time is up. She has been disqualified.

Aodren reaches out, extending a hand to help her up, and tips his head. The move honors her and at the same time shows a chivalrous side that speaks of his regal upbringing. People applaud her as she rushes off the field, while all the ladies gathered around the tournament field let out a collective sigh. Silly hens.

I realize I’m smiling in a smug sort of way. Knowing Aodren makes me feel like I have pieces of him that no one else has. A ridiculous notion, but still, one that flutters inside.

The melee grinds on. Baltroit slams Folger down. The vicious hit lands so hard, it echoes across the field. Folger doesn’t get back up.

Otto beats one of the Kolontians.

One by one, the champions fall out of the running.

Some are too injured to continue. Some are unconscious.

Baltroit has positioned himself closer to Hemmet, the Kolontian favored to win, and the remaining Akarian. Everyone senses what’s about to happen, because the noise dims a second before Baltroit thrusts his poleax at the woman warrior. She’s too busy defending herself from Hemmet’s flail to block Baltroit’s incoming attack.

The hit sends her to her knees.

But since she’s not completely down, Hemmet or Baltroit can land another strike and earn another point.

Hisses and boos fill the air.

Hemmet doesn’t swing his flail at the Akarian, though. He aims the metal ball at Baltroit’s helmet. The thunk of impact echoes across the field. The Malamian champion crumples.

Aodren rushes to his co-competitor’s side as applause crackles through the spectators and a chorus of unified voices chant the ten-second countdown. Baltroit is eliminated.

The Akarian warrior lurches to unsteady feet. But she lifts her blade, pointing it toward Hemmet, in a show of determination. It draws cheers from the crowd.

Nobody seems to notice Otto charging toward the other three competitors. Not Hemmet and the warrior woman, who have both taken fighting positions. Not Aodren, who has been checking on his co-competitor.

No one sees Otto until he’s paces away from the action, sword raised. I cringe in that final split second, anticipating how Otto’s strike will land. First, he’ll eliminate the closest and most injured of the three, the Akarian.

But he shocks us all, leaping past her to slam his blade down on Aodren’s right shoulder. The lead arm.

A cry breaks from Aodren’s mouth, the sound of his pain tears across the field. His blade tumbles to the ground. His body spasms. And then it’s as if my Channeler ability has influence over time and not wind. Everything slows down.

Hemmet steps away from the warrior woman. He swings. The ball of his flail arcs through the air, and crashes into Aodren’s helmet.

The king of Malam falls.

I feel the impact, in my head, in my chest, in my heart. Get up, I urge him. But he does not move.

Ten . . . The crowd’s count reverberates in my skull.

Nine . . . Aodren lies partially on his side and stomach, so still. Deathly still.

Eight . . . Otto spins to Hemmet, slicing the Kolontian man at the neck.

Seven . . . Hemmet stumbles.

Six . . . Otto strikes again, and Hemmet falls.

Five . . . The Akarian warrior lifts her sword and turns to Aodren.

I cannot look anymore.