Chapter 29 #2
Iyre steps forward, her red fey sparking at her palms. She weaves her fingers in the air, and a half dozen figures suddenly rise from the sand. Sitting upright in strange, jerky movements.
I gasp, tightening my thighs around Tòrr. “What trickery is this?”
Basten is silent at my side, on alert. He quietly feels for the hunting knife sheathed in the hidden holster at his side.
Garbled cries of surprise ring out from the crowd. The figures—people, though I’m hesitant to call them that—stand up and move jerkily toward the wooden set. Iyre twists her fingers again, and ropes fall from the upper portion of the set.
The figures slide their hands and feet into loops at the end of each rope.
Basten hisses at my side. “Those figures reek of rot—they’re fucking dead bodies.”
Tòrr stomps his feet beneath me, dancing nervously, as unnerved as I am.
“That’s impossible,” I say.
Basten throws an angry look toward the Immortal Box. “Not if Woudix is behind it.”
My throat tightens. “He wouldn’t do this.”
“Who else can unearth the buried dead and make them walk?” Basten snaps back, though his anger isn’t aimed at me.
“There are…godkissed Deathraisers,” I stutter, but even my own logic begins to fall apart at the seams. Deathraisers can bring back the dead, yes—but they can’t pilot them like puppets.
The crowd catches on that the figures are dead bodies, and someone suddenly calls out, “It’s them! The Cold Coins!”
I whip my head around, squinting into the gloaming light at the walking cadavers. Sure enough—there’s no mistaking the deep gash in Gaez’s skull where Rian buried an axe. I spy the generals named Boone and Mallik, too.
The crowd’s mood shifts, uncertain and bordering unease.
Artain lifts his hands higher, quick to reassure everyone. “Mortals, this is for you! Do not fear, there is no danger! If you liked our first show of vengeance, when we slaughtered General Gaez, who had so wronged you, you’ll love this. Behold, what happens to your enemies!”
Iyre moves her hands more, and the cadavers of all the fallen Cold Coins—Boone, Mallik, Gaez, and their other commanders—begin to dance a grotesque show.
It’s a puppet show, I realize. With the dead.
I lift a shaking hand to my brow, trying to quell my panic and disgust. “Was Rian behind this supposed miracle, too?”
Basten immediately shakes his head. “He’s not dumb enough for this. Rian understands what the public wants. When it wants vengeance, when it wants entertainment. Safety. This is a drunk couple of asshole fae who are about to ruin everything we’ve achieved today.”
I narrow my eyes, glaring at Artain in the Immortal Box, and murmur, “Not if I can help it.”
I spur on Tòrr, who leaps forward. We head straight for the lower rung of seating in the stadium. There’s a fifteen-foot wall around the arena, too high even for Tòrr to clear, but I steer him toward a tall wooden crate painted to look like a barn.
He leaps onto the crate, then bounds into the stands.
The public scrambles out of our way, already jittery and restless from Artain’s twisted human puppet show.
Tòrr and I stampede up the steps as people dart out of our way, straight to the Immortal Box. Tòrr tears through the space with wild abandon, gleefully stamping on broken champagne flutes and china plates as his massive rump knocks over the tables of offerings.
I dismount swiftly and barrel toward the announcer’s balcony, grabbing my father’s cape.
“Father—you have to stop this!” I throw out a hand toward Artain’s puppet show. “It’s going to ruin everything!”
“I never agreed to this,” Vale snarls, his anger aimed at Artain and Iyre, not me. “These idiots decided to put on a show behind my back.”
“What’s the problem?” Artain sputters with a hiccup, as though it’s all just a lark. “These naive sheep swallowed the first lie without choking—that we supposedly avenged them, hunted down their great tormentor. Why not feed them another?”
“Because there’s a difference between vengeance and brutality!” I yell. I spin on Woudix, my breath catching. “And you? Are you a part of this, too?”
He shakes his head, slow and calm. “A Deathraiser—it had to be. It was not me.”
“You asses!” Vale roars.
An argument erupts between the fae, while Samaur and Thracia drunkenly make out at the other side of the box, oblivious to anything but their own wanton lust.
Was I wrong about the fae? To think they wouldn’t mess everything up?
“Listen closely.” Rian suddenly appears at my side, and for once, he doesn’t seem as drunk as the others.
“This was a bone-headed move by Artain, but even shit can be made to look like gold with enough paint. Get every fiddler in this city into the streets. Pay heralds to retell the day’s successes at all hours—the Aron and Aria performance, the goldenclaw rides.
Open the royal meadery. Pass around enough gratis booze that even the children are too sloshed to remember this last part of the evening.
Or care. They’ll only talk about the good parts. ”
I pause, working my gloves between my fingers.
Vale looks at me. “Daughter, what say you to this plan?”
I meet Rian’s eyes, then nod.
Vale snaps into action. With a flick of his hand, guards scatter, and within seconds, the spotlights shining on the grotesque puppet stage vanish.
In their place, the dancers from earlier, hastily dressed in their Aron and Aria costumes, flit back onto the stage, cheeks dotted with painted hearts, smiles a little too wide.
The trumpets strike up a sprightly tune, cheerful and false.
“Sabine—” Basten’s voice cuts through the din as he bursts up the stairs to the Immortal Box, finally catching up to me.
He stops beside me, breathless, eyes sweeping the arena.
Servants are already rolling barrels of ale into the stands, passing tin cups to cheering patrons like nothing ever happened.
But Basten’s gaze snaps to Artain, and I feel his body stiffen.
Artain is laughing—head tilted back, murmuring something into Iyre’s ear. Whatever it is makes her smile like none of this matters.
I rest a hand on Basten’s arm. “It’s okay,” I murmur, swallowing back a dry lump. “Disaster averted—thanks to Rian’s quick thinking.”
But even as the words leave my lips, they taste wrong.
Like I missed something.
Something…slippery.
Something that can’t be stopped now, even if I wanted to.