Chapter 39 #2
Our bodies collide, and a woman in a cloak blinks into my view as she heaves herself to the side to avoid toppling off the platform. I clutch her tunic, forcing her to haul me with her.
She curses and lashes out with a blade of her own. I manage to jerk my head out of the way and wrench my hand up to try to force her surrender with my knife at her throat.
At the last second, she squirms partly out from under me. As I lunge after her, she swipes out with her knife again. Her boot slams into my gut when I dodge.
I reel backward, and a chorus of gasps rises up from the audience. When I glance around, most of the onlookers are staring at me rather than the trial.
My hand darts to my neck and finds nothing. The attacker must have snapped the chain holding my charm with one of those slashes I dodged.
She’s still invisible, but the hum of the magic wafts off her. There’s no time to worry about my exposure. I throw myself in the direction she’s scrambling.
I collide with her hard enough to knock a grunt from her lungs. We tumble over again, my elbow jarring against the platform floor.
A cry rings out behind me. I yank my head around just in time to see a blaze of magic hurtling straight toward me—and Sulla sprinting out across the stage.
She flings herself right in front of the searing projectile with a burst of her own magic. I don’t know why she didn’t try to deflect it from farther away—maybe she didn’t trust her focus when she’s never used her magic in combat or on this scale before.
The blaze rams into her. Her body crumples, spasming as it hits the floor.
A cry of my own lodges in my throat. But I can’t run over to help her, because the would-be assassin is flailing at me like a wild cat.
I’m too distracted, and my opponent’s dagger catches me across the jaw. A stinging line opens up in my flesh.
I shove her backward, driving her between two of the towers.
I have to get her away from Petra. Away from view. Stop this assault from becoming a total disaster.
The woman is clearly skilled in combat, but she didn’t get the training I did on the streets. I dodge her next kick and dive in low, knocking her off her feet again. Rolling to the side, I jab my elbow into her nose.
My magic writhes alongside my limbs, rattling against my hold. I just need to subdue her—the guards will want to question her—if she can reveal that she isn’t acting alone, we’ll have proof to call for Lothar’s arrest…
An urgent yell blares from the back of the platform. In the second I glance up, the woman seizes the opening. She stabs her blade straight at my neck.
My body reacts on instinct. I flinch, and my hand is already swinging.
Driving my own blade into her heart.
Her body sags, her knife only nicking my throat. Bitterness taints the relief that sweeps through me, but I don’t have time to think about that.
Because the next thing I hear is Stavros’s voice, taut and angry. “Ivy, we need you here.”
When I step away from the body, the woman I just killed fades before my eyes. Whatever magic she had on her, it must require some kind of trigger to remove it.
The only evidence of her existence right now is the blood slowly staining the floorboards as it seeps far enough away from her slumped form.
I look up and realize several guards and a few daimon have gathered nearby, all of them braced and ready to leap in.
“She had a dagger—she was heading for Petra,” I say quickly. “I stopped her.”
Stavros’s voice carries from farther back, in the shadows of the arching obstacle course. “Good. Now we need to deal with this traitor.”
As I push myself forward, Casimir’s soothing tones reach my ears from the front of the stage. He’s speaking to the audience. “Our guards are dealing with the security problem. We’ll ensure any threat to the candidates is subdued.”
I have no idea how my sudden appearance and the confusing fight the onlookers witnessed has affected the trial, but that can’t even be my second priority right now. As I hurry over, I’m already saying, “Sulla was hit by some kind of magic. She looked badly hurt. We’ll need a healer—”
One of the guards interjects. “A couple of Elox dedicats have already gone over to see if there’s anything they can do for her.”
His tone doesn’t give me any clue as to whether she was still even alive. I swallow thickly and then stall in my tracks at the sight of the man at the other end of Stavros’s sword.
The former general has Lothar partly cornered against the underside of the arch. Three armed men form a semi-circle behind the leader of the Order, but they’re on our side, their own weapons braced to come to bear if he makes a sudden move. A few more of our soldiers flank Stavros.
Everyone’s expressions are stony, but none so much as Stavros’s. “Take the magic off the attacker we all know you sent,” he snarls. “Let’s see what we find.”
Lothar glares back at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were sneaking around back here for some vile purpose. It’s obviously all connected.”
The former advisor doesn’t stir. He’s got an excellent bluffing face, I’ll give him that.
I guess he’d have to for him to have fooled King Konram and the king before him all those years.
Footsteps creak across the platform. Tinom joins us with a sigh. “I should be able to do it. Where is this attacker?”
I point to the spot where the blood stain is spreading. He wrinkles his nose but bends down and spreads his hands.
My heart thuds a few times more, and then the cloaked woman materializes before our eyes.
“I’ve never seen her before in my life,” Lothar announces.
Stavros lets out a scoffing sound. “You can barely see her now with that hood up. Someone pull it back.”
I killed her, so I figure that really should be my job. I crouch down and tug away the swath of fabric that shaded the woman’s head.
Then all I can do is stare.
Light blond hair spills around the woman’s pale face, turned slightly reddish with the sort of tint that I’ve seen from the juice dyes the outer-warders sometimes use. She’s taller than me but nearly as thin, with a narrow face and a knob of a chin much like mine.
She’s hardly my twin, but the similarities send a shiver down my spine.
Stavros’s jaw works. I don’t think the details are lost on him either.
It’s Alek who puts the pieces together completely. I hadn’t heard the scholar approaching, but his taut voice lifts from a few paces away where he’s gazing down at the figure.
“After she murdered Petra, you were going to say it was Ivy attacking. That the riven sorcerer had turned on the princess who’d allied with her.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, I can see the horrific beauty of the plan. Lothar could have eliminated Petra while displacing any hint of blame from himself and his scourge sorcerers.
Of course the audience would have been all too eager to believe that a monstrous riven could have behaved so abominably. I heard the way they talked when we were setting up last night.
My magic flails to be let out at him, but I keep it tightly contained and fold my arms over my chest. “What were you doing skulking around back here at the same time?”
Stavros scowls. “One of our people found a knife in his pocket. Maybe he was going to jump in and take down the assassin to reinforce the absurd idea that he’s the hero in this scenario.”
Lothar scoffs. “All I hear is a lot of blathering. You can’t prove any part of this incredible story. Now let me return to my place so I can oversee the end of the trials.”
As if we want him setting so much as his eyes on Petra after he’s attempted this scheme. We still don’t even know what his magic is capable of.
I stalk closer and prod his armless side with a swift finger. Maybe I can provoke some kind of reaction out of him. “This seems like a much better place for you. Or we can send you over to sit with your sacrificial accomplices, since you all gave up so much.”
I let sarcasm taint my last words, but Lothar’s face twitches as if he’s restrained a flinch. I pause.
Why would that specific statement bother him more than the accusations we’ve tossed around?
Not the slightest hint of magic drifts off him even when I’m standing this close. That doesn’t mean anything much—I can only pick up on threads of energy being cast out.
But it occurs to me that in all the time I was around Lothar, even when he had me under his control in close quarters, I’ve never felt even a trace of magic coming from him. Never seen him make use of the theoretically impressive gift he should have.
A suspicion trickles through my thoughts that I can’t shake.
I ease even closer, studying Lothar’s face. “Do you even have a gift, or did you give that arm away for nothing?”
Tinom sputters a disbelieving laugh, but Lothar tenses at the same time. Enough to take me from suspicious to sure.
I whirl toward Tinom, who worked more closely with the former magic advisor than anyone else still living. “In all the years you were colleagues, did you ever see him use his gift? Did he ever say exactly what it is?”
Tinom halts, and his forehead furrows. “It was something to do with potions…”
Stavros’s eyebrows rise. “Potions don’t need a gift for a person to make them right, only knowledge of the ingredients and processes. Were any of his potions things no one could have made without some kind of magical intervention?”
“This is absurd,” Lothar snaps.
Tinom ignores him, his gaze gone distant in thought before it sharpens on the other man. “You know, I can’t think of any specifically that fit that criteria. I always took it for granted—but I can’t say I wasn’t wrong.”
My stomach twists. How awful must Lothar’s intentions have been all the way back when he was a twelve-year-old boy for his chosen godlen to reject a sacrifice so huge?
How awful would he have felt? How much more would his sense of morality have soured after such an immense and permanent rejection?
“Prove it, then,” I say in a terse voice that barely sounds like my own. “Tell us what your gift is and use it in front of us. There must be something you could direct it at.”
Lothar lifts his head to look down his nose at us. “I shouldn’t have to honor that ridiculous request with a response.”
Tinom shakes his head, some of the color drained from his face. “All those years… You lied to the king about everything about who you are. That job never should have been yours in the first place.”
“The job never should have been Hessild’s,” Lothar growls with a sudden flash of his eyes as he mentions the woman he had murdered.
The woman who was once the chief magic advisor.
“What was so wonderful about her power? What amazing things had she done? She and her whole family of snakes—the position should have been my father’s back in his day, but the Melchioreks always liked the Korinyas best—they fawned over them, they were nice. ”
He bites off the last word with an acidic edge and then a clamping of his lips. But he’s already said enough.
Tinom chokes out a laugh. “You let bitterness infect you, and it cost you the gift you could have gained. At least Hessild honestly had magic.”
“I worked harder than you can possibly imagine for everything I’ve gained.”
“Yes,” I retort. “You’ve lied and manipulated children and murdered all kinds of people including the man you swore to serve. And you try to call me a monster.”
He spins toward me, his face reddening. “Why should a no one like you have limitless power because of some fluke of fate? You never even had to sacrifice.”
Anger flares in my chest alongside a lash of my magic. “You have no idea what I’ve lost. I never asked to be riven.”
Now his hostility toward me makes even more sense. It wasn’t just the standard hatred of the riven but bone-deep, venomous jealousy.
Tinom nudges me backward to step between us, his face hardened into a solemn mask. “None of this matters. No matter who wins the trials, you’re going to be arrested. This psychotic charade is over.”
Alek glances toward the front of the platform. “And it’s going to be Petra who wins. The final cleric just gave her his approval. All those people you tried to sway to your sick cause are rejoicing.”
The cheers and whoops of celebration filter past the jumble of equipment to reach our ears. I don’t doubt that Alek is right, even if I couldn’t see the declaration myself.
Petra has proven herself again and again—not just to be a strong, steady ruler, but to care about ensuring every person she rules over feels like a valued part of the kingdom.
Lothar will have made all the same observations I have. He was counting on Petra being dead and no longer an option, not on her actual failure.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows she’d be a better ruler than anyone he could put forth. He simply doesn’t care as long as the Melchioreks fall.
A strangled sound escapes him, and he barrels forward faster than I’d have expected a man of his size could move. With his single hand, he snatches the small crossbow one of the guards was carrying and whips it under his arm to brace it so he can fire.
Fire the loaded bolt at Petra where she’s standing at the front of the stage, unaware.
Stavros hurtles after him even faster. A guttural “No” bursts from his lips, and he heaves his sword through Lothar’s back.
Lothar staggers, the crossbow slipping from his grasp. “Fucking pompous prick,” he spits out with a gurgle of blood.
Stavros bears his teeth. “It’s nothing less than the vengeance my king deserved.”
He moves to yank out the blade—and perhaps stab the man a few more times, which I certainly would not object to—but Lothar manages to hurl himself a couple of steps farther. He grasps the edge of one of the discarded puzzle boxes and shoves it aside while heaving himself forward.
Out into view of the audience with a sword jutting from his back.