CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CARVED FROM ICE
The hall reverberates with the sound of harsh clangs. The chairs that once filled the ballroom have been shoved to the outskirts, making way for tables and servants.
Every staff member of Widow’s Hall with hands to spare is here, pounding hunks of tshira with metal mallets into as fine a powder as we can manage.
My arm is already sore from the repetitive motion, but I can’t stop.
Magic would make this easier. Most of the decurio are engaged in battle.
But there are a few in here. A handful of aikkari with easy access to their sources are at a far table, reducing chunks of tshira to powder in seconds.
But there aren’t enough of them. Not for how much tshira we’re going to need.
There’s an unmissable air of panic in the hall, not helped by the war raging right outside our doors.
Every few minutes, Widow’s Hall shudders with the force of Petruvian soldiers fighting to gain entrance.
The building shakes yet again.
People jump, and a few shout, but immediately after, there’s a hush. We’re all quiet, listening to see if they actually managed to get in this time.
My relief only lasts for a moment. With each blow to the exterior of Widow’s Hall, Petruvia is more and more likely to break through.
Sef works a few tables over with some of her friends from the staff.
She’s calm under pressure and despite the chaos and fear soaking the room, Sef’s presence seems to soothe those around her.
Kaidren stands across from me. He’s rolled up his sleeves to work, and I’d be lying if I said his exposed forearms weren’t distracting. “It’s a good plan.” He brings down his mallet, smashing a chunk of tshira to bits. “It’s going to work.”
I swing my mallet faster. It’s a good way to release frustration. “It has to.”
As we speak, decurio ride out from the stables of Widow’s Hall on greyback, pulling covered sledges. They’re empty, but once they reach their destination, we will send a rumor through the Petruvian army that the Praeceptor and Honorate were taken into the arena for safety.
A decurio passes through, pushing a large wooden barrel. Kaidren and I scrape the tshira we’ve ground inside, and he moves to the next table.
I cast a quick glance around, ensuring there’s no one within hearing distance. Even still, I lower my voice as I address Kaidren. “Aja was here.”
His eyes widen. “You mean here, here? In Widow’s Hall?”
“She came to see me before the coronation. She remembered everything.”
He looks around. “Where is she?”
“I sent her back to Ophera.” I swallow thickly. “There was too much going on today.”
“When was this? Are you sure she—”
“She left almost half an hour before the start of the coronation, before Petruvia attacked. They didn’t ground the sky carts until later. I’m going to check on her as soon as I can make it down the mountain,” I say, and I try to will myself to feel as certain as I sound.
“When are you going to tell Luc?”
It’s a good question. One I don’t have an answer for just yet. I’m spared having to respond when I see my brother over Kaidren’s shoulder. I purse my lips, saying nothing as he approaches.
Luc bends to whisper to me. “Good news. We’ve received word that several Petruvian soldiers are changing course for the arena. We’re gathering all the tshira we have and taking it to the stables.”
I glance around the room. Most everyone is still hard at work. “Are you going to make an announcement?”
“No. Let them keep at it. It’s a good distraction. We’ll tell everyone when it works.”
If it works. None of us are brave enough to say it.
There are dozens of barrels of powdered tshira. While most of Widow’s Hall stays in the ballroom, a group of us—Kaidren, Luc, members of the decurio, and myself—each take a barrel and carry them to the stables beneath Widow’s Hall.
My limbs scream at me as I drag the heavy barrel, but I’m glad to have something to do other than sit in the ballroom, terrified we’re going to lose.
General Fain is already in the stables, preparing transport for the tshira to the arena. Four greyhorns huff and stomp their feet, already attached to the sledge and raring to go. With a grunt, I lift my barrel onto the back of the vessel.
“Your only goal is getting this to the arena. By any means necessary,” the General is telling three members of the decurio. “There are soldiers waiting on the roof. I don’t care what’s in your way—get this to them.”
The building shudders again.
We freeze, breaths bated, waiting.
It doesn’t sound like Petruvia has broken through.
Yet. It’s a chilling thought. Made even more terrifying when I hear a shout from behind.
I spin around. Five soldiers enter the stables. They’re wearing indigo, wielding swords, and their expressions are darkened with intent. They’re Petruvian.
“Sir.” The General shoves Luc behind him and the other decurio. “Get back to the ballroom.” General Fain raises his weapon—a sharpened tshira blade. The three decurio with him draw their weapons as well.
My heart pounds as Kaidren and I press behind them. The Virdeians form a wall and launch themselves at the Petruvian soldiers.
Four Virdeians against five Petruvians. General Fain manages to fight two of them at once, but the Virdeians are outnumbered.
Their movements are so quick, I have trouble following. For every swing, there’s a counter. For every move, a reaction.
A Petruvian feints right and swipes left—the decurio he’s fighting isn’t quick enough.
The decurio falls over. I’m not sure if he’s dead, but he’s immobile on the ground and can no longer fight.
Five Petruvians left, and only three Virdeians.
Fear creeps through my veins. I eye the sledge of tshira. It’s already loaded, and the greyhorns are attached. It’s ready to go.
“Sir—” General Fain grunts, addressing Luc as he sidesteps a blade from a Petruvian. “We’ve been breached. You need to get to safety. We can fend them off, but if anyone finds you, or worse, kills you . . .”
He doesn’t finish, too busy fighting off soldiers, but he doesn’t need to. If the Petruvians kill Luc, the war will have ended, and Virdei will have lost.
That thought is horrifying enough on its own, but even more concerning—my insides are set alight. General Fain just lied. He doesn’t believe Virdei can fight off these Petruvians.
My ears are ringing and my breaths are shallow with panic. I snatch Luc by the shoulders. “Go. Upstairs. Warn everyone in the ballroom that there’s a breach in the stables, and get to safety. If you fall, Virdei falls.”
Luc swallows but nods. He’s trembling as he takes my hand, trying to pull me with him.
I plant my feet.
Luc stops. “What the hell are you doing?”
I look at the sledge again. Virdei is outnumbered.
General Fain thinks we’re going to lose, and the Petruvians in the arena aren’t going to stay there forever.
We won’t have a second chance. If we miss this window of opportunity, all of this was for nothing, Virdei will be overrun by Petruvia, and it will be my fault.
“I’m going to transport the tshira to the arena,” I say.
“What? No. Absolutely not.”
I push the magic flowing through me from General Fain’s lie into my bracelet. “I’m not asking.”
Behind us, there’s a grunt. A Petruvian just stabbed General Fain in the leg. He’s still upright, but he’s moving with a limp. We’re running out of time.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Luc says.
“She won’t,” Kaidren says. “I’m going with her, and I’ll make sure of it. I’m not going to let anything happen to her.”
Luc ignores him. “I said no, Mira.”
“We need to take care of Petruvia, and you need to not die. Those are the only things that matter right now. We don’t have time to argue. Just trust me and get the hell out of here before you get yourself killed. Now, go.” I shove him away and rush over to the sledge before he can stop me.
He shouts after me, demanding I turn around. Demanding I come with him to safety. I ignore him.
Kaidren reaches for a fallen sword. I don’t think he has any idea how to use it, but it’s the only weapon we’ve got.
I climb onto the bench behind the greyhorns, and Kaidren steps onto the front of the sledge.
My hands sweat beneath my gloves; more drips down my back. I take the reins, heart pounding so loudly, I hardly hear Kaidren call my name behind me.
“Yeah?” I put on my mask, trying to swallow my nerves and the overwhelming fear of failure.
“Please don’t die.”
“I’ll do my best.” My voice trembles. “And if you die, I’ll find you in hell and make your afterlife miserable.
” With a deep breath, I tug on the reins and pat the side of the ox—and we’re off, skidding out of the stables, headed for a battlefield of ice and an arena packed full of Petruvian soldiers.