Chapter 45
ELARA
For the first time in her life, Elara was running toward something, not away.
She had to dive between sweat-soaked, warring bodies and dodge knives, bludgeons, and gunfire to get there, but she made it to the caravan. Fernand was already there. Quickly, he buried a knife in the guard watching the caravan and tossed his body aside.
Gabriel and Tremblay cowered behind their thrones, begging for mercy.
Lafontaine drew a knife and clashed against Fernand.
Elara watched them struggle.
Fernand landed enough blows to turn the sleeves and sides of Lafontaine’s white gown red, but he didn’t get them for free. For every strike, Lafontaine landed his own. Cut for cut. Blood for blood.
Elara turned a circle, taking in the battlefield The Market had become. It was supposed to be a place for fellowship and commerce, but it was now a scene from Elizabeta the Brave. Except there was no one upon a hilltop with an army to save them.
Elara understood Fernand now. Understood her mother.
War didn’t end with desperate plans or destructive bombs.
But those things made people pause.
Made them listen.
Made them change.
But if Fernand killed Lafontaine now, would that be enough? Would the Counseil’s followers across the river bow to Restes authority? And would Fernand and his band of rebels rule fairly?
The cycle would start anew.
She knew what she had to do.
She doubled back to her station and found a lingering smudge of the dish she needed, then fought her way to the caravan.
It might not work. The sun might rise on a smoldering Anespérer, but she had to try. All her life she’d believed her mother was a fool to try and fail. But that was how great art was made.
By the time she scaled the caravan, Fernand had Lafontaine pinned in his chair, a knife raised above his heart.
“STOP!”
She dove between them right as the knife came down.