Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
The late afternoon sun slants through the windows of my private sitting room as I stiffly pace the length of the chamber, my muscles still sore from dealing with that dust storm Rafe set on me.
Our core group plotted treason against the heavens, and now we’re recruiting outsiders.
Necessary outsiders. The kind who can spread our message far and wide.
But we need to proceed with caution. If word of our mission reaches the wrong ears, a single misplaced prayer could rain divine retribution down upon us all.
And I refuse to trust someone before I even meet them.
Sterling watches from his position by the window. His handsome face reveals nothing, especially to those who lack the experience to read his expressions. I catch the slight tension at the edges of his mouth, though, and the way he tracks my every movement.
“Helene has sound judgment. If she says this minstrel can help us, I believe her.”
“I’m not questioning Helene’s judgment.” Not about this, at least. I stop to fiddle with the fruit arrangement on the sideboard, and sparks zip between my fingers.
I must be too fired up from the training today because these little magical eruptions keep happening.
“I’m questioning whether we can trust anyone outside this room with what we know. ”
Bastian glances up from the ancient texts spread across the table. “We can’t do this alone, Lark. If we expect to turn people away from the gods, we need voices they already believe.”
“And this Barnaby has the people’s ear.” Agnar leans against the wall with deceptive casualness, his clothes still damp from his morning sparring session with Sterling.
“More importantly, he has no love for nobles or authority. Our opponents are the ultimate authority. He’ll hate them on principle. ”
I send a wave of heat in his direction, drying and warming him. I’m about to respond when a sharp knock cuts through the room.
We all freeze.
“Enter.” I straighten my posture into something more regal. Queen Lark now, not just Lark the scared shitless, desperate woman plotting against the gods.
Our combined stress eases when Helene sweeps in, her thick navy dress perfectly pressed and immaculate as usual. Her lips form that same perpetually crooked line of disinterest.
A man with a riot of loose brown curls atop his head, who’s dressed in colors so vivid they seem to vibrate against the subdued elegance of the palace, trails behind her.
He wears a crimson tunic embroidered with gold thread, azure leggings, and a cape of deep emerald that swirls with each movement.
His steel gray eyes, deep-set and knowing, scan the room with quick assessment.
This must be Barnaby.
I’ve heard of him, of course. Everyone has.
His songs are performed in every tavern across Tirene, and his pointed critiques of nobility have earned him as many enemies in high places as admirers among the common folk.
Not a single trace of servility shows in his posture as he saunters into the chamber with the easy confidence of a man who believes himself equal to anyone, royal or not.
Based on this gives-no-fucks first impression, I like him.
“Your Majesty. Your Highness.” Helene gestures to the wild peacock of a man. “May I present Barnaby Paloma.”
The minstrel offers a bow that hovers at the border between respectful and mocking. “Queen Lark.” Even in those two simple words, his melodious voice shines. “I hear you’ve asked for me specifically. I’m flattered. Or perhaps I should be concerned?”
“Barnaby’s father was my father’s minstrel.” Helene’s tone suggests this connection is reason enough for us to trust him.
“And I am no one’s.” He plucks idly at the small gittern hanging from his belt, producing a discordant note that somehow emphasizes his point. “I travel across the kingdoms and perform for no one but the people.”
“There’s no need for concern.” Sterling smiles his court smile, the one he uses to put people at ease. “Please, come in, have a seat. We have an important matter to discuss with you.”
I study him. Intelligence sparkles in those eyes, along with a healthy dose of skepticism.
Good. We need someone who questions everything. Even us.
Especially us.
“Do you have children, Barnaby?” I cringe, worrying that I already managed to stick my foot in my mouth.
The minstrel’s stance shifts. A barely perceptible tensing. His eyes narrow as they lock onto mine, searching for the threat behind my words. “I do. What of them?” Steel replaces the melody in his voice. “Did you invite me here just to threaten me?”
The change in demeanor draws Sterling forward, his affability gone. “No one is threatening anyone.”
Oof. I probably should have phrased that better. “Just the opposite. Our discussion is for the sake of your children. For everyone’s children. Not just those living in Tirene’s capital. I want you to know that beforehand.”
Barnaby considers me for a long moment with a slight furrow between his brows. “And why exactly am I here? Shouldn’t the soon-to-be king focus on training for his upcoming Champions Match?”
Sterling gives me an imperceptible nod, encouraging me to continue. The minstrel catches the gesture, and his eyes narrow further.
“Good.” Bastian ignores the tension radiating from Barnaby. “Word is spreading through the kingdoms.”
“Whether through our efforts or the Devoted’s. Either way, it works.” Smiling grimly, Agnar shrugs. “Still feels weird to help them and their leader out, but the world has gotten really strange recently.”
Barnaby’s assessing gaze travels from face to face.
“You people are exceptionally cryptic for a group that invited me here.” The sharpness in his eyes belies his light tone as he addresses me.
“So who is it? Who will your betrothed be fighting in this great spectacle? Some fearsome warrior from across the sea? A mighty sorcerer?”
A beat passes while familiar dread writhes in my gut. “Me.”
That reply cracks his composed facade. He recoils, his eyebrows shooting up and his mouth gaping open. “You? Tirene’s queen will fight the crown prince? Her own fiancé?” He glances between us, searching for the joke or political strategy that explains such madness.
My stomach twists. “Yes.”
He shakes his head, and his expression hardens. “What game are you playing?”
“We’re not the ones playing a game.” Sterling presses a fist against the table. “The gods have pitted us against each other to rip apart the mortal world.”
Barnaby releases a short, bitter laugh. “Right. The gods. Of course.” He fiddles with his gittern again, as if debating whether to simply take his leave. “Why would the gods do such a thing?”
“Because they’re at war.” I gesture to Sterling and myself. “And they’ve chosen human champions to fight for them instead. And I must ask you to not refer to any of them by name, lest we risk drawing their attention to us. We have far too much of that already.”
The minstrel’s skepticism is palpable, his expression clearly questioning our sanity.
Bastian rises from his chair to approach the table with the ancient texts.
He flips open a worn manuscript, its pages yellowed with age, the ink faded to a rusty brown.
“The archives hold accounts of the last civil war among the gods. The descriptions match exactly what we’re seeing.
Corrupted sacred sites, rogue divine animals, transformed devotional objects, splintering reality. ”
Barnaby glances at the manuscript warily, as if he expects the book to attack. “And you expect me to believe this…why, exactly?”
Bastian ignores the question. “Do you know how that war ended?”
The minstrel’s mouth curls. “Badly?”
“With a covenant.” Sterling’s voice holds the calm certainty of a man who’s confronted unbelievable challenges and survived. “One that gave an off-ramp to divine war. Mortal champions fighting as the gods’ proxies.”
Barnaby’s brows pull together, but I can see his mind working to process everything.
Which is good considering Helene explained how much he distrusts nobles, royals, and basically any authority figure.
While I might be the queen and Sterling the prince, we’re minor players when compared to the gods. A point in our favor.
“But the horror doesn’t end here,” I say. “It’s the ‘why’ of their war that truly matters.”
“So, why are they at war?” Seems that Barnaby’s curiosity is beginning to override his suspicion.
Sterling’s icy grin elicits a wary glance from Barnaby. “The gods need us more than we knew. Even more than we need them.”
“For what?”
“Fuel.” A few seconds pass before Agnar clarifies. “Food.”
Barnaby’s features twist in confusion. “Food? What are you talking about?”
I smooth a hand over my skirt and raise my chin. This next part sounds the most insane. “The gods harvest and feed on devotion. Our prayers are food to them.”
His expression lends credence to my fear. This man believes we’ve lost our ever-loving minds.
“Have you ever noticed the crystalline formations in the temples? They’ve been growing and moving.
Almost as if they’re sentient.” Bastian waits for Barnaby’s nod.
“The scientist-priests discovered that they grow during prayers, during moments of heightened devotion. They serve as storage devices, capturing and preserving the energy they use.”
Barnaby appears unconvinced, but at least he hasn’t stormed out yet. That’s something. “And what role do the Devoted play in this?” He’s connecting dots faster than I expected.
Agnar bares his teeth. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“The Devoted spread select news to foment specific reactions.” Helene toys with the pendant on her thin gold necklace. “They disseminate false news, rumors, tales of doom and gloom, and—”
“And the only source of protection is fervent prayer to the gods.” The muscles in Barnaby’s jaw and neck work as he clenches his teeth. “I hate fanatics.”
“Most reasonable people do.” I motion to the rest of the group. “Which is why we need your help.”
His eyebrows rise again. “My help? With what, exactly? Overthrowing the heavens?” Underneath the sarcasm that thickens his voice, I catch a spark of defiance.
“In a manner of speaking.” Sterling rubs his jaw. “We need to undermine their power source. We need people to turn away from the gods.”
Barnaby tilts his head. “Sort of like a mass prayer strike?”
I move closer to our visitor, my voice dropping to ensure no servants passing in the hall will overhear. “We need to convince people to ask questions. Lead them to doubt the gods themselves.” I pause to ensure he understands the final, crucial piece. “And persuade them to come to the match.”
Barnaby fingers the gittern’s strings, his gaze distant as he plucks out a soft melody. I can almost see the trademark satire at work in his mind. “Always fancied being part of a revolution.”
Agnar pumps his fist in the air. “Yes! Bring your friends. The gods hate that we have friends and loved ones.”
“Well, they must really hate me then, because I have many friends. Minstrels, actors, storytellers.” Barnaby’s fingers prance across the strings. “People who earn their living by making others listen.”
Hope flares in my chest. This could actually work. “We have ten days until the match. Ten days to turn as many people as possible away from the gods.”
Barnaby nods, eyes calculating. “Ten days to start a revolution.” He gestures at each of us. “I’ll need details. Specific incidents. Evidence I can point to that will incite questions.”
“We have plenty. Backed by facts and trusted sources.” Bastian points to the papers on the table. “The scientist-priests documented everything. Until the Devoted slaughtered them.”
“And we’ll need songs.” Helene waves at his gittern. When we shift as one in her direction, she meets our surprise with her usual cool detachment. “What? Songs circulate faster than rumors, and they’re remembered longer.”
Barnaby grins. “I’m already composing.” He plucks out a series of notes, humming softly under his breath. “A song about hungry gods and the mortals who feed them…”
I nod, impressed despite myself. “And the match itself. We need as many witnesses as possible.”
“That won’t be a problem.” Barnaby waves me off.
“A battle between Queen Lark and Prince Knox? Champions of the gods? Everyone will want to witness that unprecedented event.” His expression gleams with anticipation.
“Especially when rumor has it that there’s more to the spectacle than meets the eye. ”
Bastian rubs his palms together. “If the gods realize what we’re planning—”
“I understand the stakes.” All traces of levity disappear from Barnaby’s demeanor. “I have children, as Her Majesty so pointedly reminded me, and no desire to see them become livestock for divine appetites, despite how they sometimes test my patience.”
Agnar snickers. “Oh, you’ll fit in just fine.”
“Then we’re in agreement.” Sterling extends his hand for the minstrel to shake. “You’ll help us spread the word, lure people to the match, and inspire them to question their divine devotion.”
Sterling’s proffered hand elicits a subtle widening of Barnaby’s eyes before the minstrel clasps the prince’s palm and shakes. “I’ll do more than that. By the time I’m finished, the gods will wish they’d never heard of Barnaby the Minstrel.”
As I watch them seal this pact, a rush of unidentifiable emotions floods my system. Maybe hope, or desperation, or madness.
Perhaps all three.
We’re gambling everything on this plan. Our lives, our kingdom, our futures. But for the first time since learning of the gods’ manipulations, I truly believe we have a fighting chance.
Ten days. Ten days to start a revolution that will shake the very heavens.