Chapter 23
Liana
At dawn of the third day, Abia was in turmoil. The city slid from hangover straight into rage. Flower garlands and colorful standards still adorned the streets filled with armed people carrying torches. All semblance of peace seemed like a na?ve illusion now, a fool’s dream.
Liana ran, angry tears streaming down her face.
All her work had come to nothing, every attempt to push history off its course shattering like a crystal chalice hitting a stone floor.
The people of Abia were rioting against the Seragians, their anger fueled by the lies spread by the Black Lord, their fear based on the endless smoldering conflict on the border, the centuries of rivalry.
It was impossible to close a festering wound: Sewing it tight only made it pulsate and swell until it exploded, raining blood and pus on the festive town.
The pink glow of the summer dawn spread over the eastern sky as she ran towards the Seragian embassy, praying to the fading stars above that there was still something she could do to stop the carnage.
Two streets away from the embassy, the crowd thickened, a press of bodies pushing forward blindly like a mudslide.
Liana threw herself into the thick of it, slipping between people where she could and elbowing forward the rest of the way until she saw the imposing stone mansion.
Its high, rusticated walls and ground-floor iron grilles suddenly looked not nearly sturdy enough.
The wooden shutters on the upper-floor windows were closed, letting out nothing but random, thin streaks of light, revealing that there was somebody inside. The massive wrought iron gates were shut, and if there were any Seragian guards behind them, they didn’t show their faces.
The neighboring houses sat dark and still behind their ornate facades, their owners probably cowering in the dark while waves of angry people splashed against their walls.
The mob, idiotic as it always was, didn’t quite know what to do.
The leaders, the ones who had spread lies in taverns and on the streets, the ones who’d whispered about Seragian blades and poisons, still hadn’t shown their faces.
The people grumbled and pushed forward, but the dark, silent shadow of the embassy offered no challenge, confusing them, placating their rage temporarily until they switched places with the fresh blood pushing down the street.
Before the main entrance to the embassy, there was a splash of royal blue. Darin and his men, standing in a semicircle, guarding the Seragians.
“Stand back,” Darin shouted. “Go home! The Seragians are not a threat. All you’ve heard are rumors and lies.”
Liana pushed forward, ignoring the punches and curses.
A man slid his hand between her legs, grabbing her crotch with hard fingers.
She barely managed to find his face in the crowd, shiny eyes, alcohol-fueled leer.
Without missing a step, she grabbed his middle finger, pulled it backwards, and snapped it like a twig.
She ducked behind the next man and heard a wail that was soon drowned out by the roar of the mob.
She stepped on toes and elbowed stomachs without remorse, breathing through her mouth to avoid the stink of too many sweaty bodies crammed together after a night of feasting, and propelled herself forward like a fish swimming against the current.
She was still wearing the uniform, and even though it didn’t help her much with the crowd, when she broke out of the mass, the first two guards who spotted her reached out and pulled her into their circle. She counted twenty heads, and Darin. Not nearly enough.
“Go home!” her father was saying to the crowd. “There’s nothing here.”
The guards hadn’t drawn their weapons. All that kept the people from rushing at the embassy gate were the royal uniforms and the power of Darin’s voice: calm, authoritative.
He wasn’t a particularly big man, but he had the air of a leader used to giving orders and being obeyed.
He projected it into the crowd now, and they—knowing well who he was—paused, faltered in their anger.
He was keeping them away from the embassy by the sheer force of his will.
Inside the uniformed circle, Liana hesitated, unwilling to break the spell. Telling the guards that the king was dying and that the Black Lord was probably planning the next attack would weaken them, leave them exposed to the mob. And yet—how long could her father’s fragile spell last?
If he noticed her, he didn’t turn. His gaze was locked with the mob. “Go home, good people,” he said. “Abia is safe. We’ll be guarding the embassy, no Seragian will leave unless we let them.”
Liana wanted to help him, but didn’t know how except to stand there and stare down the crowd.
Beads of sweat formed on the foreheads of the guards beside her as they breathed hard, stinking of fear.
And yet, not a single one of them panicked; they all stood behind their captain, ready to fight the mindless mob at his command.
“Go home,” he said, his voice placating, hypnotic. “We’ll stay here. And the king will speak to you in the morning.”
She felt their fire dampen. The angry roar at the front died down, melting to a mere buzz that spread down the street towards the edges of the mob.
The people in front of her blinked and turned to their neighbors, looking sheepish, as if they’d just been found sleepwalking.
The only thing that prevented them from turning on their heels and walking home was the mass of people behind them.
“Father,” she reached out, touching his shoulder.
“Liana?” He turned, his face ashen under a fine film of perspiration. “What—”
A female voice cried from somewhere near the embassy, “The king is dead.”
Everyone froze. Liana stood on her tiptoes, trying to see who was speaking. She was too short. Still, she could guess who spread the doomed news: a dark-haired woman with black eyebrows and burning eyes, spewing lies and hatred all over Abia.
“Where are you going, you cowards?” Ferisa shouted. “The king is dead, the Seragians killed him. And the king’s guard, the very men who swore to protect him with their lives, are now protecting the Seragian scum.”
For the briefest of moments, Darin froze, uncertain of how to deal with such a monstrous accusation. When he came to, he cried, “Lies! The king is at the palace, all is well. Go home.”
Too late. The dispersing mass pulled back together, the barely banked flame flaring up again.
“If all is well, why is the Seragian princess here at the embassy? Why did she run away from the palace?” The crowd shifted, and now Liana could see Ferisa, surrounded by the Elmarran guards.
The time for hiding was over, apparently—this was a direct challenge.
“Let’s drag the traitors out and ask them! ”
The Elmarrans pulled out their swords. The ring of steel cut through the noise, hushing it.
In that lull, which lasted a mere heartbeat, Liana looked at the faces of the king’s guards, of the people in the crowd.
Those who still had their wits about them realized it immediately: This was the tipping point.
Wide-eyed, horrified by the press of angry bodies around them, they searched for an escape and found none.
They were all in it now, whatever happened, while the hundred-headed mob-beast decided what to do next.
This was the last moment when some semblance of peace still reigned, when pausing, regrouping, dispersing, and avoiding bloodshed was still possible.
Then history put its merciless thumb on the scale and the beast roared in bloodthirsty fury. Somewhere behind the diaphanous curtain of the dawn sky, the gods turned their eyes towards Abia, eager for a sacrifice.
“Attack the embassy,” Ferisa said. It wasn’t even a shout, but it spread through the crowd like wildfire.
The king’s guards drew closer to the gate; Darin pushed Liana behind him as he drew his sword.
“Stand back!” he shouted.
The mob surged forward, the first lines panicked and resisting, suddenly realizing they were facing the guards’ blades, but the back relentlessly pushed forward, mincing everything in its way.
“We’re going to die,” one of the guards whispered.
There was nowhere to run: They were trapped between the heavy, barred gate of the embassy behind them and the angry mob coming at them.
Liana looked at her father, his back rigid with determination, his hair darkened with sweat, and she wished she could say something: that she was sorry she’d squandered this chance to meet him, that she’d failed to give him useful information, that she was proud to be his daughter.
But any distraction now could kill him, so she braced herself for the wave that was coming, refusing to look into the sky or think about divine tricks.
At that moment, the shrill sound of trumpets cut through the roar, followed by screaming, the clash of steal, the beat of ironshod hooves on the cobbles.
The crowd writhed in panic, everyone trying to get out of the way, pushing, kicking, climbing over the bodies.
Behind them, a band of horsemen—a dozen or so—in royal liveries, followed by more guards, cleared the street with their truncheons.
Leading them, pushing through the crowd on a mean-looking bay stallion, still in his ceremonial clothes, was Amron.
Liana’s heart skipped a beat: This was the Amron she recognized. Fearless, determined. The men around her started breathing again, sheathing their swords. Her father’s eyes focused on her the for the first time since she’d arrived.
“I’d strangle you for risking your life like this if I weren’t so happy that you are unharmed,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to tell you something.” She stood on tips of her toes to reach his ear. “The king is dying,” she whispered. “This is an open rebellion, led by Roderi of Elmar.”
He nodded, his face revealing nothing.
“Prince Amron knows everything,” she added.
At that moment, Amron reached them and dismounted.
“Amril is at the palace with the queen,” he told Darin.
“The city gates are secure. I sent Tilen to Roderi’s house with a dozen horsemen, though I doubt he’s there.
Two dozen men guard the docks and the approach to the Seragian ships.
There’s unrest all over the city, but it’s mostly bands of drunkards who don’t know what’s happening.
Nothing like the situation here at the embassy. ”
He talked to Darin, scanning the soldiers and the crowd, not looking at Liana, and yet his hand found its way to the small of her back.
It rested there for a few moments, in mute reassurance, and then retreated before anyone noticed.
Liana looked for grief or despair on his face, but there was none—whatever he felt for his father was hidden now.
He was the man she remembered from the battlefields and long marches: calm, composed, self-assured.
“We must find the woman, Ferisa,” she said. “She was here with the Elmarran guard, pushing the crowd to attack the embassy. She can’t be far. You must stop her before she causes more damage.”
Amron nodded. “I’ll hunt her down. How many men does she have with her?”
“I didn’t see more than a dozen,” Darin said. “But more could have been hiding in the crowd.”
Amron looked around. At that moment, the street was filled with the blue liveries of the king’s guards, and horsemen were guarding it on both sides, but Liana knew they still had too few men to face the threat.
Abia was a porous town, filled with dark alleys, shortcuts, and hidden passages—there was no saying who waited in the shadows.
“I’ll leave the horsemen and the guards with you,” Amron said. “It is of the utmost importance that nothing happens to the embassy today. I’ll go after her alone. Stealth might be better here than numbers.”
“Not alone,” Liana said. “I’ll go with you.”
Darin frowned, and she expected him to call them mad, tell them to go back to the palace and hide behind its walls.
But instead, he just nodded. “I’ll send a message to Prince Amril, to let him know what happened and be on the lookout for Roderi and his servants, and remain here with my men.
” His eyes lingered for a moment on Amron’s face, and then on Liana’s, and suddenly she was certain that he’d seen Amron’s hand on her back, that he knew what was going on between them.
Still, all he said was, “Be careful. Guard each other’s backs. ”
A sound, faint as a whisper, made Liana turn her head towards the embassy. All her senses, human and divine, flared up, honed by the years of archery, the long days spent hunting. Somewhere behind the curtain, a divine hand threw the dice.
“Watch out!” she cried and pushed Amron down, throwing herself on top of him.
A volley of arrows rained from the roof of the embassy.
Someone screamed. And when she turned and looked up, her father fell to his knees with an arrow in his chest.