Chapter 29
Liana
“Mother, mother, quickly!” somebody called.
Liana opened her eyes in the queen’s opulent, candlelit study.
Her face and hair were soaked, but no water had touched her clothes.
A vague memory of making a deal with the Goddess of Death flickered at the back of her mind, causing a bolt of panic, yet nothing about her seemed different.
She was still the same Liana, wasn’t she?
You’re still on Perun’s time, you fool. It hasn’t run out.
There was still a chance.
“Mother?” Amron’s sister peered in, her face haggard but smiling. “Where is the queen?” she asked just as her mother rushed in through the other door.
“Amielle, what’s happening? Why aren’t you with your father?”
“Because he’s arisen and asking for you. Come!”
The queen shot a brief look of gratitude to Liana before her daughter dragged her out.
Liana, still dazed and slow, got up and followed the trail of noise to the antechamber where the king stood perfectly whole and wholesome, goddamned radiant in the sea of gray, panicked faces.
“There’s fighting in the courtyard,” a guard said. “Roderi of Elmar and his men are wreaking havoc, accusing Prince Amril and Princess Aratea of assassinating you. The city is in turmoil, the citizens are demanding to see you.”
“What? I’ll personally flay that lying bastard.”
Fighting?
Liana didn’t give a damn about the king and his plans, but if there was fighting down in the courtyard and in the square, then Amron was somewhere near, and perhaps there was still time before dawn to quench this rebellion, to stop the Black Lord. To get a moment alone with Amron.
She rushed downstairs. The main door leading into the great hall was shut and barred, but that meant she simply had to go around, through the empty guards’ quarters, across the practice yard, through the stables, and out on the other side.
Just in time to see the crowd cheering the king who stood on the balcony, resplendent and obviously, undeniably alive—at least for the next three days.
It would have to be enough to wrap up the wedding, to remove the Elmarrans, to ensure that Amril succeeded smoothly.
Amril and Aratea stood in the courtyard in a pool of torchlight, disheveled, bruised, and covered in soot, holding on to each other like two shipwrecked sailors.
A shadow of anger marred his face, a twist of disgust hid in the corners of her mouth, but they’d both been raised for this and they endured, facing the crowd.
It crossed Liana’s mind that she’d rather be dead than trapped in their marriage, but then, they probably deserved each other.
And then finally, finally, the Seragian guards showed up—the useless, calculating, perfectly trained troops who’d waited to see which side would win before helping the king’s men deal with the last Elmarrans, pushing them into a corner of the yard.
Now that the mob had lost its bloodthirst, they posed no real threat, surrounded and outnumbered.
Their lord, the monster she’d cursed so many times during the long years of the war, lay face-down on the flags, hands tied behind his back, two guards standing over him.
His teeth were bared, a rabid dog ready to bite, frothing.
The rest of him, though, looked as small and insignificant as a desperate drunk who’d broken too many bottles and had to be restrained.
Knowing what the king’s justice looked like, Liana expected his head to grace the walls by tomorrow morning.
The wave of rebellion broke against the walls of the palace; the ancient stones held out against the fury of the mob. Now there was nothing left but some confused people who cheered because they felt they had to, and some defeated soldiers.
“Go out in the city and spread the word that everything is all right,” the king commanded. “And then go home. My men will take care of Abia.”
It was a promise and a threat, and the mob understood it perfectly well, dispersing with their tails between their legs.
Yet Amron was nowhere in sight. Was he still at the embassy, fighting the fire?
Surely, it had been conquered by now; there were no flames rising in the sky above the city.
Was he somewhere in the streets, driving the last rebels into the sea, clearing Abia of traitors and warmongers?
Liana was ready to run out blindly, to search for him until her time ran out, when the strange, mournful sigh of a wounded creature reached her ears and she spotted a flash of gold in the dark under the arcade.
She approached haltingly, fearing he was hurt. Then she heard his voice.
“Stay awake, stay awake,” he said. “I’ll get help.”
“No.” A whisper. “I don’t want—”
“Don’t you dare die now.”
In the chaos and darkness, no one had noticed him, no one was searching for him but Liana. He was on his knees, doubled over.
“Amron?” she whispered.
He cradled someone in his arms. A head, with a mass of black hair, shoulders, female torso, one arm hanging, touching what Liana thought was a black pool of shadow but now realized was blood.
With much effort, Liana’s eyes picked out the features of the face, half pressed to Amron’s chest. It was Melia.
All the hostility and years of subdued jealousy drained out of Liana.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Amron, I’m so sorry.”
“Liana, is that you?” He lifted his head. Tears had carved white lines in his soot-smudged face. “She’s wounded, she needs help.”
“Shall I run to the infirmary and get someone?”
“No, not in the palace, it’s too risky.” He shook his head. “I know who might help her. She has a surgeon.”
Before Liana could ask who he meant, he got up, holding Melia in his arms.
“Clear the way,” he told Liana, but there was little need. The back exit they used was deserted, the people in the alley already shuffling home, minding their own business. Amron marched on until they reached the locked door of a villa, the same one Liana had knocked on two days before.
“But…this is a brothel,” Liana said.
“Yes, and they have a surgeon at hand, and know how to keep a secret. Knock, please.”
They waited a long time before they heard footsteps and a narrow strip of light poured out of the slit. “We’re closed,” a voice said.
“Tell Celandina it’s Prince Amron,” he said. “If she helps me, I’ll owe her a favor.”
“I’ll be right back.”
They didn’t wait long this time. More footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a familiar face.
“Your Highness. And you.” A shadow of displeasure darkened Celandina’s pretty face when she recognized Liana. “And…who do you have here?”
“Someone important to me, wounded in a fight. I need you to help her,” Amron said.
If Celandina recognized Melia, she did nothing to show it, nor did she ask superfluous questions. She led them in, ordering the girl following her to call the surgeon. They entered a small room, spare but pristine. Amron laid Melia on the bed. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow.
“Oh, this is bad,” Celandina murmured, “stomach wounds don’t heal well.”
“I know,” Amron said. “But we must try. She saved my life tonight.”
A lick of cold air touched the nape of Liana’s neck. Saved his life?
A surgeon ran in, holding his bag, followed by the girl, carrying water and bandages. Celandina lit every candle in the room. In a heartbeat, they were all busy around Melia, cutting away fabric, cleaning the wound, stopping the bleeding.
“Steady now,” Amron said, holding Melia’s hand, although she showed no sign of hearing him.
Liana was left standing in the shadows, a useless bystander. Melia had saved Amron’s life, not Liana. “Amron.” The words rolled like gravel in her mouth. “Is there anything I can do?”
He barely spared her a look. “No, you’ve done more than enough. I must help Melia now.” His fingers were entwined with Melia’s as the surgeon took a scalpel out of his bag. “I’ll find you later.”
And she had no heart to tell him there would be no later.
She walked out of the villa and back towards the palace light-headed, her ears buzzing.
The final image of Amron—dirty, distraught, beautiful—was etched on the insides of her eyelids, refusing to be washed away by her tears.
The square was almost empty now but for the guards and casualties.
The rest had slunk away to their dens. Tomorrow, they would wake up bruised and hungover, with a nagging sense of shame they’d try to forget as soon as possible.
They’d be good citizens, cheering the Seragian carevna and Amril, accepting the transition of power when it inevitably happened in three days’ time.
Their lust for blood had been sated, the sacrifices to the gods made.
Abia would wipe this stain off her white cloak and continue to live in peace and prosperity.
Somewhere in the palace, Darin slipped in and out of consciousness, dreaming feverish dreams of the northern forests and the feral goddess who ruled them, but he was alive.
He’d be there when the princes needed him, as would Queen Orsiana.
The Seragian emperor would find the royal family united, and the treaty would hold.
It was, in all measurable ways, a victory.
And yet, it tasted like ash in her mouth.
Amron had chosen Melia because she needed him more, because it was the right thing to do.
Liana fought to suppress the tears that filled her eyes as she headed towards to the Northern gate.
She was done with Abia, done with history, done with the kingdom.
She’d given all she had to give, and it wasn’t enough to get her what she wanted the most.
She walked through the familiar streets, now filled with trash and rubble and people hurrying home, and bid a silent goodbye.
It had been her home, after all, and it wasn’t its fault that it had demanded so much.
She’d chosen to tie her life to Amron, she’d chosen to challenge the gods.
The city was just a high stake in that game.