Chapter 41
The screaming starts immediately and intensifies as magic is thrown out into the cloud of blackness that consumes us.
Coloured blasts illuminate the ballroom with split seconds of blinding intensity, only to fade instantly, leaving coloured blurs in front of my eyes and an ashy tang at the back of my throat as I’m jostled from side to side.
After that, screams and darkness are all that fill the room.
Having my sight ripped away from me is terrifying, but thanks to Jonas and Seiren, I’ve experienced similar before. So I pull myself together, ignore the fear, and focus on finding Kay.
‘Kay!’ I scream, trying to make my voice heard above all the crying wails, but it’s impossible.
Panic rises through me. I can’t lose her here. She can’t have survived years in the slums only to die in the Godsdamn High Hold because of my decision to enter the Retterheld.
‘Kay!’ I shout again. I’m struck from the side again, but this time whoever it is holds me firmly and twists my shoulders.
‘Get to the edge of the room, Rose.’ Benny’s voice peals through the darkness. ‘Stay there. Out of the way.’
‘I need to find Kay!’ I argue.
‘I’ll try,’ he promises. ‘I can’t see everything, but I’ll try.’
With my heart beating fast enough to choke me, I stretch out my hands, feeling in front of me, and when I find the grooves of the wood panels, I do as Benny says, bracing myself against the wall. I remove my dagger from its sheath before calling my sister’s name again.
‘Kay! Kay, I’m here! I’m here!’
My throat cracks, and as I go to scream her name again, a voice bellows, ‘Silence! All of you! You will listen!’
For a heartbeat, I assume the voice is being amplified by magic, but as my skull begins to pound, the truth hits me. It’s inside my head. The voice is inside my head.
‘You need to hear the truth! You need to hear what your great king is doing to the people of his kingdom.’ The voice is thick with sarcasm and disdain.
The screams have turned to whimpers, and I’m not sure if I’m among the people making the sound. This magic’s so loud that I can barely form a thought, though there is only one that matters. I need to get to Kay.
‘Tonight is the night you will hear the truth …’ the voice continues. ‘Tonight you—’
An agonised scream detonates inside my skull, spearing straight into my mind. And then … snap.
In the space of a single heartbeat, both the darkness and the voice inside my head vanish.
One minute, my senses have been dominated by powers beyond my control; the next, the room returns before my eyes and my head is my own.
My hand flies to my mouth at the sight of the ballroom. Several bodies lie prone on the floor, smashed glasses and blood smeared on the wood around them.
‘Kay!’ No sooner has her name left my lips than I spot a glimpse of her green dress on the edge of the dance floor. Hew has put himself between her and whatever this threat is, and relief slams into me with such intensity that my knees buckle.
Hew may have come across as an arrogant arsehole, but at least he’s protecting my sister.
Now that I know she’s safe – for now – I tear my eyes from Kay and assess the situation. It takes less than a heartbeat to understand why the magic stopped so suddenly.
‘You took your time, Commander,’ Korvane says as he takes a sip from his drink.
‘Apologies, Your Majesty,’ Zelle replies. ‘I was walking the walls.’ I note that the commander doesn’t look at the king as he speaks. Instead, his attention is on a woman in the crowd with ash-blonde hair and deep mauve lips.
‘Do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?’ Zelle says, his eyes still locked on hers.
‘I think it might be harder than you think.’ She smiles and the instant Zelle takes a step towards her, two dozen other men and women step out from the crowd, all of them armed, including one with a sword of ice formed in his grip.
‘Issen!’ someone screams.
Chaos breaks loose yet again, and beside me, another ice wielder appears.
These aren’t like the Issen I was told about as a youth, with white eyes and white skin.
Instead, their skin tones and eye colours are as varied as those of the men and women of Morathka.
That thought has barely entered my head when a single ice bolt is hurled towards the king, only for it to be extinguished in a blast of air before it reaches Korvane.
My heart thuds. It shouldn’t be possible for them to use magic this close to Zelle.
‘They have their own siphon!’ The cry goes out just as I arrive at the same conclusion.
It’s impossible to tell if their siphon is strong enough to nullify Zelle’s powers completely, but given that I’ve seen the commander mute the powers of forty Rettlings without breaking a sweat, the flicker of something close to consternation that crosses the old man’s face is alarming.
Another shard of ice comes out of nowhere, and heads turn in the direction it came from.
The panic that started to fade at Zelle’s appearance has returned, and people are rushing to exit the ballroom when someone hurls what appears to be molten metal at one of the attackers.
A woman with bright blonde hair drops to the ground, dead, the ice of her own formation melting around her.
She can’t be Issen, can she? Issen, here? So far from the Coltan Mountains? Yet the Issen are the only ones gifted with ice, and so I have no other explanation. What the hell is going on?
There must be at least a dozen ice weavers and fire wielders working together in here, all wanting the king dead. The ice weavers are undoubtedly Issen, but the fire wielders? Rebels.
I’ve heard whispers, of course, in the slums. Angry people insisting that if we rose up together, we would be able to fight back.
But I dismissed such voices as na?ve fools.
No one in the slums has the energy, let alone the resources, to dethrone a king.
Yet here they are, inside the palace, fighting with their lives.
Grenda is one of the first Rettlings to jump into action, and she disarms the first attacker with a flick of the wrist. I still have no idea what her power is, but from the way the rebel facing her writhes in pain, I reckon it’s something to do with manipulating bodies.
All the while, the king stands unmoved, a bored expression on his face as he sips his drink, as if he can’t even see what’s happening in front of him.
There’s so much magic in the air that it’s impossible to tell where it’s coming from or how to avoid it.
Half the Rettlings have joined in, including all five remaining knights, but I can’t tell what we’re up against and how many rebels there are. Twenty? Forty? A hundred? How far does this go?
I squeeze the hilt of my dagger, but for the first time in an age, I wish for a sword.
Scouring the room, I find Kay is still with Hew, who is holding her tight.
Every muscle in my body wants to run to her, to protect her, but I know that doing so will only draw unwanted attention to me and potentially get us both caught in the crossfire.
As much as I hate it, the only thing I can do is trust her with Kyor’s oldest friend.
Odetta and Mattieu are both casting flame after flame, and while hers seem indiscriminate, Mattieu specifically aims at a female rebel close to him.
With the strength of his power, I expect the woman to be cinders in no time, but instead she grasps the fiery bundle of magic roaring towards her with her own power and twists it back in the other direction.
Before it meets its targets, it evaporates, and it only takes me a heartbeat to see why.
Zelle. He’s trying to protect the Rettlings as well as the king, and somehow he’s managing it, even with someone siphoning his magic.
His hands are moving constantly, his right hand using his sword to block any strikes that come towards him, his left pulling daggers from his belt, which he throws at every target he spots.
Though how he can tell the rebels from the people simply running for the door, I have no idea.
Realising their tactics aren’t working, the rebels are suddenly on Zelle, at a ratio of four to one, and judging by the way two of them are using magic, he still hasn’t brought the siphon down yet.
At least one of those he’s fighting is an Issen, though I would never have known it to look at her.
Her frozen blade disappears and reappears in the blink of an eye, constantly grazing the commander, yet never getting close enough to strike home.
She has magic enough to form the weapon, but not enough skill to use it properly.
Dozens of people stand around, watching on, all fearful of getting too close. Thankfully, Grenda isn’t one of them.
‘On your left, Commander,’ she calls out.
‘Find that fucking siphon!’ he barks back.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him swear, and judging by the fear that flashes across the faces of the guards and other nobles, it’s not a good sign.
Zelle and Grenda form a rhythm, her swordwork as impressive as his, yet it’s not enough.
And I’m not the only one who sees it. As Zelle continues to battle the icy blade of the Issen, Kyor grabs a sword from some noble’s waistband – probably meant for display – and moves towards the two of them. But Zelle shakes his head.
‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ he snaps. ‘Respectfully,’ he adds.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Kyor snarls. Fighting close to Zelle means Kyor’s magic is also removed, but his skill with a blade is not. More rebels swarm in, and Kyor faces them, sword swinging deftly.
Steel flashes in the dim candlelight, each strike swift and economical as Kyor moves like water over stone – fluid, unstoppable – cutting down the first rebel before the man can even raise his weapon.
My eyes follow him as he falls to the ground and his body lands with a thud.
I know I shouldn’t be staring, that I need to be doing something, but the tattoo on the rebel’s wrist has me frozen.
Delicate black ink weaves up his arm, outlining a thin tendril of smoke. It’s identical to Peter’s and the one I saw on the carriage driver.
Before I can contemplate what this means, a second rebel lunges at the prince, only to be met with a twist of Kyor’s wrist and the snap of steel biting flesh.
Every motion is precise and deliberate, and several rebels falter, their fury curdling into fear as they realise too late that even without magic, Kyor is still death incarnate.
No matter how many are cut down, more rebels rush in. How many of them are there?
I can no longer stand on the sidelines and watch.
Clenching my dagger, I’m about to wade into the fray when my eyes fall on one of the rebel bodies, and I freeze yet again.
The shock of red hair. The paintbrush freckles.
My body stiffens. It can’t possibly be…?
But it is. Peter’s lifeless eyes stare at me accusingly, his flaming red hair coated in blood, just like the tattoo on his wrist. I cast my gaze around the room and find another body.
This time the smoke tattoo weaves up the side of her neck.
It was never just a random tattoo that Peter liked to display.
It was a sign. A sign of what he was. A rebel.
Panic surges through me. I never saw the same mark on Ruben’s body, but he and Peter were inseparable. Does that mean he’s here too? I whirl around wildly, trying to find my former lover among the press of the crowd.
I don’t see him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here. Godsdamn it.
Zelle’s pushing the rebels back inch by inch, reclaiming the ballroom, and all the while, King Korvane sips his drink like this is all some elaborate entertainment he ordered that’s disappointing him.
I falter because suddenly I’m not sure whose side I’m on. Killing King Korvane has been a recurring dream of mine for as long as I can recall. But taking on Zelle? And Kyor? Fuck. I don’t even know where my head’s at, let alone what I’m meant to do.
While I watch, Zelle slices straight through an Issen, then pulls the sword out and goes for the next one, but his blade meets nothing but air.
No friction. No slowing. Nobody.
‘It’s an illusion!’ somebody shouts.
There wasn’t an Issen ice warrior at all. It was all a distraction, and seconds later, we see what it was really for.
A rebel shimmers into existence, materialising only inches behind Zelle, and his blade arcs in a cruel, merciless sweep, steel whispering as it slices across the commander’s throat.
For an instant, everything slows. Zelle’s eyes widen, shock flashing there as disbelief collides with pain.
His lips part as though he might speak, but only a wet gurgle escapes.
Blood blossoms in a vivid spray as his trembling hand lifts, pressing uselessly against the wound as though sheer will might hold him together.
Horror grips me because I’m a healer’s daughter. I know the difference between wounds that beg to be mended and wounds that mock the very idea of hope. This is one of the latter.
The commander’s blood pours too fast, too freely, and there is nothing left for me to do but watch him die.