Page 14 of The Last Bell
“Such as our intention to protect their arses?” Tye says. “Aye, I’m starting to find that suspicious as well.”
“So what’s their plan exactly?” Coal’s voice is dark. “Give in to Owalin’s demands like good little lapdogs and hope he gives them proper scraps going forward?”
“He has their loved ones trapped,” says River, pausing to look out the window, where the Fothom king’s line of attendants and clerks files slowly into the Great Hall, the latter carrying oiled satchels filled with paper and ink needed to draw up the agreements that will cede all the thrones to the Night Guard. Behind the clerks, several servants are ready with trays of food. The Fothom king himself, a blurred form through the drizzle, prepares to follow. River shakes his head.”They’ve bought themselves some leeway, but it’s only a matter of time before the final five kings follow suit.”
“Fine.” Coal crosses muscular arms over his chest, his blue eyes flashing. “If the humans won’t help themselves, we’ll do it for them. Make entry after dark, take out the leadership cadre. With Owalin gone, the rest of the beasts will be easier to slay.”
River shakes his head. “There are two dozen fae and who knows how many human supporters in the Night Guard. The five of us can’t take that on without resorting to significant magic—and a battle like that is likely to bring the whole keep down. It doesn’t count as a victory if we kill all the hostages.”
“Isn’t the Night Guard under the same constraint?” I ask. “Killing a hostage here and there is one thing, but if they explode the whole keep, they have no leverage anymore.”
“Exactly right.” River nods. “Magic isn’t the answer since such combat would lead to mutual destruction. And when it comes to melee, the Night Guard has too many people for us to face down alone.”
My hand tightens on the table’s edge, the males’ conversation suddenly taking on layers I hadn’t noticed earlier.Magic isn’t the answer.My heart quickens, the fledgling strands of realization injecting energy into muscle. I only realize I’ve spoken aloud when the males turn their gazes to me in question.
“Magic isn’t the answer,” I say again, already headed for the door, my skin tingling in anticipation of the chill wind and rain. Of what I’m about to do. “Being human is the answer. Which means it isn’t River they need to be talking to.”
“Did anyone understand what the lass said?” Tye murmurs to the others as I step out into the courtyard, lifting my face toward the command tent.
At once, I feel the wind blowing my hair free of my neck and whipping the strands while the last vestiges of rain cling to my cheeks. I walk stridently across the cobblestones, not slowing long enough to question the sanity of what I’m doing. Behind me, the soft tapping of feet betrays the males’ presence behind me, as does the sudden hush of the crowd. Glares ranging from hate to fear to awe track my every movement as I survey the ground outside the tent in search of something to stand on. Finding nothing better than a charred bench that was once part of the proud arena bleachers, I set it upright before climbing on top.
“You were told to get the hell out.” A man’s voice hits me in the chest before I fully find my footing. Stepping out from under the command tent, the Fothom king points a sword at me. Once tall and broad-shouldered, his pale blond hair still thick under his gold-and-sapphire crown, his proud form has seemed to age twenty years from grief. “You are not welcome here. None of you.”
Heart pounding, I raise a halting hand to my males, who are already reaching for weapons. The extra couple of feet of height the bench gives me are enough to make me seen, though the platform is hardly dignified. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, my heart quickening. Speeches are River’s specialty, not mine. But this crowd doesn’t need River.
“Put down your blade, Your Majesty,” I tell the king, wrinkling my nose at the ornate sword in his hands. “It makes you look like a rabbit with claws, when we all know you have none.”
“How dare—” The Fothom king takes a step forward before two men rush to grab his shoulders, holding him back with desperate murmurs about not provoking the immortals.
“You should listen to them,” I tell the king, my words carrying over the courtyard and softly pattering rain. “After all, rabbits who get between two hungry wolves are only choosing which stomach they will end up in. Better to tuck your tail and go hide beneath the largest rock you can find while the immortals do as they please. There truly is nothing left for you anymore than to wait and mourn your dead—both present and future.”
The king’s face darkens, an angry murmur starting among the remaining crowd. A few steps behind me, Tye and Coal debate my sanity, neither’s opinion overly flattering.
River takes a step toward me. I shake my head, and he retreats, his arms crossed over his wide chest. Grim but silent. Turning my attention back to the courtyard, I swallow, keeping my chin up as I let the crowd’s newly roused fury stretch itself awake. As I drink it in.
Because anger is better than fear. Better than apathy.
“What? Don’t you like what I say?” I demand, marking for the first time the one face that is listening to me with rapt attention—Princess Katita’s. I let myself hold her cool turquoise gaze a moment as I continue. “I’m only giving voice to the murmurs I’m hearing,” I say. “This isn’t my tale. It is yours.”
“Spoken like a true immortal on a pedestal,” a voice yells, the crowd parting to a woman with puffy eyes, sagging red braids, and a skewed crown. The queen of Fothom, who lost her son this afternoon, whose husband is readying to surrender himself to the Night Guard for the sake of his remaining children. “It isn’t your world that’s shattered. Don’t you dare judge what you’ve never experienced. You think you know what our lives are like because you feigned being a human student for a few months? You think you understand anything? Your people brought disaster on our heads, so don’t you lecture us on how to take a beating with more grace.”
A lump forms in my throat at the wild grief on the woman’s face, my hand going to my midsection. I’ve only heard my pups’ heartbeats, and I already cannot imagine watching someone hurt them—that this queen stands tall after the grief she faced, that she looks an immortal in the eye and holds her ground, is what makes humans as powerful as any fae.
“You are quite right, Your Majesty,” I say, and mean it.
The queen, whose mouth is already open with a new insult, cocks her head.
“You deserve to make your own choices and be respected for them. You also deserve to know the truth—of who I am, of why we came here to begin with. I ask that you let me tell you, and then you make the decision that is right for your people. Better yet, don’t listen to me. Listen to one of your own.”
Looking over the crowd—now a thinned-out mixture of Academy cadets, Prowess athletes, staff, and those royal visitors hardy or panicked enough to remain outside—I lock eyes with the blacksmith who was ready to swing a mallet at my head earlier today. “Master Thad. There is a prisoner named Jake in the Academy’s dungeons. He is the same Master Zake who has been leading the inquisition to rid the mortal world of fae. Would you bring him here and ask him about me? Ask him who I am and who I was.”
Thad spits on the ground. “If you think I’ll do your bidding—”
“I think you’ll domybidding.” Katita’s regal voice is smooth and polished beside mine. With her dress torn and wet, she limps as she strides from the command tent, passing by the Fothom royals as if the pair isn’t even there. Coming up to my makeshift pedestal, Katita ignores my offer of a hand up as she climbs —though taking the step is plainly a painful endeavor.
“I am the crown princess of Ckridel,” Katita announces to the crowd. “With my father kept captive, I am charged with the throne. And I will have no fae or blacksmith deny me the truth. Bring the prisoner and let him speak.”
Turning to Katita, I search for something to say but find the young woman’s gaze so filled with steel that no words come.
