Page 89 of Echoes of the Raven
Puta madre!
We’re all as still as statues. Even the horses are still. My heart beats in my ears, and though I strain to listen for our enemies’ approach, all I hear is its incessant pounding.
Rífíor stands in a crouch, sword in hand. He looks ready for anything, even if his expression betrays no worry. Does he have that much confidence in Calierin’s espiritu? I felt the ravages of her cruelty inside my mind, and I’ve used my blade to block her potent volleys. But can she be one with the gentle hand of nature? Can she help us blend in with the swaying foliage and let the birds’ song be the only sound of notice?
Hooves thunder in their approach. I bite the inside of my cheek and hold my breath. Our pursuers streak by. Relief begins to take shape. My shoulders relax a fraction.
Someone shouts, “Hold!”
The horses come to a sudden stop.
“This way,” the same voice calls.
Rífíor doesn’t wait. He darts into the road and charges, sword raised to mow down whoever stands in his way. Kadewyn and Calierin jump off their horses, matching Rífíor step for step. My hand flies to the hilt of Father’s sword at my back, but it freezes there.
No. No more death.
The guardias aren’t really our enemies. They’remypeople. I can’t let this happen. I remove my hand from La Matadora and reach into my rucksack. Straightening and putting on an air of command, I follow the others, an irrefutable order issuing from my lips.
“Stop in the name of the Plumanegra Dominion,” I say, holding up my Plumanegra key.
There is enough force in my voice that it carries through the ranks. Fae and human alike halt in their tracks. Their gazes turn to me in a moment of hesitation I must take advantage of. I place the Plumanegra key in my pocket and take hold of The Eldrystone next, begging it to do its job… if it comes to it.
“I am Valeria Plumanegra and demand to know who’s in charge?”
Next to me, Rífíor lowers his head and tilts it in my direction. “This will not work,” he murmurs.
I ignore him.
A woman I’ve never met urges her horse forward from the back of the line. Four others accompany her. She cuts a formidable presence atop her sleek mount, flanked by a retinue of guardias and a figure clad in a heavy cloak, presumably the hired sorcerer. With a steely gaze fixed on me, her features betray nothing. Every line on her stern face speaks of resolve and duty.
“It is I,” she says.
“State your name and rank.” The bars on her left arm give me the answer, but it’s the customary question.
“Teniente Coronel Eva Toromayor, here on Capitán Armando Quiñones’s orders and by extension the queen’s,” she responds in the clear tone inherent to her military training.
I open my mouth to issue an order, but she cuts me off.
“In the name of Queen Amira Plumanegra, you are under arrest.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I burst out. “Under what charge?”
“The charge is treason. Punishable by death.”
I nearly gasp. Is this what she’s been instructed to say to scare us? Or is it true? I hate that I don’t know the answer, that I fear my own sister wants me dead.
“Surrender your weapons or face the consequences,” she says.
I examine the faces of all those present, there are a couple that look familiar. Yet, there isn’t a shred of sympathy in their expressions. On the contrary, they appear irate.
The sorcerer slowly lifts his hands.
Rífíor tilts his face upward to meet the male’s eye and recognition widens his eyes. “Galen?”
The sorcerer’s eyes flick toward Rífíor. As if time has slowed, I watch his expression morph from determination to utter shock. He lowers his hood and blinks as if trying to wake up from a dream.
“It can’t be,” the sorcerer says in a rush of breath.
