A cheer rings out in the distance, then another.
Aren grins up at me as the hall breaks out in hollers and whoops of relief and gratitude and joy.
“Well, that was one hell of a kiss,” I say.
Then she kisses me again. Because yes, it was.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Aren
Dietan has called the surviving fighters of Namreth’s army to assemble.
They trickle into the remains of the great hall and spill out into the courtyard and out onto the castle grounds. Their armor is tattered, their faces caked in dried blood. Some tremble from shock. Others assist the wounded.
A stout fellow with only one gold epaulet intact draws a sword and calls to the others, ordering those who can stand into lines, but there is no fight left in these soldiers. Many are too frightened to join the ranks, and some drop their blades when Dietan stands before them.
There is no malice in his eyes. These fighting men and women were probably just following orders, coerced into obedience just as the castle servants were. Dietan reaches for my hand, and I join him, knowing what he’s feeling. He doesn’t want there to be any more violence.
“I’m not Namreth—Osian—as you have probably guessed,” he says, shaking his head, still dazed. “I am Prince Dietan of Loegria, and I have liberated Castle Engel. This fight is over. Of that, I can assure you. Throw down your blades and walk away. Go back to your homes, back to your families and loved ones. Be done with this evil place.”
For most, his words are welcome. I doubt there are many who want a fight, but one or two are unmoved. Maybe they have nowhere to go. Maybe they just don’t know when to stop. I wait for one of them to strike, but no one does.
“You heard His Highness,” says Marcus. “Begone, you fools. The fight’s over unless you’re looking to start it up again. Eager to tangle with the Rings?”
At that, the last of the guards throw down their blades. One man simply falls to his knees and sobs. But soldiers aren’t the only people in the room. I look among at the faces around us and spot my friends.
Our little band of rebels made it out alive. They stare in blank-faced shock. They didn’t know Dietan had the power of the Whisting. Or maybe they’re just surprised to be alive. Lambert, Arnfried, and Tess stand together, clothes ragged, nursing their injuries. No one walked away from that tempest unscathed.
Their bodies will mend, but the scars will remain.
None of us will forget what happened today.
The people of Engel lived with the power of the Unseen Death, under Namreth’s terrible reign, for years. The fear in their eyes remains. Will any of them ever trust Dietan now that they know he holds the same power?
Marcus and Jared watch the people, too, silently waiting for their reaction.
I decide I must make the first move, to assure them that Dietan is not like the king he just vanquished. I let go of Dietan’s hand and step in front of him, addressing everyone—those who remember me, and those who don’t.
“Prince Dietan of Loegria unseated King Osian. Who, in truth, was his granduncle, Prince Namreth of Alarice, and no true heir to Estyrion.” I point to the body on the ground, and a flurry of murmurs breaks out around the hall. His identity hadn’t been common knowledge until now. “The bastard’s dead, and no one’s going to force you to march on Loegria. You’re not enslaved to a monster anymore. You’re free. Prince Dietan has freed you all, and all of Engel and Estyrion.”
A buzz of confused, excited chatter arises from the crowd.
“Hail, Prince Dietan, Liberator of Estyrion!” declares Jared, raising a sword. Marcus raises his in perfect unison.
Then one man kneels, and the girl at his side does, too. One by one, others follow. They drop whatever they are holding and fall to their knees, and the clang of their weapons on the marble ring out like bells all around us.
“Prince Dietan,” Lambert cries, then slowly lowers himself to one knee. He bows his head. The rest of the hall does the same, taking a knee in fealty.
Relief melts across Dietan’s face. He might not feel ready to be a king, but “liberator” suits him. He earned it.
“I guess it’s only appropriate…” I say. I lower myself to my knees before Dietan, my skirt flaring out around me.
“Aren, please. Don’t…”
“Your Highness,” I protest. “It is only proper.”
But Dietan grips my elbow and brings me back to my feet. When he does, he drops to his knees instead. He looks up at me, eyes shining, and a flash of memory from a simpler time comes back to me. A prince kneeling at the feet of a backcountry barmaid.
