“Oh, Rian,” I exclaim under my breath. “What have you done?”
There’s no sign of Rian, but one of the fugitives is here. The leader of the Cold Coins, the dissident group of Golden Sentinels who refused to surrender at Rian’s order.
The man is strung up outside the gates, his motionless arms splayed to the sides, hanging by ropes like a puppet. A large battle axe, the same kind that Immortal Vale carries, is cleft deep into his skull. Golden arrows stick out of his chest. The telltale black-purple mark of belladonna poison stains his lips. Smoke still rises from his hollowed-out eyes, burned to nothing but ashes. Ivy vines wind around his neck.
Basten steps forward, breathing hard, and the soldiers fall back to give him room. “How did…?”
Even with the question unfinished, we all know what he’s asking, and no one has the answer.
“Look!” I grab Basten’s arm and point to the stone pavers outside the gate, where someone has scrawled in chalk:
WE COME NOT TO HARM, BUT PROTECT.
WE BRING JUSTICE, NOT PAIN.
LAY DOWN OFFERINGS TO US, AND WE WILL LAY YOUR ENEMIES AT YOUR FEET.
SOON, WE WILL ARRIVE.
THE GAMES WILL BEGIN.
Despite the late hour, a crowd of onlookers has already gathered on the other side of the gate. Nighttime workers, drunks from the pubs, bakers getting an early start on their bread dough.
They point to the body, hushed voices rising and falling in a mix of fear and awe.
“That’s Gaez,” a tavernkeeper calls. “The leader of the Cold Coins.”
“It’s the work of the fae!” a busker adds, his lute dangling from his shoulder. “Those are Artain’s golden arrows! And Vale’s axe. And look—Thracia’s belladonna poison on his lips!” He suddenly locks eyes with me and starts. “Oh—Lady Solene! King Basten! Forgive me, I did not see you!”
Gasps ring out once they see us on the inside of the gate. One by one, everyone falls to their knee, head bowed.
“Is it true, Lady Solene?” a street sweeper asks, keeping his head lowered. “Did Vale himself bring Gaez to justice? Is this a fae miracle?”
An elderly lady bows before me. “Thank you, my lady, for this miracle! Our gratitude to all your kind!”
I gape, slowly looking between the ivy wrapped in a noose around Gaez’s neck and at my own glowing fey lines.
“I—” I start. “I didn’t?—”
Basten jerks his head at me, a signal to stay quiet. I close my mouth. His jaw is rock-hard, anger simmering in his eyes, because he knows as well as I did that none of the fae had anything to do with this.
He steps close to me and murmurs low, what’s done is done—let them worship you.” He pauses. “You need the strength.”
“Riandid this,” I hiss.
“I know.”
Captain Fernsby turns to the soldiers and commands, “Cut down the body. Get these gates open!”
The soldiers finally snap to attention, though they look as shaken by the spectacle as the onlookers.
I spot one of them quietly making the maze gesture of Immortal Meric beneath his cloak.
Even the soldiers are believers in this so-called miracle. Well, why wouldn’t they be? Rian gift-wrapped a perfect miracle for them as only Rian could: bloody, violent, full of vindictive glee.
Give the people what they want, he said.
“Soldiers,” Captain Fernsby orders. “Scour the city for the fugitive, Rian Valvere!”
