Basten nudges Myst closer to me and says quietly, “Did you know about this?”
I shake my head hard.
Basten curses under his breath. “Artain looks drunk off his ass. And Vale looks about ready to murder him.”
My heart thumps faster, my gloved hands twisting knots in Tòrr’s mane. The energy in the crowd shifts—it’s sharper now, and Artain isn’t the only one who’s been drinking. Half the audience is already swaying, singing old fae ballads half-slurred.
“Mortals!” Artain calls, pushing forward onto the balcony, holding out a hand toward the set in the arena’s center. “Behold the gates of ancient Calisyrune. A final gift from us to you—and for you, King of Fae!” He turns to Iyre. “Sister, if you will do the honors.”
Iyre steps forward, her red fey sparking at her palms. She weaves her fingers in the air, and a half dozen figures suddenly rise from the sand. Sitting upright in strange, jerky movements.
I gasp, tightening my thighs around Tòrr. “What trickery is this?”
Basten is silent at my side, on alert. He quietly feels for the hunting knife sheathed in the hidden holster at his side.
Garbled cries of surprise ring out from the crowd. The figures—people, though I’m hesitant to call them that—stand up and move jerkily toward the wooden set. Iyre twists her fingers again, and ropes fall from the upper portion of the set.
The figures slide their hands and feet into loops at the end of each rope.
Basten hisses at my side. “Those figures reek of rot—they’re fucking dead bodies.”
Tòrr stomps his feet beneath me, dancing nervously, as unnerved as I am.
“That’s impossible,” I say.
Basten throws an angry look toward the Immortal Box. “Not if Woudix is behind it.”
My throat tightens. “He wouldn’t do this.”
“Who else can unearth the buried dead and make them walk?” Basten snaps back, though his anger isn’t aimed at me.
“There are…godkissed Deathraisers,” I stutter, but even my own logic begins to fall apart at the seams. Deathraisers can bring back the dead, yes—but they can’t pilot them like puppets.
The crowd catches on that the figures are dead bodies, and someone suddenly calls out, “It’s them! The Cold Coins!”
I whip my head around, squinting into the gloaming light at the walking cadavers. Sure enough—there’s no mistaking the deep gash in Gaez’s skull where Rian buried an axe. I spy the generals named Boone and Mallik, too.
The crowd’s mood shifts, uncertain and bordering unease.
Artain lifts his hands higher, quick to reassure everyone. “Mortals, this is for you! Do not fear, there is no danger! If you liked our first show of vengeance, when we slaughtered General Gaez, who had so wronged you, you’lllovethis. Behold, what happens to your enemies!”
Iyre moves her hands more, and the cadavers of all the fallen Cold Coins—Boone, Mallik, Gaez, and their other commanders—begin to dance a grotesque show.
It’s a puppet show,I realize.With the dead.
I lift a shaking hand to my brow, trying to quell my panic and disgust. “Was Rian behind this supposed miracle, too?”
Basten immediately shakes his head. “He’s not dumb enough forthis. Rian understands what the public wants. When it wants vengeance, when it wants entertainment. Safety.Thisis a drunk couple of asshole fae who are about to ruin everything we’ve achieved today.”
I narrow my eyes, glaring at Artain in the Immortal Box, and murmur, “Not if I can help it.”
I spur on Tòrr, who leaps forward. We head straight for the lower rung of seating in the stadium. There’s a fifteen-foot wall around the arena, too high even for Tòrr to clear, but I steer him toward a tall wooden crate painted to look like a barn.
He leaps onto the crate, then bounds into the stands.
The public scrambles out of our way, already jittery and restless from Artain’s twisted human puppet show.
Tòrr and I stampede up the steps as people dart out of our way, straight to the Immortal Box. Tòrr tears through the space with wild abandon, gleefully stamping on broken champagne flutes and china plates as his massive rump knocks over the tables of offerings.
