They hurried to the pope’s tent, skirting around onlookers. Ravenna grabbed a fistful of her dress, holding it high to better keep up with Marco’s long strides. People mingled with friends, children played with wooden lances, and stray dogs barked merrily, hoping for a scrap of wild boar. Red and white wine, local ales and beer, and mulled wine flowed abundantly.
It was surreal to walk past oblivious scenes of enjoyment when she was on her way to commit murder. Her magic leaped within her in anticipation as they approached the lavishly decorated viewing box. There were many people flanking the pope—allies, conspirators, guards—but there was one figure her attention fixed on. A familiar cloaked form, hood up. He must have sensed her presence because he turned partway in her direction, half his face covered in shadow.
The courier.
Marco bounded up the steps, Ravenna at his heels. The courier turned toward her, and as soon as she stood on the platform he intercepted her, moving swiftly. She gasped at the sight of him. The lower half of his face was deathly pale, devoid of all color. Their meetings had always been at night, and in the firelight his skin glowed with a healthy tan. But now…
Of course.
The sun would set in the next hour, and while the light was soft and golden, there was still plenty of it. What she was witnessing was the effect of daylight on his skin. The courier gave her the briefest glance, brown eyes red-rimmed and tired, and pressed a slim mallet into her hands. Then he swept down the stairs, disappearing into the crowd, no doubt in search of shade.
Ravenna tucked the mallet into her wide sleeve, gripping the handle. She turned back toward Marco, bracing herself for what came next. She expected to find him yanking out his sword, violence written across his harsh features. She expected to hear him shouting curses at the guards who dared approach him in attack.
She did not expect to find him standing next to the pope, staring back at her with a cruel smile on his face, devil’s fire in his dark eyes.
“Yours for the taking, as promised,” he said. “Ravenna Maffei.”
Capitolo Quarantuno
Ravenna froze, Marco’s words not making any sense. They reached her ears, but her mind rejected them, refused to piece them together. She inhaled sharply, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Marco.
He’dbetrayedthem.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be real. Marco stared at her, coldly triumphant. A gasp worked its way up her throat, but she pressed her lips together, swallowed it down.
She mustn’t show any weakness.
The pope took a step toward her, his head tilted, fingertips pressed together. Guards stood off to the side, short swords and bows drawn. Behind them, Ravenna could just make out Saturnino astride his destrier, completely unaware of what was happening on the platform. She wanted to cry out to him, but he was too far, and her voice was no match for the rabid mob who chanted his name at the top of their voices.
Cavaliere Saturnino! Cavaliere Saturnino!
It was up to her, and she was alone.
Her magic coiled tight between her ribs, readying to spring out of her. Ravenna held on to her control by a thread—if she unleashed the magic too early, the guards would shoot their arrows. She gripped the mallet, her hand fully concealed in her sleeve. This was her only advantage, and she would only have one chance to strike. One chance to destroy the pope’s chain mail.
It glinted at her in the dying light, an inch of it visible underneath his flowing robes.
“So,” the pope said quietly, drawing closer. “You are the one who has caused me so much trouble.” He angled his body toward Marco but kept his pale blue gaze fixed on her. “Did you bring me what else I asked for?”
Marco let out a piercing whistle as the spectators jumped to their feet, ribbons fluttering wildly. A thunderous choir of euphoric yelling rose into the sky, near deafening. Ravenna chanced a look over the pope’s shoulder, catching a glimpse of Saturnino, the tip of his lance bloody.
A whoosh of air escaped her. He’d won.
“What’s happened?” the pope asked, his back to the tournament proceedings.
“Cavaliere Saturnino gouged out the Duke of Urbino’s eye,” said one of the guards. “He’s bleeding all over the ground.”
“Good, I don’t want anything to happen to my statue,” the pope said, his voice the clean cut of a scythe.
Ravenna flinched, her eyes flicking to Marco. The fate that awaited Saturnino horrified her. Turned to stone and kept in a locked room for the amusement of a single man. She glowered at Marco, a keen feeling of hatred filling her. “How could you?”
“Easily,” he said, beckoning to someone over her shoulder. “His Holiness will have his statues returned to him, and I alone will remain human, without the constant vigilance and interference of the others.”
There was a subtle note in his tone that was hurt and petulant. A little boy who felt wronged.
“You’ll need—” Ravenna broke off, the words caught at the back of her throat. Horror bit into her skin, sharp claws that pinched her nerves. She had almost mentioned the courier, who Marco didn’t know about. He only knew that she could provide a wizard, but she hadn’t specified who it was.
