He looked at her narrowly, frowning slightly, as if trying to puzzle out a riddle. “His Holiness is providing the use ofhiswizard.”
Ravenna didn’t let it show, but she wasreeling.The courier had betrayed her. Why else would he agree to perform the spell for just Marco? But that didn’t make sense. If his intent was on tricking her, then why give her a mallet? She thought quickly—there had to be a moment for her to act, something she could use to her advantage.
Two people brushed past her, carrying a wooden trunk by its brass handles. Ravenna clenched her jaw at the sight of it, rage skipping over her skin, rioting in her veins. Her magic rose high, and she felt its wild current moving swiftly through her. She inhaled through her nose.
Not yet, not yet.
Marco pulled at a chain around his neck, dragging it up and over the collar of his tunic, and produced a brass key. Wordlessly, he handed it to one of the guards, who quickly unlocked the trunk. The lid was lifted, and even wrapped in linen, blue light shone through the fabric. It washed over Marco and His Holiness, giving each an eerie visage, like lost souls trapped in Pluto’s underworld.
A maniacal laugh tore out of the pope, fiendish and off-putting. Anger coursed through Ravenna. This was the man who had held her enthralled with empty promises. And she had believed him, had kept herself in line. But she was more than what the pope made her to be: scared, cornered, threatened.
Her fate was not yet decided.
She was not powerless.
Ravenna tightened her fingers around the handle of the mallet. She felt the strength in her bones, in her muscles. Years of manipulating stone had fortified her, given her drive, ambition, patience. Her capacity knew no bounds. It was then, when the pope’s full attention was on the stones, his eyes wide with greed, that Ravenna launched herself forward, a quick prayer in her mouth. With all her might, she swung at the pope.
He wasn’t expecting the strike.
Her aim was true.
The mallet hit his chain mail with a loud crack. A ripple of magicburst between them, the air hissing and sparking in a flash of unholy light. A loud clinking noise followed, and as the pope staggered, his chain mail slid to the ground with a loud thud.
He stared down at it, thunderstruck. Then he lifted his eyes to Ravenna’s, his a pale, violent blue, his lips parted and widened in a snarl, as if he wanted to tear her to pieces with his bare teeth. Ravenna straightened, her magic rising—
“Bring them out,” he said quietly. “Bring themallout.”
From behind one of the viewing stands, her family—parents, her twin brothers, and her youngest sister—were dragged out in chains to stand before the viewing platform. Terror was stamped on every one of their faces. Ravenna’s face drained of all color, and a nauseous feeling crawled over her skin, making it cold and clammy. She forgot how to speak, she couldn’t think of anything to say. Despair hung over her, clouding her vision.
“If anything should happen to me,” the pope said, “my guards and attendants will kill them. Whatever your plans were, Ravenna, they were doomed from the start.” He lifted his hand and made a signal to someone in the crowd.
A barrage of noise came from one end of the piazza, emanating from the direction of the cathedral. It was a blend of trumpets and horns, of a thousand marching men, on foot, on horses. The papal troops appeared, marked by the keys of Saint Peter and wearing plates of armor and surcoats in white and yellow. They carried swords, pikes, halberds, and crossbows.
The pope had not come alone.
No, she thought.No, no.
Ravenna stared at the procession with mounting terror. He had brought an army with him, and they had quietly surrounded the city while everyone observed the tournament. They had infiltrated Florence’s gates, had marched through the streets, drawing closer and closer, waiting for the call from Rome. The papal troops flooded the arena, racing for the viewing stands. Skirmishes broke out through the piazza, weapons clashing. Several troops seized Lorenzo de’ Mediciand dragged him forward, but he fought like a wild man despite being outnumbered four to one. His weapons were yanked out of his hands.
The guards pushed the politician onto his knees in front of the pope’s platform.
A high primal scream rose over the noise of clanging weapons and shouting. Movement from the corner of Ravenna’s eye drew her attention. It was members of the Luni famiglia frantically shoving and pushing, trying to reach Signor Medici.
Above all else, the spell demanded they protect Lorenzo de’ Medici.
Marco came to stand next to her, his attention fixed on the roiling crowd. Ravenna could guess who he searched for.
“The pope has threatened to kill Signor Medici,” Ravenna said suddenly. “And the spell forbids—”
“He won’t kill Lorenzo,” Marco said. “Not thattheyknow that.”
Ravenna glanced down.
All four had made it to the front of the podium: Signor Luni, his face gashed and bruised, his right arm hanging at an odd angle; Fortuna, her lovely gown shredded, fingers dripping blood; Signora Luni limping after them, her hair in disarray. And then Saturnino, close-lipped and furious, his cheek slashed, shirtsleeves missing. He gripped a pike, the tip stained red.
Across the pandemonium, the terrified crowd, the clink of armor, the sound of hundreds of boots thundering up and down the piazza, Ravenna and Saturnino locked eyes. Above them, the sky had turned a dusky purple, the color of a bruise.
He was running out of time.
