“And now, I am someone else entirely,” I cried. “I am all those girls, and none of them. I have stolen their minds and broken their hearts and endured their battle-metal wounds. And I know now what I should have known from the beginning.” I pointed a trembling finger at the Relic sword, lying untouched upon the street.“I don’t want that.”
Their silence rang with discomfort and confusion and the slightest burble of hysterical laughter.
“I mean it,” I said. “Anyone who wants it should take it. Pick it up! Break it apart and sell its bits and pieces for scraps—those ores are as fine as any you’ll find elsewhere, and should fetch a few livres at the least. I don’t care—good riddance to the ugly heirloom.”
Someone laughed, sharp. Greed surfaced in one woman’s eyes, then slid away when she saw me looking.
“Or better yet,” I went on, “pick it up and wield it! There has been bloodshed here today—why stop there? See how this sword flames, molten with the sun’s hot warmth? That must mean the Scion himself has blessed this weapon. Use it upon your neighbor, for surely his beliefs are inferior to yours. Someone else has preached this to you, and so it must be true. Carry this weapon before you in place of kindness, and smite those who disagree with you. You will conquer the whole world with it, but in the end only you will be standing.”
A young man to my right lifted an absent hand to the red mask dangling around his neck.
“But really, there is only one thing to do.” I pointed at the sword, then at Coeur d’Or. “Pick it up. March through those gates—they will open for you. Claim any room in the palais—I recommend one of the big ones. Drink fine wines and wear silks and paint your face in rouge and mascara. You will be happy, for a time. But one day, you will realize—none of those things are free. They come at the price of power. And that—that is nothing but a burden.”
Somewhere, a baby wailed into the silence.
“I don’t want it,” I repeated. A tear slid down my cheek. I didn’t bother to brush it away. “My Sabourin blood has done as much to curse me as it has to bless me. Which is why I’ll walk away from this—I’ll walk away from this impossible dream forever, and be glad for it. But someone else needs to pick up the sword and shoulder its burden.”
No one moved so much as a muscle.
“I am not your Sun Heir.” I knelt beside the sword and bowed my head. The sunlight sparked on the diamonds embedded in my skin and ground them hot against my veins. “I am not my legacy. I am not my dynasty. I was forged in the dusk and tempered on failure. I am nothing but what I made myself. Every action I have taken has led me here. If I asked for this once, I asked for it a hundred times—even when I didn’t know I was asking. So let me take this burden onto myself one more time. Let me be your Duskland Dauphine.”
There were no cheers. If there were flowers, no one threw them. The ground beneath my knees was spattered with blood and sweat and spilled liquor. My head throbbed and my corset pinched and my throat burned with future tears. And yet—
A boy stepped forward, gingerly, as though he thought someone might stop him. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, and he reminded me—with a bright sharp ache—of Gavin. Dark hair and tanned skin, with a smile lurking behind his teeth and sunlight in his eyes. He bent, and lifted the sword. It was too heavy for him, and he didn’t know how to grip it properly—lines of blood burst along his palm.
I bit my lip.
He looked around, apprehensive, searching the faces of soldats and Red Masks and Ambers for some disagreement, some disapproval to let him know his instincts were wrong. He must not have found any, because he stepped closer.
“I think,” he said shyly, pressing the sword into my hands, “I think it should be you.”
I bit back a laugh and smiled through sudden tears. And as I climbed slowly to my feet, the crowd’s murmurs turned to cheers.
Duskland Dauphine.
The sound spilled away from my feet like the cresting of a wave, rushing down the Concordat and gaining momentum as it went. But that noise wasn’t just cheers.
That was the sound of hoofbeats.
Anarmy’sworth of hoofbeats.
Fear pounded through me, and my hand found the hilt of the sword. Its ancient power frothed up my arm, whispering thirsty calm toward my heart.
These Relics were not afraid of battle.
But I was. I peered over the crowd’s head, but couldn’t see anything. I turned to launch myself up the podium, but the way my friends were staring down the Concordat stopped me in my tracks. Instead of standing on their guard or looking fearful, they all looked—
Happy?
I threw myself up the steps two at a time. I reached the top, breathless, and turned.
“What—?” I gasped out.
Oleander flashed me a luminous smile. “He’s here. He’s late, but he’s here.”
Heat burned my veins. I shielded my eyes, staring along the broad boulevard. For a moment, it looked like a remnant of Haze and Shade’s illusion of night. But no—the darkness that streamed up the Concordat resolved itself into black destriers bred for snowy peaks, ridden by ten-score black-cloaked wolves. The militia’s commandant rode three paces ahead, his bright hair a clarion. He urged his stallion faster, toward the edge of the crowd beginning to shy away from the soldats.
“He came,” I murmured.
