I don’t know how to do that. I don’t even know if I’m the rightpersonto do that.
The queen hasn’t said a word since the king walked through the door, and her eyes haven’t left that narrow slit in the wall. He’s barely visible,and we only catch occasional glimpses when he steps into view. I can tell from the shadowed movements that he’s not alone, but I can’t tell who’s with him. The screeching from the scravers is loud and intense, but at least the sound of breaking glass has ceased.
I wonder if the king’s final words toherare echoing in her thoughts, too.
Whatever you want. Whatever you need. I will always yield for you.
She inhaled to give an order, but he cut her off with a kiss. Was she going to sendhimout? Or was she going to send theguardsout?
Did he spare her the choice, or did he make it for her?
It makes me think of Alek, the way he stood there with a sword in his hand, looking at me like I’d betrayed him—but then he sent me back to the palace, unharmed. He left it up to me to tell the queen.
A mercy? Or a warning?
Didheyield forme?
My heart thumps, and I press a hand over my chest, my fingers falling against the pendant. It feels warm against my skin, and I feel those sparks and stars in my veins, just like when I healed Alek.
The queen gasps, and I look, and it seems that the fighting has slowed—or maybe there just aren’t enough fighters left. To my surprise, she grabs hold of my hand.
“What’s happening?” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“His magic is waning, I think.” Her breath almost hitches, but she catches herself, and slowly exhales. “The scravers are able to get closer.”
I want to ask how long his magic will last—but I don’t think I want the answer.
“Is he sacrificing himself for my people?” says the queen, and her voice is so quiet and broken that I can’t tell if she’s asking me or if she’s askingherself.
But then she turns to look at me. “Am I supposed to allow this?”
My breath catches, because much like the king’s final order to me, this is so unexpected.
But all of a sudden, the last few months snap into new focus. The way the queen called for dinner and poured glasses of wine forme. The way she stood at that window and talked about her husband.
The way she stayed in my bakery, fordays, instead of returning to the palace.
The way I haven’t seen her with one singlefriendin the entire time I’ve been here.
Her people might hate the king and his magic, butshedoesn’t.
Emotion wells up in my gut. I didn’t see the full scope of the conflict here. I didn’t realize.
Her eyes have filled, and when I blink, I realize mine have, too.
“We can help them,” I whisper to her. “We can. I . . . ?I have—”
But I can’t finish that sentence, or maybe my words are lost to the air.
Either way, it doesn’t matter, because the queen has gripped tight to my hand, and she’s opening the door.
I’m not prepared for the cold or the wind. Every flower in the garden is frosted over and wilting. The stone walls of the palace have a thin layer of frost, every piece of metalwork glinting with ice. Threads of blood have turned to ice everywhere, in streaks on the field, along the pennants strung below the windows, on the armor of fallen soldiers.
But there, just between the gardens and the training fields, the king is fighting scravers, practically hand-to-hand. Lord Tycho and that other soldier are by his side. A large scraver with red-and-purple feathers seems to be the worst of the aggressors, because his movements are quicker than lightning, and he darts away, moving in to swipe withclaws. The air is humming, and it takes me a moment to realize it must be magic. Is it the scravers? The king? Lord Tycho?
“Do you feel it?” says the queen.
“Yes,” I breathe. The pendant at my chest seems to be vibrating, and I press my hand over it.
