Could we have stopped that from happening? Even as I stare at him, hatred welling up within me, I don’t think so. The image of Daggar’s and his guard Nemeth’s dead bodies, covered over with snakes, shows just how far Rihad’s reach extends. If we’d remained in Trilion, we wouldn’t have battled the skrill and at least delayed their future attacks. We wouldn’t know the truth about Rihad…and we wouldn’t have found the winged crown.
I reach down to grab the strap of my satchel, holding on to it as a talisman as I feel the weight of the crown against my belly. I don’t know what I might do with the crown at this point, but just having it makes me feel better. I know I’ll sooner die than let it drop into Rihad’s hands, that’s for sure.
My momentary spurt of strengthened resolve shatters in the next breath, as Rihad shifts to the side. He’s not alone on the platform.
A man stands beside the former lord protector, his cloak tossed back over his shoulder and his burly hands resting heavily on his belt. With his fierce glower and aggressive stance I can feel all the way across the coliseum, he looks every inch the brave warrior of the realm. Only it’s no ordinary warrior standing there. It’s Lord Lemille of the Tenth.
My father.
My gaze swims as I try to make sense of everything I’m seeing. How long have we been gone? And more importantly, where is Miriam…andNazar?
Gent shifts again beneath me, his deep sonorous rumble setting off ripples across his flesh that toss me around like an angry sea. I try to swallow my fear, but none of this makes any sense. If Rihad summoned Gent to reband him to my father, why is he knocked out cold and chained to the wall of the coliseum? Why did someone feel it necessary to slice open his back and leave the wound untended, a sticky mass of blood and gore?
And for that matter…
“How is it no one’s over here gawking at you?” I murmur aloud, though Gent remains deeply asleep. I mean, yes, we’re in the corner of the coliseum, and Gent is chained to the wall and not out in the middle of everyone, but the crowd surrounding the pavilion seem oblivious to the fact that a mighty Divh is in their midst. It’s like Szonja all over again, but why?
I blow out a long breath, glancing back to the center stage. There’s a strange sort of energy in the coliseum this day, frantic and wild, like a mob about to be unleashed.
Rihad strides forward and holds up both arms. The crowd goes fully silent. When he cries out, his voice reverberates across the walls of the coliseum. “Men and women of Trilion, I salute you! Long have we worked to ensure the success and prosperity of our land, and we have succeeded!”
A wild cheer goes up, and I sweep my gaze over the crowd of people. Then I—finally—notice something else.
Thirty riders stand off to the side of the stage, all of them dressed in heavy, ornate armor that looks nothing like anything I’ve ever seen from any of the houses of the Protectorate. It’s bright silver and glints in the sun, and they all, to a man, are wearing large, plumed helmets with golden ribbons cascading down. Were they in full gallop, with their bright armor and streaming helmets, they would look like fire itself riding across the plane. I’ve never seen anything like it—not even in paintings—but I know what and who these soldiers must be.
Rihad’s next words confirm it. “We are honored to receive this delegation from the Imperium and to reaffirm our dedication to the Imperator and the Light. Blessed are we that they come at such a critical time to help us defend ourselves againstallthreats—not only to the Protectorate but from those who would attack the Imperium and the Light itself!”
The crowd cheers wildly, and I shimmy forward a little farther to peer at the men gathered before the platform. They remain stoic, but something indefinable has changed in their manner. The three men at their head are no longer watching Rihad, but they’ve angled their horses so that they can get a better view of the crowd—as if the threat that Rihad’s warning of will come from there. None of them look my way, however, or to the enormous Divh chained and hidden from them with magicthat Rihad could only have borrowed from the skrill. There’s no other way he could convince so many people to see only whatever the bearer of such spells most wanted them to see.
But these are ordinary citizens and Imperial soldiers, not banded warriors. How had he managed to twist the skrill’s illusion spell to affect them?
Just how powerful is Rihad?
And once again,where is Nazar and Miriam in all this?
As if responding to my unspoken demand, Rihad shifts forward, and I jolt to see the long-robed men of the council standing next to the two border lords from the west and Nazar…but not Miriam, and certainly not the Savasci. Had they realized what was happening here and split up? And if so…what has happened to Nazar?
I stare at the warrior-turned priest-turned warrior again in wonder. He looks nothing like I remember. Now he’s dressed in long, silver robes, gold plumes at his shoulders draping down, echoing not Rihad’s ostentatious gold and black attire, but more closely resembling the armor of the Imperial soldiers. I squint, but I can’t find anyone else that I recognize on the platform—no other house lords other than Lemille, and none of the other councilors. Are they back at the First House—imprisoned, or worse? Have they been struck down in Trilion?
There’s too much I don’t know, and I can’t remain here, safe and protected, for another moment. I have to understand.
But beyond that…I need Fortiss here. No matter how injured Tennet is, no matter who they can bring and who they leave behind, they have to come to the defense of the Protectorate, before there’s no Protectorate left to defend.
Slowly, carefully, I bring my hands together around the talonstone. I am not Fortiss; I have no innate magic within me, and I certainly have not studied the ancient texts. But I can reach him, I think. I can imagine him with all my heart, all my love,and will him into being beside me. I can summon him, like I’ve summoned my own Divh…because he is mine.
“Fortiss…” I whisper, closing my eyes and praying to the Light, through the Light, and all the way across the wide Protectorate. I pray for Fortiss—and for us. I pray for the Protectorate.
But most of all, I pray that my love is enough to cross through the Blessed Plane, and find him wherever he may be.
Moments stretch and spin, my heart pounds, and tears slip from my eyes, but when it’s finally done, I slide down Gent’s shoulder and stop for a precious moment to lay my hand on his skin. He’s still spectacular, of course. But chained the way he is, injured, and definitely sized more as he was when he guarded the Tenth House, he seems so…diminished.
“You’re still mine,” I murmur as I press my hand against his warm skin. “Even if I can’t connect to you anymore, know that I’ll always be yours and you’ll always be mine. Nothing will ever change that.”
He doesn’t respond. Not even a flicker of awareness stirs in my mind, and I press my lips tight together, willing myself not to cry as I pat his side roughly. “I love you, Gent.”
Turning away before I lose my nerve, I move as quickly as I can beside his long, sprawled arm. There are a few stragglers of the crowd only a few steps distant, and I push forward as if I have somewhere to go, hastening toward them. As I stride quickly away from Gent, I can feel the pulse of magic, like a curtain being pushed away from me as I pass. I turn back, startled…
Gent has disappeared.
