“If you would let me explain—” Alaric says, but the crowd begins to murmur and roil.
The cantankerous gray-haired councilor barks out, “We want the king’s explanation, not yours!”
The rest of the council shouts their agreement, infecting the crowd with their fear and suspicion, until the entire congregation is calling for answers.
Alaric looks around helplessly. He waves his hands and demands silence, but no one listens. The councilors continue yelling and stoking the hysteria until Alaric slams his hands down hard on the railing and bellows, “You can’t hear from my father because he’sdead!”
For one protracted moment, the square falls quiet. Sweat beads down my cheeks, and I’m gripped by a wave of nauseating heat. This isnothow we planned to break the news. The announcement was supposed to be calm and controlled, methodically revealing the sick in the hospital followed by the memory of Besnik’s death, to highlight Soren’s crimes and instability compared to Alaric’s quiet strength and control.
Instead, Queen Tessa lets out a bloodcurdling wail and collapses on the balcony, and the already riotous crowd devolves into chaos.
Attendants fly up the metal staircase to assist the queen, while the councilors charge forward, shouting words liketraitorandmurderer. Servants and courtiers dart this way and that, unsure where to go, which way is safe.
It reminds me of the hysteria the day I left Tashir—when flames were devouring our fields and Soren could have used his power to stop the destruction.
“Alaric!” I shout. “Use your power!”
His horrified gaze snaps to mine. “Against my own people?”
“Just to command their attention. Show them you’re every bit as powerful and capable as your father.”
Alaric stares into the chaos with a pained expression. Then he raises both hands, and tremors rattle down the balcony and roll down the teeming streets. The cobblestones crest and sink like waves, making it impossible for the people to stay on their feet.
At first, this causes even more terror and confusion, but slowly, the cries begin to fade as the people of Vanzador are forced to sit on the ground and look up at Alaric, directing the stones from the balcony the way a conductor leads an orchestra.
Soon, only Soren’s councilors remain on their feet, still hurling accusations and shaking their fists. With a weary sigh, Alaric moves his arm in a slashing motion, and a deep gash splits the earth, severing the councilors from the rest of the crowd. The blue-robed men and women stumble and flail, desperate to keep themselves from tumbling into the abyss, and I’m more than a little disappointed when Von Nevus doesn’t fall to his death.
Alaric straightens, adjusts his waistcoat, and calls out in a firm voice, “Listen! And I will relay all that has happened.” No one moves or speaks, and after several deep breaths, Alaric continues. “Last night, I confronted my father about a troubling discovery I made recently with the help of my wife.” Alaric slides his arm around my waist and pulls me against his side—his heartbeat hammering through me in a frantic staccato.
“There is a hospital, hidden inthatwarehouse”—Alaric points to the textile factory—“and it’s filled with Vanzadorian citizens on the brink of death. Your very own mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, have been wasting away in agony without your knowledge.”
Von Nevus’s head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Lies! If Vanzadorians were missing, don’t you think their families and friends would know? Stop trying to divert our attention from your crimes! Tell us what you did to King Soren!”
I tighten my grip on Alaric’s waist, willing him to feel my strength and support.
After only a slight pause he shouts, says in his loudest voice, “If you don’t believe us, see it with your own eyes!”
He points again to the textile factory, and every head turns at the sound of metal doors opening. Several moments later, Delphine and the servants she recruited to help emerge into the square, each of them carrying or escorting a weak, hollow-eyed patient. I made sure to include prominent figures like Elodie’s mother, Councilwoman Tomasko, and innocent babies, like Lady Hawthorne’s supposedly deceased child, to make it clear no one was safe from Soren’s treachery.
The crowd silently parts for the grim procession, and as the sick are carried through the throng, teary-eyed families rush forward.
“Where have they been all this time?”
“How is this possible? I was at the funeral!”
“What have you done to them?” a noblewoman demands, pointing between Alaric and the council, unsure where to lay the blame, which feels like our first step toward victory.
“This is the unforeseen consequence of sacrificing our memories!” Alaric says before Von Nevus or other councilors can cut in and spin their lies. “My father encouraged all of us to give our memories abundantly in order to secure our borders and increase the output from our mines. He even offered incentives, like promises of wealth and status to those who sacrificed the most. He made us believe there was no reason to hold back—no ill effects from giving away these trivial moments. In fact, he convinced us the tithes were a blessing—a way to forget tragedies and blunt our pain and suffering. Butthisthe true cost of the memory tithes.”
Alaric gestures sadly to the parade of sickly patients, still unresponsive despite the deafening commotion.
“My father was knowingly taking far more from us then we ever dreamed—or consented to,” Alaric continues. “When we give too much of our past to the earth, we no longer have enough life essence to support our souls—or to pass on to our children at birth—creating bodies that are too weak and depleted to survive on their own. Bagrava, from Tashir, is the only thing keeping these patients alive.
“Sorenknewthis was happening, but instead of finding more sustainable ways to fuel our power, he hid the sick away, manipulated you into sacrificing your memories of the truth, and invented stories of their death or disappearance so you’d carry on depositing more memories.”
Von Nevus breaks rank from the other councilors and stands at the edge of the gulf Alaric created to contain them. “Do you know what you’re saying? What you’redoing?” he snarls up at Alaric. “You need their memories just as much as your father did—even more so, since your power is fledgling and weak!”
“I don’t want your memories if this is the cost,” Alaric booms for all to hear. “I didn’t think my father would either. But when I confronted him, he refused to accept responsibility. Not only that, he lashed out and tried to kill me to keep me from sharing this information with you. Just as he killed my brother, Besnik, in a fit of rage, years ago…” Just as he did five years ago, when he killed my brother, Besnik, in a fit of rage.”
