She was helpless and useless as always.
Unless.…She couldn’t go back to the palace, she had no power to quell the bloodthirsty crowd. But the Seragians still didn’t know it was all Roderi’s doing. If she found a way to talk to the carevna, she might still prevent a war.
It was a mad idea, a monstrous idea—betraying her father to the Seragians.
She rose from the threadbare, faded carpet—everything her father touched disintegrated—and approached the washstandwith a hand-sized, blurry mirror in a wooden frame. She knew well the angular, haggard features: the eyes surrounded by dark circles, the narrow, crooked nose, the lips chapped from biting, the wiry black hair escaping the braids. And yet, for the first time, the person who looked back at her wasn’t a homely stranger. For the first time in her life, Melia saw her mother’s echo in her own face. Her mother, who was beautiful and strong, and more than an empty shell, a mindless tool in Roderi’s hands.
“I am not helpless,” she told the reflection. “I am not his puppet.”
All her life, she’d been taught that Seragians were bloodthirsty monsters. They’d killed her mother, they’d killed Rovin. In return, her father killed them, in an endless circle of violence that brought no release, only increased the pain. Hurting the enemy couldn’t heal her own wounds, it could only turn her into a creature of darkness, a harbinger of death.
Melia was sick of darkness, sick of death.
She turned on her heel and ran out of the house, into the turbulent streets of Abia.
Chapter 23
Liana
At dawn ofthe third day, Abia was in turmoil. The city slid from hangover straight into rage. Flower garlands and colorful standards still adorned the streets filled with armed people carrying torches. All semblance of peace seemed like a naïve illusion now, a fool’s dream.
Liana ran, angry tears streaming down her face. All her work had come to nothing, every attempt to push history off its course shattering like a crystal chalice hitting a stone floor. The people of Abia were rioting against the Seragians, their anger fueled by the lies spread by the Black Lord, their fear based on the endless smoldering conflict on the border, the centuries of rivalry.
It was impossible to close a festering wound: Sewing it tight only made it pulsate and swell until it exploded, raining blood and pus on the festive town.
The pink glow of the summer dawn spread over the eastern sky as she ran towards the Seragian embassy, praying to the fading stars above that there was still something she could do to stop the carnage. Two streets away from the embassy, the crowd thickened, a press of bodies pushing forward blindly like a mudslide. Liana threw herself into the thick of it, slipping between people where she could and elbowing forward the rest of the way until she saw the imposing stone mansion. Its high, rusticated walls and ground-floor iron grilles suddenly looked not nearly sturdy enough.
The wooden shutters on the upper-floor windows were closed, letting out nothing but random, thin streaks of light, revealingthat there was somebody inside. The massive wrought iron gates were shut, and if there were any Seragian guards behind them, they didn’t show their faces.
The neighboring houses sat dark and still behind their ornate facades, their owners probably cowering in the dark while waves of angry people splashed against their walls.
The mob, idiotic as it always was, didn’t quite know what to do. The leaders, the ones who had spread lies in taverns and on the streets, the ones who’d whispered about Seragian blades and poisons, still hadn’t shown their faces. The people grumbled and pushed forward, but the dark, silent shadow of the embassy offered no challenge, confusing them, placating their rage temporarily until they switched places with the fresh blood pushing down the street.
Before the main entrance to the embassy, there was a splash of royal blue. Darin and his men, standing in a semicircle, guarding the Seragians.
“Stand back,” Darin shouted. “Go home! The Seragians are not a threat. All you’ve heard are rumors and lies.”
Liana pushed forward, ignoring the punches and curses. A man slid his hand between her legs, grabbing her crotch with hard fingers. She barely managed to find his face in the crowd, shiny eyes, alcohol-fueled leer. Without missing a step, she grabbed his middle finger, pulled it backwards, and snapped it like a twig. She ducked behind the next man and heard a wail that was soon drowned out by the roar of the mob. She stepped on toes and elbowed stomachs without remorse, breathing through her mouth to avoid the stink of too many sweaty bodies crammed together after a night of feasting, and propelled herself forward like a fish swimming against the current.
She was still wearing the uniform, and even though it didn’t help her much with the crowd, when she broke out of the mass, the first two guards who spotted her reached out and pulledher into their circle. She counted twenty heads, and Darin. Not nearly enough.
“Go home!” her father was saying to the crowd. “There’s nothing here.”
The guards hadn’t drawn their weapons. All that kept the people from rushing at the embassy gate were the royal uniforms and the power of Darin’s voice: calm, authoritative. He wasn’t a particularly big man, but he had the air of a leader used to giving orders and being obeyed. He projected it into the crowd now, and they—knowing well who he was—paused, faltered in their anger. He was keeping them away from the embassy by the sheer force of his will.
Inside the uniformed circle, Liana hesitated, unwilling to break the spell. Telling the guards that the king was dying and that the Black Lord was probably planning the next attack would weaken them, leave them exposed to the mob. And yet—how long could her father’s fragile spell last?
If he noticed her, he didn’t turn. His gaze was locked with the mob. “Go home, good people,” he said. “Abia is safe. We’ll be guarding the embassy, no Seragian will leave unless we let them.”
Liana wanted to help him, but didn’t know how except to stand there and stare down the crowd. Beads of sweat formed on the foreheads of the guards beside her as they breathed hard, stinking of fear. And yet, not a single one of them panicked; they all stood behind their captain, ready to fight the mindless mob at his command.
“Go home,” he said, his voice placating, hypnotic. “We’ll stay here. And the king will speak to you in the morning.”
She felt their fire dampen. The angry roar at the front died down, melting to a mere buzz that spread down the street towards the edges of the mob. The people in front of her blinked and turned to their neighbors, looking sheepish, as if they’d justbeen found sleepwalking. The only thing that prevented them from turning on their heels and walking home was the mass of people behind them.
“Father,” she reached out, touching his shoulder.
“Liana?” He turned, his face ashen under a fine film of perspiration. “What—”
