A female voice cried from somewhere near the embassy, “The king is dead.”
Everyone froze. Liana stood on her tiptoes, trying to see who was speaking. She was too short. Still, she could guess who spread the doomed news: a dark-haired woman with black eyebrows and burning eyes, spewing lies and hatred all over Abia.
“Where are you going, you cowards?” Ferisa shouted. “The king is dead, the Seragians killed him. And the king’s guard, the very men who swore to protect him with their lives, are now protecting the Seragian scum.”
For the briefest of moments, Darin froze, uncertain of how to deal with such a monstrous accusation. When he came to, he cried, “Lies! The king is at the palace, all is well. Go home.”
Too late. The dispersing mass pulled back together, the barely banked flame flaring up again.
“If all is well, why is the Seragian princess here at the embassy? Why did she run away from the palace?” The crowd shifted, and now Liana could see Ferisa, surrounded by the Elmarran guards. The time for hiding was over, apparently—this was a direct challenge. “Let’s drag the traitors out and ask them!”
The Elmarrans pulled out their swords. The ring of steel cut through the noise, hushing it. In that lull, which lasted a mere heartbeat, Liana looked at the faces of the king’s guards, of the people in the crowd. Those who still had their wits about them realized it immediately: This was the tipping point. Wide-eyed, horrified by the press of angry bodies around them, theysearched for an escape and found none. They were all in it now, whatever happened, while the hundred-headed mob-beast decided what to do next. This was the last moment when some semblance of peace still reigned, when pausing, regrouping, dispersing, and avoiding bloodshed was still possible.
Then history put its merciless thumb on the scale and the beast roared in bloodthirsty fury. Somewhere behind the diaphanous curtain of the dawn sky, the gods turned their eyes towards Abia, eager for a sacrifice.
“Attack the embassy,” Ferisa said. It wasn’t even a shout, but it spread through the crowd like wildfire.
The king’s guards drew closer to the gate; Darin pushed Liana behind him as he drew his sword.
“Stand back!” he shouted.
The mob surged forward, the first lines panicked and resisting, suddenly realizing they were facing the guards’ blades, but the back relentlessly pushed forward, mincing everything in its way.
“We’re going to die,” one of the guards whispered.
There was nowhere to run: They were trapped between the heavy, barred gate of the embassy behind them and the angry mob coming at them. Liana looked at her father, his back rigid with determination, his hair darkened with sweat, and she wished she could say something: that she was sorry she’d squandered this chance to meet him, that she’d failed to give him useful information, that she was proud to be his daughter.
But any distraction now could kill him, so she braced herself for the wave that was coming, refusing to look into the sky or think about divine tricks.
At that moment, the shrill sound of trumpets cut through the roar, followed by screaming, the clash of steal, the beat of ironshod hooves on the cobbles.
The crowd writhed in panic, everyone trying to get out of the way, pushing, kicking, climbing over the bodies. Behind them, aband of horsemen—a dozen or so—in royal liveries, followed by more guards, cleared the street with their truncheons. Leading them, pushing through the crowd on a mean-looking bay stallion, still in his ceremonial clothes, was Amron.
Liana’s heart skipped a beat: This was the Amron she recognized. Fearless, determined. The men around her started breathing again, sheathing their swords. Her father’s eyes focused on her the for the first time since she’d arrived.
“I’d strangle you for risking your life like this if I weren’t so happy that you are unharmed,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to tell you something.” She stood on tips of her toes to reach his ear. “The king is dying,” she whispered. “This is an open rebellion, led by Roderi of Elmar.”
He nodded, his face revealing nothing.
“Prince Amron knows everything,” she added.
At that moment, Amron reached them and dismounted.
“Amril is at the palace with the queen,” he told Darin. “The city gates are secure. I sent Tilen to Roderi’s house with a dozen horsemen, though I doubt he’s there. Two dozen men guard the docks and the approach to the Seragian ships. There’s unrest all over the city, but it’s mostly bands of drunkards who don’t know what’s happening. Nothing like the situation here at the embassy.”
He talked to Darin, scanning the soldiers and the crowd, not looking at Liana, and yet his hand found its way to the small of her back. It rested there for a few moments, in mute reassurance, and then retreated before anyone noticed. Liana looked for grief or despair on his face, but there was none—whatever he felt for his father was hidden now. He was the man she remembered from the battlefields and long marches: calm, composed, self-assured.
“We must find the woman, Ferisa,” she said. “She was herewith the Elmarran guard, pushing the crowd to attack the embassy. She can’t be far. You must stop her before she causes more damage.”
Amron nodded. “I’ll hunt her down. How many men does she have with her?”
“I didn’t see more than a dozen,” Darin said. “But more could have been hiding in the crowd.”
Amron looked around. At that moment, the street was filled with the blue liveries of the king’s guards, and horsemen were guarding it on both sides, but Liana knew they still had too few men to face the threat. Abia was a porous town, filled with dark alleys, shortcuts, and hidden passages—there was no saying who waited in the shadows.
“I’ll leave the horsemen and the guards with you,” Amron said. “It is of the utmost importance that nothing happens to the embassy today. I’ll go after her alone. Stealth might be better here than numbers.”
