She pressed through the throng, oblivious to the pushing and punching, ignoring the pain.
“Clear the palace of the Seragian traitors,” Roderi of Elmar cried while his men attacked the king’s guard. The predator posing as a defender.
The mob roared, at least those who could hear him. The others were scrambling in the dark, punching, stabbing, getting trampled. Locked in a dance with Death, even though they didn’t recognize the tune.
“We’ll never let the Seragians take the kingdom,” the BlackLord shouted. He raised his hand towards the group of king’s guards surrounded by the mob, Amril among them. “Where is the king? What happened to him? Have you conspired with the emperor to put his daughter on the throne?”
“No!” Amril cried, but his words were swallowed by the furious roar.
“When you wake up tomorrow, you won’t have an Amrian king ruling you, but that Seragian wench, sent by her father to bring you to heel.”
If Melia could reach her father, what would she do?
The tide of bodies lifted her and spat her paces away from the Black Lord.All you do is lie, she wanted to say to his damned armor, to his merciless eyes, to his insufferable smirk. But who would hear her, who would believe her?
“Capture the traitor!” her father ordered. “We’ll force him to open the palace gates for us and show what he’s done to the king!”
Melia cared nothing for Amril and his haughty Seragian bride; she had no compassion left for the sniggering courtiers and cruel ladies, for Amron’s sister with her scathing words and his cold, cold mother. The palace was nothing but a place of torment and sorrow for her, a stillborn life that never took a single breath. She had been nothing but miserable there.
And yet, the idea of her father getting what he wanted was unbearable: the slaughter, the endless war, the eyes of Seragia turning upon this corner of the world, its proper armies, not the starved border brigands marching over the plains of Elmar, crossing the White Mountains, driving their blades into the soft belly of the kingdom. There was no way—no way—her father could win. But then, he had never fought in order to win, he’d fought for the love of conflict. To feed the rage and spread the pain.
Amril disappeared beneath the wave of Elmarran guards, hismen driven up against the wall, trampled by the mob, killed by her father’s lies.
“Tear down the gate!” her father roared.
Melia looked up to the top of the wall, to the palace roof lit only by the moonlight—but neither were built for defense, and if there were archers there, they didn’t want to shoot blindly into the rolling mass of people.
The sturdy iron and wood of the gate endured the pressure until someone dragged a wooden beam to the square and the men used it as a ram. Every strike reverberated in Melia’s bones until the heavy cedar gave in. The massive gate broke with a thundering crash and the current pulled Melia into the courtyard of the palace.
A group of guards stood in the yard, in a pool of torchlight, their swords unsheathed. Melia’s heart sank when she saw the man leading them.Amron.
“Stop!” he cried in that clear, commanding voice of his, but there was no miracle this time, no charm to hypnotize the mob, they were too far gone in their madness.
The mass hit them like a tidal wave. Melia screamed his name in horror, but her voice was swallowed by the noise. They were going to die, they were all going to die.
Somewhere, her father roared in triumph.
And Melia, the frail, hollow-boned Melia, no heavier than a straw doll, surged with the crowd, like a leaf carried by the current.
At that moment, light flared on a balcony on the second floor of the palace—a dozen people with torches stepped out. Trumpets blared, cutting through the roar and the clash of metal. A familiar tall figure appeared in the light—the unmistakable golden hair and beard, the bulk of his royal presence.
Like an explosion, awareness spread through the crowd: shouts, cries and then sudden, stunned silence as all the headslooked up. All but Melia. She turned and slipped among the unmoving bodies toward her father.
“I am alive,” the king shouted.
Roderi of Elmar pressed his lips together, an unmistakable sign of rage. Resisting the urge to duck behind the armed men and melt into the night, Melia stepped forward and caught the reins of his horse.
“There is no Seragian conspiracy,” the king cried from the balcony. “It’s all lies!”
“Father,” Melia said. “Father, listen to me.”
“Come meet the carevna,” the king said. “She had to escape the burning embassy tonight, you should go there and help put the fire out, not linger here. The palace is safe, I promise you.”
Surrounded by the king’s guard, Amril pushed through the crowd until he reached the circle of torchlight beneath the balcony. When the guards moved, Melia saw Aratea was with him, a little worse for wear. Holding her husband’s hand.
Roderi of Elmar watched the scene, his face a storm cloud.
“Father, Ferisa is dead,” Melia said, gripping his reins.
