Her eyes looked up over the battlefield, and Emere followed her gaze. The clear blue afternoon sky turned into the blackestnight. But instead of clouds of constellations, there was only one star, shining brighter than any he had ever beheld.
It enchanted him. His right hand returned to his control and he reached out to the star, or perhaps it was coming down toward him. His fingertips almost touched it.
He ripped his gaze from the sky. “What will you have me do?”
“Survive first.”
“Survive?” Emere questioned, confused.
“Yes, survive. The wound you’ve just sustained isn’t serious, but there will be other dangers ahead.”
Awareness of his whole body, from his eyelids to his toes, returned like a crash from a great height. Someone’s hand pressed down on the left side of his chest as if there was a wound. His back was cold.
Arland’s battlefield and the bright star in the black sky vanished, replaced by a gray raining sky.
“Councillor! Councillor Emere!”
Another familiar voice. But this time, the urgent call shouting down at him came from the mouth of Gildas, his young aide. His round face hovered over Emere, his spectacles splattered with raindrops. Gildas was on one knee inside a puddle and had his hands pressed to Emere’s chest.
“Councillor, you must wake up!”
Emere’s consciousness came back in a rush. Over Gildas’s voice, he could hear the consternation of a crowd.
Emere used his right hand to sit up slightly, as Gildas kept his hands pressed to Emere’s chest. There were puddles of rainwater all over the wooden platform he was lying on. It had been erected atthe edge of a small square surrounded by old buildings, and there was a panicked crowd quickly dispersing like surprised cattle.
“Gildas, what—”
“An arrow during your speech, sir.” Gildas’s voice was still urgent. “Do you not recall?”
Emere looked down, and a short wooden shaft protruded from the left side of his chest in between Gildas’s hands. Not an arrow, but a bolt from a crossbow. His voluminous white Imperial suit, worn only twice before, was now soaked in blood.
“There is a lot of bleeding, but it doesn’t appear to have hit your heart or your lungs.”
“And what of King Loran?”
“Who, sir?”
A misspoken name. He shook the sleep from his head.
“Never mind. Perhaps I’m still not my—”
“It seems the patrollers cannot make it into the square because of all the people,” Gildas interrupted, looking around as he assessed the situation.
It was a poor neighborhood inhabited by immigrants from Kamori. The buildings were built on top of each other and the streets were narrow. There would be no way for the patrollers to stop the crossbow assassin if the nervous crowd that filled the small square fell into true chaos. Which meant more opportunities for bolts to come flying at him.
“We have to leave,” said Emere. “There’s no time to wait for help.”
“I will help you walk, sir.” Gildas quickly ripped some strips from Emere’s cloak with his teeth and deftly wrapped his wound. Groaning from pain, Emere furtively looked around them for anescape route. Bolts studded the podium where he had stood only moments ago.
Gildas noticed where he was looking. “At least seven shots in the blink of an eye. A citizen was killed.”
Crossbows take time to reload. How many shooters, then, were there? Emere saw a body bleeding out in the middle of the square, where the crowd was beginning to thin out as it headed for the alleys. But their screams were becoming more panicked as they realized how slow their escape was.
“Ready, my lord,” said Gildas, taking hold of Emere’s right arm.
“My wound is not as serious as it seems,” Emere assured him.
But Gildas insisted on helping Emere to his feet.
