A rousing cheer goes up from every throat in the room—a wordless roar that swells to the ceiling. I want to join in, but I notice that neither the king nor the Air Touched is celebrating. Instead, they’re both watching Lil with sharp focus.
It’s not over? A full minute passes. Then two.
The sorcerer suddenly flinches and takes a half step back, and the king leaps behind the guard flanking him.
It’s not over.
I scream something—I don’t even know what, but it’s too late, too late,far too late.
Lil bursts into flames and dies, screaming, right there in front of us.
The guards rush forward with their buckets of water. The king knew this could happen, and he prepared, which means this exact horror has happened before, and probably more than once. Probably right here in this room.
He knew, and he did it anyway.
“No!” I scream, over and over, while the horrified guards hurl water to put out the flaming, oddly scentless column of ash that used to be anapprentice pig keeper. A girl who kissed a boy at Harvest Fest.
“Silence,” the king roars, and everyone in the room goes quiet.
Neville raises a hand to cover my mouth again, but I shake my head and clamp my lips together.
“Do you still believe you’re right?” the king demands.
“Yes,” the sorcerer answers, but her voice is broken and thick with tears. She takes a shaky breath and lifts her chin. “Yes. I’m right.”
The king studies her and then nods. “Bring the thief.”
What?
Three guards drag Trick forward. He’s fighting silently, not wasting breath to yell, using every skill in his arsenal to escape, but it’s futile. The guards are too strong for him to overpower, and there are too many of them.
When they halt in front of the table, side-stepping the watery ash that used to be a person, my mental paralysis fractures.
“No,” I call out, my voice ringing in the silent room. “No, it won’t work with him. Trick Jovann, superior thief, is not a nobody.”
“She’s right,” Trick says, whirling to face me, a sick hope on his face. “I’msomebodyin the crime circles of this city, begging your pardon, King Pallan. Put me in the dungeons. Lock me up. But don’t make me touch that amulet. I’ll just make another ugly mess on your floor.”
I flinch when he calls Lil’s remains an “ugly mess,” but the terrified ought to be forgiven their trespasses.
“He’s right,” I say, as steadily as I can manage. “I’m the real nobody here. I should try it.”
“No!” Trick shouts. “Not you. Anybody else!”
One of the guards slams the hilt of a dagger into the back of Trick’s head, and he collapses to the floor. I cry out, but Neville tightens his grip on my arm.
The king studies my face, then nods.
Neville’s hand drops from my arm. “Oh, lass,” he whispers, but I don’t have time for him.
Trick is unconscious on the floor, and I whisper goodbye to his unmoving form, hoping he survives this day.
Kaelen is fighting the guards with savage ferocity, his neck bleeding freely now, but I have no attention to spare for him. My entire concentration has tunneled down to a single point of focus: that ravens-begotten box.
If I’m going to die, I should finally be allowed to swear, right? Especially in the privacy of my mind.
When I reach the table, I stare in silence at the box. It’s a deceptively simple thing to hold so much pain and death. Carved from wood, probably teak, it’s free of flourishes or swirls, but for a bit of silver inlay on the lid.
Silver inlay that part of my mind distantly realizes spells outDANGER.
