She answered anyway. “It’s going to. The Warlord does not deal in mercy.”
He shook his head, though he knew Ula was right.
Naiara had saved his life. And countless others, to be sure.
He could not let this happen.
He would not let this happen.
Stableboys could be chosen ones. Heroes, even. But what kind of hero did not try to save a good person’s life?
On the dais, the Warlord leaned against the railing. She smiled at the healers, who did not look at her. They did not even look in the pit. Naiara watched the stars with determination. Señe’s eyes, though, were tightly closed, her shoulders quaking.
“Where is Luca?” The Warlord’s first question seemed to echo off the distant mountains, irritation already in her tone. “Where is the Otsakumea?”
A sob escaped Señe’s lips, but no more. Naiara did not even flinch—silently, she watched the stars. Praying, perhaps, her lips moving in the leaping flames’ illumination.
The Warlord did not appreciate the silence. “Old woman, you called his name. You referenced the princess in our company, who is known to be his companion. Where is he?”
When they did not answer, the guard behind Señe shoved the girl. The apprentice’s eyes shot open as she lunged forward, bare foot suspended over the pit for one sick moment as she cried out. The guard at her back grabbed her arm to keep her from falling in, but the torque of it all meant both feet lost purchase and she was left dangling against the soft bank of the pit. Flames licked at her feet and trousers, the ash clearly hot as she tried to pull her way up the guard’s grip.
The guard let her dangle. The Warlord tilted her head and stared at Naiara. “Tell me, old woman, or she will be lost to the flames.”
The healer watched the stars. “The Luca I know was just an injured boy. He’s not the Otsakumea. Just a child who sought my care.”
The Warlord gripped the dais railing, leaning farther forward over her own flames. Señe’s pleas came harder now, her body flailing. “He did not have ink on his chest?”
“I did not see.”
“But you did see that he was with the princess?”
“He was with a girl—I never learned her name.”
This was a lie. The healers could not have missed her name in conversation—he’d called her Ama at least twice, while she’d only called him Luca in their presence once. That he was conscious for, anyway.
“Yet you call her ‘Little Queen’? Do not deny it. Fifty people here can attest to that truth, including two of my guards.”
The Warlord did not give her time to answer, raising a hand. In coordinated movements, Señe was pitched over the side and Naiara was wrenched farther forward, her guard’s dagger at her throat.
Luca panicked, watching the healer sway against the blade as the sandy footing beneath her crumbled with her weight and movement. Her apprentice was clinging to soft ash, trying to climb. Trying not to slide. The flames were so close to her he could not see her legs below the knees, the inferno blinding any view.
“Where are they?” he whispered to Ula.
Her eyes roved the crowd. “They’re here. They’re ready.”
“Are you sure?” His heart pounded in his ears, his jaw set.
“Yes. But it’s not—”
“I can’t let her burn.”
He did not come here to hide. He’d been hidden away his entire life. By those who loved him. And he would no longer stay in the shadows.
Luca found Amarande across the way, hand still pressed tightly over her mouth, eyes glistening. Naiara struggled against the guard’s grip, and a line of blood oozed from the kiss of the blade.
Luca removed his hat and pressed it to Ula’s hand.
“No, wait, don’t—” Ula clutched for his arm, but even her strength was not enough to stop him.
