He lunged forward, shouldering people out of the way, trying to get closer, into the light. The Warlord leaned forward, next question on her lips, or perhaps an order, as no answer appeared to be comingfrom Naiara. It was now or never—the Warlord expected him to be here. This was for show. She never actually needed the answers.
“I am Luca!” he yelled, raising his arms above his head, signaling as best he could as he pushed toward the firelight. “I am the Otsakumea!”
The crowd gasped, and those closest to him parted as if he’d waved a torch at them. Suddenly he was completely illuminated by the flames, the bright and open space enough clearance that he cast a long shadow.
His head was bare. His face was bare. There could be no question that he was the voice in the crowd.
The Warlord twisted his way, and for just that moment he thought she might be unsure. “Boy, do you think this is a joke?”
Luca aimed his words straight at the Warlord. He knew Amarande could see him now—Taillefer and Naiara, too. “Do not burn her. I am Luca!”
“Well, healer?” the Warlord asked. “Is he?”
Naiara did not answer.
The fire crackled and spit.
Amarande, bless her, had not moved an inch. Hand pressed to her mouth. Eyes reading his face. The Warlord surveyed the princess, surveyed Taillefer, Naiara, too.
Her disbelief was not something he’d anticipated. “Into the fire with you, simply for this stunt.”
The Warlord motioned to the closest guards, but before they could even take a step Luca took a deep breath and tore aside the collar of his tunic.
Those same terrible, tortuous leaping flames illuminated his tattoo.
Five points. The black wolf. Right over his heart.
Unmistakable.
The crowd gasped.
“I am Luca!” he yelled again.
His periphery picked up Amarande as a blur of movement—lunging and shaking the bars of her cage—but he did not dare move his attention from the Warlord, pacing like a tiger across the fiery chasm. “I am the Otsakumea. The last of the Otxoa. I am Luca!”
More guards fell in, pushing forward as the crowd rolled with the buzz and snap of surprise.
Ula stepped in front of Luca. But her dagger stayed in her sheath. Instead, she fed a hand through the tunic ties across her sternum. “I am Luca!” she screamed. “I am the Otsakumea. The last of the Otxoa. I am Luca!”
There, over her paw print, was carefully finished ink, exactly in the same shape and location as Luca’s own.
The Warlord laughed. “Do not play, girl—”
“I am Luca!” A man’s voice.
“I am Luca! I am the Otsakumea!” Another.
“I am Luca! The last of the Otxoa!” A girl’s voice.
“I am Luca!” A collective voice.
From all around the fire, men and women, boys and girls, stepped forward, announcing themselves as the wolf cub and producing an identical tattoo.
Five points. The black wolf. Right over their hearts.
Unmistakable.
Everywhere the Warlord turned, there was another call. Another flash of skin and ink. From her dais, her head spun. The caravan crowd buzzed, louder than the flames and Señe’s dying wails.
