Rina’s stomach was jittering like mad. She was in the back of a royal carriage, racing toward the gallows at the docks, trying to organize an armload of writs and sealed documents.
She was amazed they’d let her leave the palace at all, but that was one of her papers: A writ from Marco, saying she was on official steward business. She’d written it herself, ‘borrowing’ his ring to seal it after he passed out from the pain. But, given what they were discussing, it was a safe bet she had his permission.
As the carriage slowed to a stop, Rina tugged at her skirt, smoothing it. When she’d gone to dress that morning, her wardrobe seemed filled with children’s clothes; she wouldn’t even take herself seriously in any of those. The gown she was wearing, she found tucked away in a dusty chest, in a long untouched room of the palace. Her mother’s room. Purple satin on black velvet with long arms, a high neck, and a distinct lack of ruffles, it was quite the serious thing.
Rina remembered her mother wearing it to court whenever she had important matters to attend to. And right then, it felt a little too large for her.
One of the guards opened the door and helped her down.
On the far end of the yard, a wooden platform sat on scaffolding with two nooses hanging from it. A woman and a dark-skinned man were kneeling with bags over their heads and their hands tied behind their backs: Scaggs and Thelemule.
Behind them, Inquisitor Josephine stood beside an aging man with a hawkish nose who wore a gold robe, the cardinal, and surrounding the platform were several dozen Church guards, all carrying muskets.
On the road running perpendicular to the one she’d come in on, sat the king’s procession: three carriages, four men on horseback, and a dozen other soldiers, all armed with spark rifles.
Her grandfather was still in his night clothes, silk pajamas, though he did have the Crown’s heavy fur cape pulled over them. He tilted his head sideways when he saw her, like he wasn’t sure if she was real, but Rina ignored him and scanned the side streets until she spotted a white carriage, Thelemule’s. Chanda stepped out and gave her a nod.
She approached the gallows with the four palace guards she’d ‘conscripted’ in tow, all of them armed with truncheons, not much more than painted sticks. Pausing, she glanced at her grandfather just long enough to catch his eye and waited for him to chase after, before proceeding.
She got to the platform and paused again until he was within earshot. Then feeling like she was playacting, like she was about to be laughed right off the stage, she addressed the cardinal, “Thank you for taking such good care of the steward’s officers, Your Excellency. We’ll be taking them now.”
The cardinal ignored her, instead speaking to the king, “These two terrorists attacked the cathedral at Firstsong, intent on murdering all the children of Song, Your Majesty.”
The king shot Rina a curious look, then answered, “But why execute them so quickly? Why not a trial?”
“The fiends are drained. If we delay, they will recover. They attacked us. This is a Church matter. We expect the Crown to stay out of it.”
Muffled shouting came through the bag over Scaggs’ head. It stopped when a guard kicked her.
“That’s not why I’m here.” The king gave Rina another curious look and held up a letter. “I received this.”
Rina took a deep breath, here we go… and asked, “With the wizard’s seal? Saying the bloom stones had been recovered?”
“And that they would be delivered here?”
“I sent that note. They have been recovered—by the steward.”
“Marco?”
“His men.” She thought for a second, then added politely, “And women. Two of which are being held on those gallows.”
Marco had advised her to say this next bit in a very particular way. She turned to the cardinal. “No one died in the cathedral last night. You’re executing the heroes who saved you.”
Finally, and with great annoyance, the cardinal addressed her, “Untrue, people died. A dozen at the Tower of Silence.”
“That is another crime, and one, I would not think, the Church should admit to. How many at the cathedral?”
The cardinal looked back to the king. “They attacked my men with spark weapons.”
The king looked at Rina, narrowing his eyes, and then back to the cardinal. “Answer the princess, and truthfully or it will be treason. How many died at the cathedral?”
“A priest—”
“—To her,” the king interrupted, pointing at Rina. “Answer to her.”
“A priest… and a parishioner.”
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“Two? Out of two thousand. How did they die?” Rina asked.
The cardinal did not look happy. “The priest, a heart attack. The parishioner was… trampled.”
“Can you produce any burnt corpses?”
As his eyes flicked upward, the cardinal looked like he was considering how quickly he could manufacture some.
But she didn’t give him the chance, “If you’re going to hold them accountable for two accidents, you must also hold them accountable for the more than two thousand lives they saved, yours among them. And if the steward is not mistaken, the crown prince.” She had come up with that bit about her father, not Marco, but it felt safer to invoke him.
“I told him not to go,” the king’s voice shook. “Was he really there?”
“The crown prince’s support of the Church is unwavering,” said the cardinal. “Unlike the king’s.”
There was a moment’s pause while the king took that in. His brow furrowed. His face soured. “I find them innocent.”
That was what she was looking for. Rina sighed in relief, but the cardinal crossed his arms, his face turning red.
“Now let them go,” the king commanded.
“No.” The cardinal puffed up. “This is a Church matter. The Songs have tried them. They are guilty.”
“Then they are pardoned.”
Stepping to the edge of the platform, the cardinal looked down on the king. “Does a king’s power not come by the grace of the Song Mother? From the strength of the Silent Father? You’ve tossed them aside and thrown your lot in with the wizards, with the Bastard himself.”
“This is treason!” The king stepped back in shock.
“And that is blasphemy! But we need suffer it no longer. Where is your thug… Ulbrecht?” The cardinal smiled. “Half your precious wizards lie dead. Your sins have ruined you, and the Church cannot, will not, stand by and let you bargain away the very souls of the people of Noria.”
As her grandfather looked back to his guard and then to the larger force of the Church, his face paled.
Sweat pouring down her sides, Rina delved into her bag for the note, the one she wasn’t supposed to actually need. She stepped toward the gallows, holding it up to the cardinal.
He glanced down at it, and at her, irritated.
“From Marco,” she tried to keep her voice steady, “Read it aloud, please.”
He reached down, plucked it from her, and broke the seal. His face went white. He did not speak.
…So Rina spoke for him, “The steward has forty-five flame blooms at his disposal. He doesn’t want to use them. He prays he doesn’t have to. He hopes we can all come to a reasonable solution. That we will all set aside our differences and do what’s best for Noria, but…”
Rina fished around in her bag, readying another note, then continued, “If you are reading this, you have not found a reasonable solution, so he will find one for you. Release them now or…”
“Or?” the cardinal asked, his posture weakening.
She handed him the other note, and as he broke the seal, she could see it contained but a single word, written in the scrawl of a dying man. Marco had not even let her read it.
“End,” the cardinal said, shaken.
Josephine rushed forward. “She’s bluffing. There’s no way Marco could have written that. The witch has her charmed. She’s not acting of her own volition.”
Rina coughed loudly, pulling one last item from her bag: a red stone bound in iron. She held it high for everyone to see.
Taking a step back, the cardinal nodded to the king.
“No!” Josephine yelled.
“Enough.” The cardinal held a finger to Josephine’s face. “The king has spoken. We will, of course, honor the royal request and release them.”
The guards cut the bonds holding Scaggs and Thelemule, and were bringing them down when the king whispered to Rina, “Now for the stones?”
“Once they’re safe,” she whispered back.
“Yes, of course.” He motioned to his guards to take the prisoners, and once they had, he asked again, “Now?”
“The inquisitor was right. I was bluffing,” Rina announced, all eyes turning to her as swords unsheathed and hammers cocked. “I don’t have the stones. He does.” She pointed.
And then all eyes shifted to a man in a gray silk suit much too light for the weather, a Shivari.
When the royal guards blocked Chanda’s approach, he politely stopped and bowed toward the king.
“For Song’s sake, let him through,” the king barked.
Chanda leaned forward, checking both sides, then walked up.
“Pardon my curtness,” the king grumbled, “but you are in possession of the Crown’s property. I demand its return.”
Chanda spoke solemnly, “Or what? There will be war? It seems we are headed that way no matter who possesses them.”
“Or it will be your head.” And with gritted teeth, the king made a slashing motion across his neck.
Chanda nodded. “If it comes to that, I will give it gladly. But I cannot believe it will.” He raised his voice, addressing everyone, “These weapons, in the wrong hands, will destroy cities, burn men and women, Shivari and Norian alike, to ashes. Fear, anger, we’ve all felt them. We’ve all let them get the better of us. A wise man once told me, it only takes one man’s fear, one man’s anger to turn us all to war. The only way to stop it is everyone else screaming ‘no.’”
“I promise not to use them against Shivar,” the king whispered. “Where are they?”
“They are there.” Chanda pointed out past the docks, to a sail on the horizon.
“You send them to Shivar!?”
“No, no one’s aboard.” Chanda pointed his hand skyward, and a flare shot up from the edge of the gallows yard.
For a long moment, everything was still and silent.
A flicker of orange grew from the ship, twisting upward in a spiraling vine. The first explosion went off, blooming like a rose, shooting fire into the air like petals of a flower.
The orange tendrils continued their climb, interweaving into a helix. Two more fiery roses bloomed before the low roar of the first explosion hit the shore.
The helix split as it rose, sending branches spiraling in every direction. A few hit the water and bloomed instantly, while others twisted higher and higher into the air.
Pop. Pop. Pop. The sounds of blooms came ashore as Rina felt the heat carried on the wind.
Orange light zig-zagged through an already bright sky. More and more blooms appeared among the low-hanging clouds. One of the fire trails headed precariously toward the docks, but exploded a safe, though not comfortable, distance away.
And then it stopped, with a dark cloud, the size of a mountain, looming over them.
“They are all right where they should be, I think.” Rina nudged her grandfather.
“What about the one you brought?”
She flinched. She hadn’t accounted for that. But when she looked down, she only saw a gray stone with obvious red paint, bound in black-painted clay. And just for an instant, she thought she heard the melody of Chanda’s whistle.
“This one?” She held it out, her heart racing. “I made it on the way over.”
The king sighed, and she slipped it, a very real bloom stone disguised by Chanda’s magic, back into her bag.
Before he had a chance to ask again, Rina raised her voice, “There are no more bombs. There is nothing left to do except go home and think about whom you love, what you cherish, and what will be lost if we go to war, with our neighbors, or ourselves.”
Puzzled, she didn’t remember Marco ever saying that. She didn’t remember anyone saying that, except herself.
And as she turned to watch Scaggs climb into Thelemule’s carriage, a boy reached down to help the witch, the boy Liv had turned into after she got knocked out at the party. Rina raised a hand to wave.
The boy saw it, but looked away, not meeting her gaze. Then he helped Scaggs up and disappeared, ducking back inside.
Do you think it's dishonest for Liv not to tell Rina about "Oliver"?
