Page 112 of The Song Rising

I lowered the gun, and Warden nodded, just slightly—but I didn’t go to him. Instead, I pulled off the necklace he had given me, the one that had protected me from the poltergeist at the scrimmage—a Ranthen heirloom—and threw it toward him.

Then I ran.

The golden cord throbbed as I sprinted away from him, moving faster than I ever had, a stitch gnawing into one side of my waist. Warden came straight after me. Just as his footsteps caught up, I threw myself headlong into the welter, ducking under arms, shoving past shoulders and hips with all my strength, crawling between legs when there was no other way through. I was more agile than any Rephaite, and even with his talent for blending in, it would take him time to whittle a path through this nightmare without creating another swell of panic.

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t see what I was going to do.

There were too many people around me. Gasping for breath, I wrenched up my revolver and fired.

Although the soldiers were close, mine was the first gunfire this street had heard tonight. Screams and pleas were offered up like prayers. My palms pushed against sweat-soaked backs. I forced my way through, suffocated by the heat, crying “move” into the storm of human voices. When I fired again, the weight of bodies tilted. Suddenly there was a path to the front—and just like that, I found myself on the transmission screens.

The cameras were tracking me: the woman with the gun, the violent protestor. Flashes blinded me, stripping people to nothing but silhouettes, searing rings of white on to my eyelids. Faces were contorted, monstrous in their fear.

“I’M PAIGE MAHONEY! DO YOU HEAR ME?” I shouted. “I AM PAIGE MAHONEY! I’M THE ONE YOU WANT!”

The golden cord rang like a bell. The first gas shell soared toward us and ruptured.

“STOP!”

Cobalt mist swirled from the cracked egg of metal. Howls of agony ripped through the din as the blue hand clawed toward us. It bruised the night air, stinking of peroxide and decaying blossoms, a smell that made bile well in my gorge. I tore the cravat from my face, letting it flutter to the ground, and threw down my hood.

My hair flew around my face as I broke through the front of the crowd and thrust up my arms before the burning Guildhall, clenching my hands into fists.

“I AM PAIGE MAHONEY!”

This time, I heard myself. Rain drenched my clothes, dripped from my hair.

Smoke drifted, dream-like, between the people and the soldiers, and everything grew still; all screaming ceased, all cries ebbed away. The chemical reek poisoned my senses. Dull pain pounded at the base of my skull as silence descended. The commandants kept their weapons pointed at us.

And there was Vance astride her horse, leading them. Her eyes locked on to mine. Beside her, Tjäder raised a hand, and one soldier dismounted.

This had to work.

It had to, or everything would end.

The commandant was little more than a silhouette. A helmet gleamed in the light of the inferno. There was burning red where eyes should be, and a gas mask covering the rest. I was shaking uncontrollably, but I didn’t lower my arms. I was small and I was endless. I was hope and I was fading.

I would not show fear.

The soldier lifted his rifle against his shoulder. In the crowd, someone cried “no.”

It was too late to go back. My heartbeat slowed. I stared down the barrel. I would not show fear.

I thought of my father and my grandparents. My cousin.

I would not show fear.

I thought of Jaxon Hall, wherever he was. Perhaps he’d raise a glass to his Pale Dreamer.

I thought of Nick and Eliza, Maria and Warden. There was no way for them not to see.

I would not show fear.

The soldier leveled his rifle at my heart. My arms dropped to my sides, and my palms turned outward. One last breath blanched the air.

A great wave washed around your feet, and dark wings lifted you away.

Interlude

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