Page 16 of Prowess Trials
“He’s putting on a damn good show of it if he isn’t.” River touches my arm. “Whatever rash thoughts just stampeded through your mind, rein them in before you get yourself and many more killed.”
“But he—”
“Owalin has hostages, Leralynn. Any threat to his position, and they die. He’s not covered the windows yet because hewantseveryone on the outside to know what’s going on, and the death that will happen should anyone try a rescue. He may not know you and I are watching, but he is wagering thatsomeoneis.”
In the Great Hall below, Owalin walks around in a small circle, his red robe swishing gracefully against the marble floor, the hostages moving out of his path. I now count two dozen immortals and as many allied humans—all still in the uniform of Academy servants—stationed around the Great Hall. Fifty captors to about three hundred hostages, six of them kings, whose gazes now jump between each other and their own families. The stench of terror and triumph saturates the air so greatly that it manages to snake through the cracks into the musty antechamber holding River and me.
Pulling a knife from his boot, River sticks it into the crack beneath the door, jamming it shut.
I nod. With the servants’ passage designed to blend into the decor, the fae now patrolling the mezzanine have paid it no mind as yet—and if they do, finding it locked should further deter investigation, except perhaps to have a bowman keep watch to ensure no one enters.
Not that anyone stupid enough to come through here is likely to survive the encounter on the mezzanine.
“Any ideas?” I ask River.
He holds up a finger to silence me, his attention firmly on the view port. A commander surveying the battlefield with calm intensity. A situation I’d feel much better about if said commander was not still unsteady on his feet from a half-healed wound.
Flinging his cloak behind his shoulders, Owalin straightens the cuff links on his black silk shirt, the small movement mesmerizing the hostages into deeper silence. “Before anyone ponders stupidity, rest assured that you’ll discover all exit points from the Great Hall are now locked down, with fae warriors ready to silence any dimwit deciding to test my word. In fact, any sign of disobedience or rebellion will be punished with the archers on the mezzanine selecting a target at random.” Owalin snaps his fingers, and an arrow whistles down into the crowd, the tip burying itself in the eye of the man still whimpering beneath the crushing weight of the fallen candelabra. The man screams once, then goes limp, blood pouring down his face while several of the hostages retch onto the floor.
Owalin wrinkles his nose before speaking again. “As you observe, it is in all our interests to get our business done civilly and expeditiously. Unless you force my hand, I’ve no intention of harming any of my loyal subjects.”
I swallow. Fifty captors, at least two dozen of them fae—the others recruited humans. Maybe more than that, if we don’t trust Owalin to be disclosing the full extent of his forces. Why should I be surprised? Owalin has been planning this coup—experimenting with magic, bringing in forces from Lunos—for months, possibly years.
“Now then,” Owalin continues amicably, “let us get organized. All the royals to the right, please. The lower beasts to the left. Master Han, a bit of help, if you please.”
Striding up beside Owalin, Han—whose ears are now as pointed as Owalin’s—grabs a girl who looks like a younger version of Katita by the arm and launches her against the frescoed wall, the young princess hitting the painted harp with a muffled cry—a much greater one coming from her father, King Zenith, who rushes toward her.
I press my forehead against the cool stone, hoping my grip on the rough wall will keep River from marking my trembling. I don’t know what I was thinking, imagining I could protect the mortal world from the Night Guard.
“Time to go,” River tells me, swaying slightly as he pushes himself away from the view port. “There is little more to be learned from here.”
Despite the wound no longer bleeding, the male’s movements are strained, his corded muscles tight and glistening under a thin sheen of sweat. Bending down, he pulls on his discarded coat, his somewhat glazed eyes already surveying the stairs.
Between the magic, instinct, and sheer bullheadedness, River may be able to keep himself moving—but not for long. Not without help.
“You need to stay put.” I grab the male’s arm. “I stopped the bleeding, but nothing more. Wait here while I get help.”
Pulling my hand gently aside, River shakes his head, his pale, shadowed face set hard as stone. “I have to get down there before someone on either side gets everyone killed,” he says, struggling with the red woolen coat.
I open my mouth to argue, then decide better of it and take the coat from him to slide the sleeves over his pale skin, covering the makeshift bandages. I won’t be able to hold River here. If the idiot wants a jacket, he can have a jacket. He can have anything so long as we get him to Shade. “We’ll go to—” I am about to say the infirmary, but think better of it. “To the library. I’ll bring Shade to tend to you there. Agreed?”
A knot in my stomach releases as the male nods. Without waiting for permission, I slip River’s free arm around my shoulders, bracing the male as far as he will let me, which is the small landing we entered through. Though the steps keep heading down into the darkness of the keep, River shakes his head.
“This passage is supposed to connect to the kitchens and cellars on the bottom level, but the repairs have blocked off that exit. We can only exit into the main corridor, where we entered.”
In other words, River knew there was no place to run when he brought me here. Saying nothing, I snatch up my amulet and snap it back into place while River unlocks the door, both of us listening for the happenings in the corridor beyond. The noise of pounding feet and competing shouts as guards and servants rush about in an attempt to make sense of the mess has River sighing heavily.
His hand closes atop mine as I ready to pull open the door, the warmth of his callused palm seeping through my skin. Caressing me. For a moment, the world stops mattering, the simple touch overshadowing the chaos. Then River takes a deep breath and nods, striding out into the open like the king—or deputy headmaster—he is. Tall. Confident. Unhurried.
And turns the opposite way from where we agreed he’d go.
Stopping sergeant after sergeant midstride, River asks after casualty reports, issues orders for a perimeter guard and staging areas, and swears to flog anyone who so much as thinks about staging a rash assault on the Great Hall. “This isn’t a battlefield, it’s a hostage taking.” River digs his fingers into the arm of a young officer who looks at him with skeptical eyes. “It won’t be just your life you forfeit if you rush in there. It will be the lives of the royals and innocents the Night Guard holds.”
“So you want us to do nothing?” The young man lifts his chin in defiance.
Wrapping his fingers in the officer’s uniform, River slams the man into a nearby tree. “What you do is follow my orders.” River’s icy voice has the officer’s raised arms dropping to his side. “Set up a full perimeter. Get me the plans of every single passage in the Keep. A full account of every person we think is in there. I want to know how many bloody apples they have to eat and how many chairs they have to sit on. And if it is not all in a command room for me by the time I take care of a minor matter, I would not expect you to be wearing an officer’s epaulettes again. Am I clear?”
“Trying not to die is not a minor matter, River,” I mutter under my breath as the male claps yet another shoulder and issues a fifth order about guard stations.Each man and woman River speaks with continues on with a quieter pace, as if the male’s aura of confidence infects their own.
