Page 26 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘Very, but Orentico is younger. Fýredel may see through the deception.’
‘Surely he cannot know what my father looks like.’
‘Either way, Orentico is doomed.’
‘Glorian Shieldheart survived Fýredel twice. Itispossible.’ Marosa laid a consoling hand on his arm. ‘Orentico is doing his country a great service. The Knight of Courage will reward him, whether here or in Halgalant.’
Bartian nodded, and pressed her hand in return.
‘Do not touch my daughter,’ King Sigoso called, sharp as a cutlass. ‘She is betrothed.’
Marosa stepped away, her face burning.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’ Bartian bowed. ‘The Donmata was only—’
‘I trust you do not mean to argue with your sovereign, Lord Bartian.’
Bartian closed his mouth.
Marosa moved to a different part of the Council Chamber, finding her own viewpoint. Soon the other nobles were looking out as well, straining to see through the smoke that choked the streets. Past her drawn reflection, Marosacould just see a pair of wyverns on the rooftops, watching the city.
She estimated each was fifty to seventy feet in length, from their snouts to the ends of their serpentine tails. Just as the bestiaries described, they had only two hind legs, but their leathery wings acted somewhat like arms when they landed, allowing them to crawl along the ground. Their talons were appalling, as were the twin horns that stemmed from their skulls. They were thought to possess hollow bones – there was surely no other way they could fly – but she had still not expected their wings to be quite so immense, with savage hooks at the tips.
Beside them was a wyverling, half the size. Unlike its kin, it stood upright, like a bird, with its wings folded against its sides. All three creatures looked battle-scarred, with missing scales.
The scars of the Grief of Ages, left by warriors long dead.
Marosa tore her gaze away, cold sweat on her nape. Far below, hundreds of Cárscari had gathered at the defensive wall that surrounded the lower floors of the Palace of Salvation. They must be seeking the protection of its thick volcanic walls, but she knew her father. He would not let the commons into his own home. She willed them to give up and get to shelter. Thanks to the Act of Preservation, the entire city was made of stone or brick, with no wood or thatched roofs to be seen. Their homes would shield them from any more fire.
At last, the gates to the palace opened. When a figure emerged from inside, the crowd parted.
The decoy. Marosa could not see his face from this high up, through so much smoke. Accompanied by city guards, Orentico Feyalda climbed into a horse-drawn coach.
As the coach rolled along the river of fire, the Cárscari made way for it. Bartian watched, his face tight, as his cousin made the slow journey towards the break in the mountainside.
After a time, they lost sight of Orentico. At some point, when the road ended, he would have to continue on foot.
‘Donmata,’ Ermendo said, ‘perhaps you should come away from the windows.’
His eyes were on a wyvern that had turned its fiery gaze towards her. Marosa retreated slowly.
Day turned to dusk, and dusk to night. A full moon rose, casting silver light into the smoke, allowing more wyverns to be seen. At last, Bartian risked cracking a window open, so everyone could hear and smell the city. It was quieter than Marosa had expected – a hush broken only by occasional hisses from the intruders, and the distant, frantic sobs of the Cárscari.
It seemed all the louder, then, when a weight fell on the balcony outside the Council Chamber.
Bartian flung open the doors. ‘Lord Bartian,’ the Captain General barked, but he was already outside, and smoke was rushing into the chamber, sending half the nobles into coughing fits. Marosa went as far as the threshold and saw Bartian crouched beside a thing with limbs.
She had never seen a corpse before. It was so charred she could not see its face. Only its teeth. All she could do was stare at it. Not an hour ago, this had been a man. A living man.
‘the mountain king seeks to deceive me,’ Fýredel said. His stentorian voice reached through the city, rattling the glasses on the table. ‘now your people know you well.’
Even at sixteen, on the darkest night of her life, Marosa had never held so much fear in her body.
‘you cannot hide,’ the wyrm proclaimed. ‘come forth, craven king, imprecation to his subjects.’
One by one, they all looked to King Sigoso.
‘There is no choice, then,’ the Duchess of Ortégardes said.
