Page 49 of Kissed By the Gods
I huff out something between a laugh and a scoff. “The gods didn’t stop Maxim from nearly crushing my windpipe.”
“No. But you did,” he says.
The door creaks again, and this time the click of a cane, the thud of boots, and the low murmur of formal voices herald the council’s arrival. Before I can step forward, he leans in close enough that the heat of his breath at my temple tingles.
“They’ll try to make you small,” he murmurs. “Don’t let them.” Then he steps back. He doesn’t move far, but the space between us fills with formality.
The Elder enters the room, the archons trailing behind him. The king enters next, followed by Princess Rissa.
Ryot gathers the towel and pitcher and retreats to the same bench he took before. Each of them takes their pre-established positions—the Elder at the center of the table, Archon Lyathin to his left, Princess Rissa and King Agis on their cushions in the back.
My eyes trail to the wooden chair in the center of the chamber. It’s the same chair I sat in when I was “the accused.”
Archon Lyathin gestures to the chair. “Please sit, Leina.”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my tunic, square my shoulders, and take a step forward. They think I’m here to beg, but I’m not. I’m here to make them listen.
“I’ll stand.”
Anger flashes on most of their faces, but a small smile curls on the Elder’s lips. At least he’s paying attention.
“Congratulations on your win in the arena,” Archon Lyathin says, like he’s toasting me for a well-played strategy game. Not for taking a man’s life.
At his words, Nile—the head of Atherclad, Maxim’s Vanguard—tenses.
“It wasn’t my victory,” I placate. “It was the gods’.”
“Yes. Of course,” Archon Lyathin says. “So, tell us, Leina, why are we here? I believe we’ve already told you the Altor aren’t involved in governing.”
Nerves flutter in my chest—so much is riding on this.Everythingis riding on this. I turn to find Princess Rissa watching me with that icy control of hers, and she arches one perfect brow when I look at her. Despite my anger at her—at both her and her father—it’s clear that my attempting to assassinate either one, or even both, accomplishes nothing. There are pre-established heirs for days, running from Princess Rissa to the king’s nephew and beyond. Each of them, I’m sure, has the same capacity for cruelty as every other Faraengardian monarch for the past 1,000 years.
My eyes slide back to the archons. And here lies the other problem. No matter how well-prepared, no matter how strategic, a Selencian rebellion won’t accomplish anything if the Synod intervenes on behalf of Faraengard. The Altor and the faravars would cut down even the best Selencian soldiers like they’re wheat under a scythe.
“Is the Synod’s purpose not to protect people?” I ask, my voice wavering at the end.
Nile, hearing my weakness, pounces. “The Synod’s purpose is to serve the will of the gods, to fight against the Kher’zenn so they don’t upset the divine order.”
I nod, agreeing with him, finding my balance. I take another step forward. “Of course. And the gods sent you an Altor from Selencia—from a land that is starved and beaten. Is that the kind of Altor warriors you want? Ones only half-fed and full of rage for you and what you stand for?”
The room stills.
Nile’s mouth opens, a ready retort coiled on his tongue, but the Elder lifts a hand, silencing him.
“Go on,” he says.
I breathe carefully through the ache in my ribs, willing my voice not to shake again.
“You say you serve the gods,” I continue, sweeping my gaze across them. “You say your loyalty is to the divine order. Then you should be asking yourselves why the gods would allow one of their chosen”—I gesture to myself, to the golden scar on my temple—“to rise out of a land abandoned to rot.”
Lyathin leans back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his chest. He’s studying me now, as if he’s reassessing every piece he thought he’d neatly arranged on his game board—and finding that the board itself has changed.
I press forward before doubt can overtake me, before it can make me tremble again.
“Selencia isn't only starving. It’s broken. And you think it doesn’t matter because you don’t see it here, inside these walls. Because you think the rebellion will die quietly beyond your borders. And it probably will.”
At the word rebellion, the tension in the room rises, foreheads crinkling in confusion from all corners. Did they not know there was a rebellion? I don’t think they did.
But the soldiers sure as the Veil do. They hunt down rebellion sympathizers and execute them like rabid dogs. I find the king without meaning to. He sits motionless, his face carefully void of expression. No crease mars his brow, no questions cloud his gaze, but he watches me with quiet, sharpened patience. He knew.
