ten

Deon cried with noisy, angry abandon. “Stupid, cursed Innon! Stupid, rotten Bren! Why can’t they be here! I’ll kick them all around the city!” She buried her face in her arms.

After the other guards had left the alcove, Timeos had seen my face. His expression echoed my own. “Go,” he said, and I ran.

Now I was crouched over my fashion book, staring down at the most recent entry, the day before Derek and Peitar were taken. My description of our “secret” messages was no longer funny, and I hated the sight of the last note from the Sharadan brothers.

I wanted to destroy it all, but that wouldn’t change the triumph we’d felt in fooling the Buckets any more than it would change the helpless anger and sorrow we felt now. And Peitar had called it a valuable record. What’s valuable are the words he spoke, I thought. Those should be in the record.

The ink blotched and my letters scrawled and skittered over the paper. I wrote as quickly as I could, ignoring code words and secret symbols. I had to get it all down—the heat, the sound of the crowd—the way the speakers accused Peitar and Derek. How Timeos’s knee had pressed into my back when my name was mentioned. Most of all, Peitar’s words, and his determination—so like our uncle’s. I set down every detail because I knew the story behind Peitar’s and Derek’s unjust deaths would vanish from the version of history my uncle’s scribes would write.

When I finished, my hand aching, it was full dark. I looked up, and the glowglobe picked out the gleam of tears in Deon’s eyes. “We have to be there,” she said.

I took the book along with my tools and my bag of Lure. Having Peitar’s words close to me was a small comfort.

We hurried to Athaeus House, hiding when we had to. Deon tried to distract me by asking about the trial. I got to Uncle Darian’s mention of the Sharadan brothers, and she gave a watery laugh. “We’re the brothers,” she said with resolve. “We have to think of something.”

I used my lock pick to open the basement door, and we hurried through the tunnel to the dark, empty palace kitchen and crept through the hall to the servants’ wing. A sliver of light no wider than a nail trimming glowed at the base of Nina’s door. I tapped softly.

“Who wakens me?”

“Larei,” I whispered. The door opened. They were all there. “This is my friend Daen. We couldn’t sleep.”

We’d just found a place to sit when there was another tap at the door. The newcomer was a familiar guard in full uniform—Pirlivah, Timeos’s sister.

“Though you’d want a report,” she said abruptly. “Bernal Diamagan’s just sent a threat to the king—if he goes through with the execution, Bernal will torch the city and leave nothing standing.”

“Now the king will have to let Derek and Peitar go,” Deon whispered.

“Not Uncle Darian,” I said bitterly. “Threats would just make him madder than he is already.”

“Lady Lilah is right.” Pirlivah sighed. “The city guard is to oversee the execution and hold the city. Bernal’s people plan to attack on the east side—they hope the poor will join them. After the execution, the king is going to ride there, meet up with the assembling army, and personally take command. The orders are to put all Bernal’s people to the sword.” She looked miserable. “The only one who’s been able to get near the prisoners is Captain Leonos. And Flendar has been bragging about how Therian knew where Derek and Lord Peitar were a week before their capture. The king wanted the army here before they grabbed them.”

“Then we have lost.” Halbrek was bleak. “We’ve lost.”

“But people are out there, beyond the city gates, keeping watch,” Lexian said. “Hundreds and hundreds of them.”

Pirlivah said, “More. We’re on double duty, no one to get any rest.”

After she left, the adults began a whispered conversation about what the military might do, what they should have done, what had gone wrong. Nobody was able to sleep. My head hurt so much I put my head down. . . .

• • •

AND JERKED AWAKE, my mouth dry. The room was dark. I started up, but Deon whispered, “Wait. They just left. They think it’s better for you not to know it’s almost sunup. I pretended to be asleep.” Her voice wavered. “Should we go, too?”

“We—we have to.”

I heard her inhale. “Derek’s got to have one friend there.”

“Here.” I stripped off the purple-edged tunic and gave it to her.

As we raced through the empty servants’ halls toward the garrison, we heard the faint sound of voices rising and falling in unison—singing. We got to the outside door, which was propped open, and a blue-white glare stopped us short. Deon ran into me.

“L-lightning,” she squeaked. “Close.”

“Real close.” The lack of rain made it the more frightening.

As the thunder rumbled away into the distance, the singing became more distinct.

Deon’s eyes widened. “That’s my song.”

I listened in amazement. Somewhere out there, unseen, hundreds of voices sang the freedom verses—no, it sounded like thousands.

Then she tugged at me impatiently. This was the garrison proper, and forbidden territory; we needed an excuse to be there, however flimsy. There it was, on a hall table: a loaded tray. I picked up a half-filled pitcher and handed the tray to Deon.

We reached the big military courtyard at last, just as lightning flared directly overhead, a startling twist of living blue-white light that revealed rows of silent, armed city guards in efficient lines, some glancing skyward, their faces apprehensive.

When the thunder passed, the singing rose.

 

“. . . and all the nobles lied.

Slam justice for the people

When true justice is denied!”

 

“No! They left off the verse about us!” cried Deon.

“They made new verses,” I said.

“It’s not about us!”

“But it’s the people making verses—they’ve taken our song as theirs!”

Deon paused, cocking her head, and then grinned.

The sound echoed between the stone buildings, and the rolling thunder never quite died away, so we only caught phrases and the occasional word—and then a hand gripped my arm.

I started so violently my pitcher shot into the air, but its crash was lost in a tremendous clap of thunder.

Deon and I stared into Bren’s lightning-bleached face. “Come on! I thought you might be here.”

The storm broke at last. Rain streamed down as we stumbled into the courtyard behind him and slipped behind a row of tall figures that smelled of wet wool.

In the next flash of light I saw that the enormous yard was full of city guards, and Uncle Darian stood alone on the balcony.

Peitar and Derek were against the far wall, facing a line of guards with bows drawn.

Someone yelled commands. When the sky lit up again, I was stunned. The execution squad was aiming its arrows at the rest of the guards!

The commander shouted, “Now!”

And the lightning revealed his face—Deveral from Diannah Forest, in guard uniform!

“We did it!” Bren yelled, jumping up and down. “We did it!”

No one could see the struggle as the foresters attacked the guards, for even torches refused to burn in the downpour, but we could hear clangs and scrapes and grunts.

“Come on!” he screamed. “We’ve got to follow—”

More lightning flared as a squad of guards burst through the doors and crashed into us kids. I was thrown into the stone wall, landing heavily on my knees as a sword fight began two paces away.

Derek and Peitar were gone. Uncle Darian remained on the balcony, streaming wet, his expression the same one I’d seen at the trial.