I push past a trio of goblins and a troll and one of the Still Folk. A spriggan
growls at me, but I don’t pay any mind. The end of the coronation is in sight. I
see goblets and tankards being refilled.
Up on the dais, Balekin has left his place with the other princes and
princesses. For a moment, I think it’s part of the ceremony—until he draws a
long, thin blade, one I recognize from his horrible duel with Cardan. I stop
moving.
“Brother,” Prince Dain admonishes.
“I will not accept you,” Balekin says. “I have come to challenge you for the
crown.” All around the dais, I see knights unsheathing blades. But neither
Elowyn nor Eldred, nor any of the rest of them—not Val Moren nor Taniot nor
Rhyia—is equipped. Only Caelia pulls out a knife from her bodice, the blade too
small to be of much use.
I want to draw my own sword, but everyone is pressed in too tightly.
“Balekin,” Eldred says sternly. “Child. The High Court cannot be like the
lower Courts. We have no blood inheritance. No duel with your brother will
induce me to place a crown on your unworthy head. Content yourself with my
choice. Do not humiliate yourself before all of Faerie.”
“This ought only be between us,” Balekin says to Dain, not acknowledging
that his father had even spoken. “There is no High Monarch now. There is no
one but us and a crown.”
“I need not fight you,” Dain says, gesturing out toward the knights grouped
thickly around the dais, waiting for an order. Madoc is among them, but I am not
close enough to see more than that. “And you are not worthy of even that much
regard.”
“Then have this on your conscience.” Balekin walks two steps and thrusts
out his arm. He doesn’t even look in the direction he’s thrusting, but his blade
pierces Elowyn’s throat. Someone shrieks, then everyone does. For a moment,
the wound is just a blotch against her skin, and then blood pours out, a river of
red. She staggers forward, going to her hands and knees. Gold fabric and
glittering gems are drowning in scarlet.
It was a mere flick of Balekin’s blade, an almost nonchalant gesture.
Eldred’s hand comes up. I think he means to conjure up the same magic
that made the roots grow, made the branches of the throne bloom and twine. But
that power is gone; he gave it up with his kingdom. Instead, the newly budded
flowers of the throne brown and wither.
The crow on Val Moren’s shoulder takes to wing, cawing as it flies toward
the roots hanging down from the hollow roof of the hill.
“Guards,” Dain says, in a voice that expects to be obeyed. None of the knights advance toward the dais, though. As one, they turn so their backs are to
the royal family and their swords to the assemblage. They’re allowing this to
happen, allowing Balekin to stage his coup.
But I cannot believe that this is Madoc’s plan. Dain is his friend. Dain
campaigned with him. Dain is going to reward him once he’s the High King.
The crowd surges, carrying me with it. Everyone is moving, pushing
forward or away from the gruesome tableau. I see the salt-haired king of the
Court of Termites try to wade toward the fight, but his own knights get in front
of him, holding him back. My family is gone. I look around for Cardan, but he is
lost in the crowd.
It is all happening so fast. Caelia has run to the High King’s side. She has
her small knife, barely long enough to be a weapon, but she holds it bravely.
Taniot crouches over Elowyn’s body, trying to stem the tide of blood with the
skirts of her dress.
“What do you say now, Father?” Balekin demands. “Brother?”
Two bolts fly from the shadows, thudding into Balekin’s side. He staggers
forward. The cloth of his doublet appears ripped, a gleam of metal underneath.
Armor. I scan the rafters for the Ghost.
I am an agent of the prince as surely as he is. It’s my duty to get to Dain. I
shove forward again. In my head I can see a vision of the future, like a story I am
telling myself, a clear, shining narrative to contrast with the chaos around me.
Somehow, I will...