Last Stand (The Black Mage #4)(107)

Standing here now, taking it all in, I could see why I’d been unable to make the approach.

The sky was too lovely for such a terrible day. Spring air—a mixture of pollen and pine—wafted across the field as a crowd gathered fifty yards from the fortress’s entrance, lured in by the promise of blood and a looming gallows just beyond.

There were so many faces. Young and old, highborn and lowborn, all gathered around the square. The queen’s court dressed in an array of colors, vibrant gold, and their finest Borean silks, instead of the mourning black.

A king was to die today, and I was faced with a rainbow instead.

People were shouting, mouths open and wide, but all I could hear was my pulse. I pushed through the crowd, my eyes taking in every inch of my surroundings. It killed me to be so far away from the front, but a strict sense of control kept me back. Every rebel guard was watching the grounds.

I couldn’t afford any more risks.

My back was hunched, and I wore a tattered gray cloak. The guards had been given orders to look for a girl dressed like a soldier. No one looked twice at a pock-marked woman with a cane and a limp.

Itchy red hives covered my arms and face. I’d had a hearty serving of mutton just before my approach. It was the first time I’d been grateful for a childhood reaction to sheep.

My transformation hadn’t been hard.

I’d traded clothes with Ian’s mother in the stables that morning. Each of us had donned a wig to match the other’s appearance.

Then there had been a loud proclamation that I was leaving Jerar as Ian’s mother rode away pretending to be me.

An old woman had hobbled out of the stables while the guards spread the word that I was gone.

Now I was searching the grounds for the mark Ian promised. It was hard with the crowd. He had buried a knife during the gallows’ construction. It wasn’t a sword, but it was better than my fists.

Five paces from the perimeter to the west. Look for the guard with the red beard; he will be stationed near its right. Two small stones and a slight indent in the ground.

When I finally located the mound, I made a show of dropping my cane. Then, I ducked my head and crouched, clawing at the dirt just underneath my cloak.

My nails scraped against steel just as a hand caught the pit of my arm.

I froze as my eyes leveled with a guard.

“You dropped this.” He had my cane in his fist.

Oh. My heartbeat returned. I thrust the knife into my boot’s heel and then clasped the cane in gratitude.

“W-what a kind s-soul.”

The guard gave me a toothy smile and released me with a reminder to watch my step.

I nodded and continued on my way.

Weapon: check.

Now to stand and wait for the guards to bring Darren out.

I felt oddly calm.

Watching him leave the prison at dawn… it was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. But I hadn’t let myself break. There’d been too much at stake. I’d returned to my chamber and waited for the hour to pass. And then I’d followed the rest of the morning as planned.

And now, while the sun was high in the sky and the herald called for attention, I was ready.

To lose or to win. Whatever the gods had in store, I’d give everything I could for the latter.

To the right of the stage was a sectioned off dais with chairs and a pergola roof. Instead of vines, it was dripping curtains to provide the visiting monarchs respite from the late afternoon sun. There were a couple of attendants serving refreshments and a pack of former rebel mages, including Ian, guarding its entrance.

To the front and center, close to the noose, was Ella. Both she and Alex were dressed in peasants’ garb, their faces streaked with dirt. It wasn’t the best disguise in the world, but with no weapons and the other “me” leading Priscilla’s guard on a wild chase through the Iron Mountains, no one would be looking for my brother and his wife.

Just a couple of yards away, Alex waited with a flask. It smelled like spilt ale, but it carried an alchemist’s potion inside, capable of creating enough smoke to obscure the entire square. Ella had snuck it from the rebels’ private stores. The potion would cost a small fortune in the capital.

A hush fell over the crowd; my eyes flew to the stage.

A pair of guards carried two ends of a chain as they led a prisoner up a set of steps at the side.

Darren.

A cry caught in the back of my throat.

He looked different from this morning. One of his brows was split and he walked with a limp.

His hands were bound and bleeding. I could see fresh cuts where the cuffs scraped against his wrists. Perspiration pooled below his bangs as he struggled to match the men’s heavy pace. There were fresh bruises lining his jaw—red, where the blood had just collected beneath the skin.

She promised the guards wouldn’t hurt him again. My fist gripped the cane so hard it throbbed. Priscilla must have only meant the days leading up to his execution.

After all, this was all in the name of the Caltothian king.

My eyes flew to the shaded pergola and the hidden rulers inside. I wondered what they thought as they watched the fallen king of Jerar limp across the stage.

Why was the cost of peace always death? Why did there have to be a cost?

One of the priests strode forward as a guard yanked Darren to the center of the stage.

“People of Jerar,” the elder proclaimed, “I give you, on behalf of our new queen, the former king of Jerar.” One of the guards jerked the chain back so that Darren stumbled across the dais. “Today marks the first day of Queen Priscilla’s reign and the burgeoning peace between two enemy nations, Jerar and Caltoth.”