Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(38)
Andrés de Martín. I think his true name.
I crush the parchment in my hand, but we’ve all seen it. My mind is going to break open. I can feel the memories strain against my temples, each one a blade trying to cut its way out. Trust me. Trust. Me.
“Executions don’t happen on Holy Day,” Margo says. “We were supposed to have another day!”
“They knew we’d never surrender. Not even for Dez,” Sayida says.
Esteban makes a choking sound. “Think of the crowds. The people who will be present. Everyone from farmhands to lords all attending the same service. What better spectacle than to kill the leader of the Whispers?”
They’re going to kill Dez. The reality of it feels like that gut punch on the balcony. I’m desperate and need to breathe, but I can’t. Castian’s going to kill him because Dez couldn’t break out of his cell. Castian’s going to kill him because I stole Dez’s means of escape.
Trumpets sound in the distance, and this time, the four of us gather in a closed circle, while rivers of people make their way past the narrow alley and toward the cathedral to the execution square. Some carry baskets of rotting food, garbage not good enough for even rats to eat. Others clutch glass bottles of holy water blessed by the royal priest himself. Anything and everything they can throw, they bring with them.
“This changes nothing,” I say breathlessly. “I don’t care if I have to rip Dez off that platform and kill the executioner myself.”
Esteban balls his hands into fists. “Look around. We’ll never break through the crowds.”
“We don’t have to get through,” Sayida says, running to the dead end of the alley. I see what she sees. A metal drainpipe. “If we can’t walk the streets we will race across rooftops.”
In the dark shadow of the alley, we grab the rungs on the side of the pipe that empties out the eaves trough on the roof of the building, and climb up. Everyone is so preoccupied with the idea of a Moria Whisper’s death that they don’t bother to look up.
When I get to the top, I balance on the lip of the roof, and a wave of vertigo hits me as I take in the scene. At first, the dark mass in front of the cathedral looks like a hive. There are so many of them that they can hardly move. Vendors put away their wares as people fill every single space of the market square. It’s as if they taste the blood in the air, the wrath that comes from a crowd this large.
From where we are, we can see everything. There’s a row of nooses that dangle in the breeze. But what my eye goes to is the thick wooden block at the center of it all, where a judge sharpens a blunt executioner’s sword.
The shock of it leaves me cold and struggling to breathe.
They’re going to behead him.
“We have to get closer!” My voice strains as I fight to be heard through the noise of the capital. I sprint and jump across the foot-long space between this roof and the next. My boots splash through murky puddles, stick to the grimy black surface. The blazing sun radiates against it, making steam rise. On the next roof, the surface is so slick, I can’t catch my footing. As I fumble, Sayida is suddenly there, holding my hand and pulling me forward. From here, we have a better view of the block.
“Wait,” Margo says, pointing to the wooden watchtower beside us. Guards have climbed it to survey the crowds. “We can’t go farther yet.”
A loud cheer goes up as the prince is announced by dozens of trumpeting horns. Common doves take flight from the streets and search for higher places to roost. It has been three days since I laid eyes on the Bloodied Prince. He’s not dressed in the sullied armor he wore in the forest.
The prince rides out on his horse. Brilliant rubies drip from his circlet and the sun catches his gold crown, creating a halo—an angel of death. He’s decked in deep red finery tailored to his large frame.
People make a path for him around the block. His steed trots back and forth, and then the Príncipe Dorado gives them a devastating smile. A smile that says he knows something the rest of us don’t. That he lied. He broke his word. What good is the word of a royal? When he rejects the executioner’s weapon for his own bejeweled broadsword, the crowd goes wild with adoration.
The disgust at the display makes my stomach roil. I taste the wretched market air and bile, but I can’t break apart yet.
“We have to go,” I say, my voice rising. I whirl on Margo. “Can you cloak me and create a diversion for us to make a run for it?”
Her eyes are glassy with tears, and a deep line cuts across her forehead. “Renata Convida, I am not that powerful.”
“You have to be,” I whimper.
There’s a loud ripple of voices down below, and automatically, we all look back to the crowd. The people below move back and forth like a tumultuous sea, churning and churning, until a hush falls over them as Dez is brought out.
Even from this distance, I can tell he’s hurt. He can barely stand on his own. Despite all of that, my body relaxes at the sight of him alive. While he’s alive, there’s still hope.
The guard who holds him is an ogre of a man, with a bald head and brown skin covered in scars and tattoos. He grips Dez around the neck with one beefy hand and parades him up and down the platform.
I want to look away. Dez would want me to look away. He wouldn’t want me seeing him like this, brought to his knees by the thing he hates the most. But I let the sight fuel my fury.