Antebellum Awakening (The Network Series #2)(54)

So will all of Antebellum when we go to war.

“In order to commemorate his life, we pay tribute tonight.”

Four archers stepped forward, Merrick amongst them, reminding me that for all the time we spent together, I knew very little about him. Flaming arrows blazed to life from their bows, burning with a bright white center. White, the color of mourning, of passing. The color of goodbye. A lump rose in my throat, remembering Mama’s funeral and the crowd of white gathered around her grave. As one, the archers leaned back and tilted their arrows at the ready.

I leaned in toward Leda.

“Why would the High Priestess order the bugle to announce Almack’s death tonight?” I asked in a whisper so quiet only she would hear. “It will only alarm the Network.”

“If the West is smart they’ll attack immediately,” she whispered. “Use the element of surprise. The High Priestess will meet with the Coven Leaders once this is complete to prepare.”

“Then why would she honor a witch she doesn’t know?” I asked. The Mansfeld Pact bound us to never deal with another Network’s business. Most leaders had met each other but that was all. Only Ambassadors were allowed to cross borders, and even then only on invitation in case of a diplomatic need or question.

“It’s a sign of respect,” Leda said. “Maybe even a defiant stance, really. Mildred may be trying to send a message to Dane.”

Tiberius called out a command in the Guardians language, drawing my attention back to the bailey. He stood just behind the High Priestess now, his burly body dwarfing her. The shadows behind him shifted just a little, and I saw Papa. Despite the distance, his eyes connected with mine. Knowing he was close gave me courage.

Four women surrounded the archers, wearing white robes and holding burning candles. A mournful chant came from their lips, belted out in tones of reckless grief, consuming the crowd, the bailey, the Network. The arrows continued to burn. The arms of the archers were slick with sweat, their muscles trembling.

Then the singing stopped and the arrows flew, one at a time in each direction, soaring into the black night. The faces of the Guardians on the Wall flashed in the passing lights of the arrows.

The terrible silence of the bailey seemed to roll.

“What now?” Camille asked, her voice faint. “What happens now?”

No one answered.

???

By mutual, silent understanding, all four of us silently piled the pillows onto the floor and lay near each other in the Witchery that night. I was grateful to be close to them instead of in the apartment, alone. Papa was already gone, shuffled into meetings in the Royal Hall that would last through the night. Camille held my hand as we stared at the ceiling. Michelle curled up on her other side on the edge of the nest we’d made. Leda lay to my right, silent, her eyes staring at one fixed spot on the ceiling.

“I guess we’ll go to war now,” Leda said, breaking the silence. Camille sucked in a sharp breath. My own thoughts strayed to Papa and Tiberius and Merrick. What would it mean for them?

“Everything will be okay,” I said, but my voice sounded wooden.

“I have five brothers,” Michelle whispered. “I hope they won’t have to fight.”

My heart twisted for her. Camille reached over and took Michelle’s hand. We continued to stare at the ceiling as if the answers were written there. Camille dropped into sleep first. Michelle followed with her husky, quiet snores, leaving just Leda and I behind.

“Your feet are cut up,” she whispered, curled up on her side and facing the window, her back to me. “You hurt yourself wherever you went.”

“Yes.”

She fell silent, and I offered nothing more. Several angry scratches crossed my feet and toes. A scrape decorated the side of my shin from the fall down the Arck and a cut from hitting my head against Miss Mabel’s wall bled a little above my ear, but overall I was unscathed.

“What is going to happen now, Bianca?” Leda asked, and I thought I heard a note of fear in her voice.

“Can’t you see that far?” I asked, turning to look at her back. The old seams in her nightdress from home had started to fray, barely holding together. I wondered if coming from a family that could barely afford clothes made her feel small in the judgmental world of politics.

“I won’t let myself,” she said.

The moonlight spilled across Leda’s figure. I studied her white-blonde hair, then turned to look at the ceiling again.

“Do you have that much control over the curse now?” I asked in surprise. “To prevent yourself from seeing certain outcomes?”

Her shoulders tightened. “Maybe . . . I don’t know. I’m tired. Leave me alone.”

Her hasty retreat from the conversation startled me. Leda pulled the light blanket from her waist to cover her head and tucked into a little ball. Minutes later her breathing evened out.

I turned back to stare at the ceiling. My thoughts lingered on the echo of the bugle and the chilling words that struck my heart.

We’ll go to war.

They haunted me into my dreams.





The Dragons Are Out

Chatham Castle held her collective breath the next morning, waiting to see what news would come from the West. The Chatham Chatterer updated every fifteen minutes with a new article. Guardians on Guard in the Borderlands! Almack’s Dead, Thousands Mourn. Will the High Priestess Announce Our New High Priest?