The Sharpest Blade

“Lena,” I whisper.

She grabs the other two ledgers out of my arms, then throws them on the pile at her feet. She must do something to encourage the flames because they crackle and leap into the air, almost waist high.

The only sounds in the plaza are the snaps and pops of the burning pages. No one has moved. I’m not even sure they’re breathing. I watch as the pages crinkle, turning brown, then black, and all I can think is that I’m going to English-major hell for being a part of this.

“Cadig!” A single male voice calls out the fae equivalent of huzzah. A shiver runs up my spine because I don’t know if it’s a pro-Lena yell or a . . .

Others take up the call, one at a time, starting from whoever first said it and moving through the crowd to the left and to the right, and soon, everyone’s yelling it. They’re yelling other things I can’t translate, too. Their words become a chant—a passionate chant—and I take an uneasy step forward, moving closer to Lena’s side.

Lena doesn’t budge; she remains standing in the sunlight, her expression grim and determined.

I glance at the crowd again. It’s moving, but not aggressively. Are they celebrating?

The “cadigs” and chants escalate. Swords are drawn, but they’re raised in the air, pointed at the clear blue sky. Yes, they’re celebrating. They’re elated to see the ledgers burn.

Lena waves her hand, and the small bonfire at her feet shoots higher. The crowd cheers, and someone slips through the guards’ perimeter. Trev moves between the fae and Lena, but the man just throws what looks like an empty crate—maybe from one of the merchant’s kiosks?—into the fire before he retreats, sword stabbing victoriously into the air.

Another fae makes it past the guards, then another. They each add to the bonfire, throwing more crates—some that aren’t quite empty—and cloaks and papers and anything they can get their hands on. Lena maintains her position as the flames grow; so do I despite the heat coming from the burning pyre, and a tingle runs through me when I realize I’m watching history. I’ve only seen scenes like these on television: the celebration in Baghdad when Saddam’s statue was toppled, the open elation in Egypt when Mubarak stepped down as president.

A flash in my peripheral vision makes my head snap to the left. A ball of flame, bright even in the full daylight, shoots into the air. It dissipates a couple of hundred feet up, but on the other side of the plaza, a second fireball is launched. Fire-wielders are in the crowd, ones who are at least as strong as Trev.

Lena’s guards are having trouble holding back the fae. Some of them are chanting Lena’s name now. A few call out nalkin-shom, too. That’s when I realize what we must look like from the crowd’s point of view: Lena, dressed in tight-fitting black pants and a silky blue shirt that swoops over both her shoulders to cross in the middle of her chest, and me, a human covered in blue lightning standing with her behind a gathering mountain of flames with the silver palace as a backdrop. Lena might need to work on her speech-giving skills, but she’s a pro at making a scene.

The crowd shifts again as fae jostle each other, everyone trying to get a better view and to get closer. A few more people slip past Lena’s guards. Most of them retreat back to their places but not all of them do.

“Lena,” Trev says, yelling to be heard over the crowd and the flames. “You must go back inside now.”

I agree with him. She’s made her point, and this could all get out of hand in a matter of seconds.

The fire crackles and licks at the air; and then, finally, she nods once. As I turn to follow her back to the palace, a blur of red and black moves through my vision. My brain recognizes the pattern a second later, and a warning bell goes off in my mind. I turn back to find it.

There. A name-cord. It’s braided into the hair of a fae who is not celebrating. He’s loud, and he’s angry. He grabs the arms of the people nearest him, yelling in their ears, pushing and pulling them. Then his gaze cuts across the plaza to another mass of people. I focus on them and spot the red-and-black name-cord worn by another fae.

Elari. More than just a few. They’re strategically placed in the crowd, and they’re inciting the fae around them.

While I’m watching, one of them motions to another, then jabs his fist forward, toward the great doors, which are still open and waiting for our return.

Oh, shit.

“Trev!” I shout, trying to get his attention, trying to warn him. He doesn’t hear me, but I’m not the only one who realizes the risk of those open doors. Kyol is there. His gaze sweeps across the plaza as a dozen swordsmen emerge from the palace behind him, forming a line.

The giant doors slowly start to close, but before they’ve moved more than a foot, someone nearby, undoubtedly an elari, shouts out a call to storm the palace.

FOURTEEN

“LENA!” KYOL BELLOWS the same instant I do. I grab her arm.

She jerks away with a glare.

“Elari,” I snap. “They’re mixed in with the crowd.”

The glare remains as she scans the fae around us—fae who are much too close now. The south doors won’t shut in time to keep them all out. Dozens of people have heeded the elari’s call to storm the palace. Kyol’s swordsmen are trying to hold them back. They’re outnumbered, though, and the crowd surges forward.

Mob mentality. The fae were on the verge of getting out of control before Lena appeared. Now, with a few not-so-subtle suggestions from elari, they’ve tipped over the edge, their celebrations turning into mindless violence and destruction.

“We have to get in another way,” I yell into Lena’s ear. Either that, or we have to get out of here. Find some place in the city to hide until the fae disperse.

“We’ll go to the eastern entrance,” Lena says. She grabs my arm like it was her plan to go there from the beginning, then directs me through the crowd. Her sword is still in its scabbard—mine is, too—but the air vibrates with the fae’s chants and shouts and stomping feet. We’re going to have to fight our way back into the palace, I’m sure of it.

The gaps in the crowd around us shrink, then disappear. Lena shoves her shoulder into them, creating a few inches of space at a time, but our progress is slow. Too slow. An elari sees us. A woman. She’s moving through the crowd, dagger in her hand and hate in her eyes.

The weapons belt Trev fastened around my waist only has a sword. The people around me are pressed too close for me to draw it. I try digging my elbow into the nearest fae’s stomach, try shoving him away and turning for more space. I get the sword halfway out, but someone shoves it back into its scabbard.

I look for Trev, then for Kyol, who feels like he’s only a few feet away, but all the faces around me belong to strangers.

All of them.

I whip around, searching for Lena. She was right beside me. How could I have lost her?

I duck beneath a swinging elbow, then shove my way forward half a foot. There’s so little space to move. The familiarity of the situation settles over me, the press of the crowd, the panicked shouts that begin to rise all around me. My chest constricts, remembering how close I came to being crushed to death at the concert in London. Several humans died that night. Fae might die here today.

I won’t, though, and neither will Lena as long as I can find her.