The Sharpest Blade

“You don’t need him,” I say. “Cardak’s killed most of the high nobles. You’ll have to appoint new ones.”

“And they’ll vote for me,” Lena agrees. “But I can’t afford to make enemies right now.”

“What is she saying?” Hison asks, staring at me.

Lena smiles. “She’s very happy for your support.” She braces a hand on the arm of her chair, then stands. She nods toward the fissure opening in the backyard. “You’ll give that anchor-stone to Caelar. He’ll fissure directly to the coffee shop. You won’t bring him here.”

Kyol opens the back door.

Hison nods. “We’ll meet you at noon.”

He accepts the anchor-stone Kyol’s just imprinted with the cafe’s location, then, as quickly as possible but while still maintaining some semblance of dignity, he flees Nick’s house.

Lena remains standing until the high noble’s fissure cuts through the air outside. As soon as he disappears into the slash of light, her knees buckle.

Kyol’s arm snares her waist, keeping her on her feet. It kills Lena, having to accept help from anyone, but even if she could get to her room on her own, at this point, Kyol won’t let her.

“You must rest,” he tells her, his voice low and rough.

She nods, clutching his shoulder.

Without another word, Kyol scoops her into his arms and carries her back to the guest room.

• • •

I spend the rest of the day, the night, and the next morning alone. I don’t sleep. I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see Aren’s face, and every time I see Aren’s face, I grow angrier. I know it’s irrational, that he didn’t intend to let the false-blood kill him, but he intended to let the high nobles do it. He told me his reasons for that, and on some level I understand them, but I don’t understand why he wouldn’t escape with me. If he’d just left when I asked him to, if he hadn’t argued and tried to talk me into leaving him behind, we would have been gone minutes before Hison pounded on that door.

And Lena would probably be dead.

I run a hand over my face, wishing I’d had two antidotes on me. I could have awakened them both. But, again, that’s Aren’s fault. He threw my damn backpack out the window. If I’d had that on me, I could have tranqed the false-blood without anyone needing to get close to him.

If, if, if.

I replay all the scenarios in my head, see so many different outcomes, so many ways I could have saved Aren and Sosch. By the time I stumble down the stairs a little before noon, I’m a wreck. I’m exhausted both from not sleeping and from grief, and I feel like I might throw up any second.

Lena’s standing in the living room. Her back is to me, and she’s staring out the window at Nick’s backyard. Maybe she’s replaying the false-blood’s attack in her mind, too.

“McKenzie.”

Kyol’s deep voice makes me tense. He’s standing behind me, but I don’t turn. I owe him an apology for the chaos of my emotions, but telling him “I’m sorry” when they’re still so out of control is pointless.

He places a hand on my shoulder. “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat,” he says gently.

I shake my head, take a step away from him, but he catches my arm and pulls me toward the kitchen. Reluctantly, I let him.

“This?” he asks me, holding up a container of bagels. My shrug is enough of an affirmative for him to take one out, set it on a plate, then grab a jar of jelly out of the semicool fridge. The electricity is back on, but it was off long enough to spoil everything left in the fridge. Nick or Kynlee must have made a run to the store, though, because there’s a new, cold container of cream cheese sitting on a shelf. I exchange it for the jelly.

Kyol watches me eat without a word. I’m pretty sure he thinks if he weren’t sitting here with me, I wouldn’t take a bite. He’s right, and in the end, I only manage to get down a little less than half the bagel.

At five minutes to noon, he’s sitting beside me in the coffee shop. He and Lena are both invisible, so I pull out the chairs far enough for the fae to sit.

The coffee shop is longer than it is wide, and one of its walls is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto a crowded parking lot. At exactly twelve o’clock, two fissures open on the sidewalk: Hison and Caelar. Paige isn’t with them. I was hoping she would be. It would make sense. Caelar should want a set of human eyes to make sure Lena doesn’t have anyone hiding behind an illusion.

We rise as the fae enter the shop. Hison looks even less comfortable than he did in Nick’s house, and Caelar’s expression is hard and angry, pretty much exactly the same as the last time I saw him, when he held me captive in the Corrist Mountains.

“Caelar,” Kyol says in greeting.

Caelar’s glare shifts from Lena to her lord general.

“Taltrayn,” he says, and there’s a note of begrudging respect in his voice. I forget how well they know each other. Caelar was one of King Atroth’s top swordsmen, and the Court fae looked up to him almost as much as they looked up to Kyol. If Caelar hadn’t been the one to rally the remnants together, Lena wouldn’t have had nearly as much opposition to her reign.

Kyol sits when I do. Hison is next, followed by Caelar. Lena is the last to take her seat. All are careful not to let the few humans in here see the chairs move.

Lena steeples her fingers together on top of the table. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

Her words receive a single nod from Caelar. A bolt of blue lightning flashes across his stony face. He doesn’t look like he wants to be here, and I get the impression that, if Lena says something wrong, he’ll open a fissure and leave.

But leaving is better than an ambush or a fight. I let my gaze scan the coffee shop and parking lot again, but there are no other signs of fae. If Caelar was working with the false-blood, and this was a setup, the elari would be here by now.

Lena flattens her hands on the table. “We can agree that the false-blood must not remain in the palace?”

Another silent nod from Caelar.

“What can I say to make you support my petition to rule the Realm?” Lena asks.

The table remains quiet. Caelar’s expression hasn’t changed, and Hison is sitting beside him, more concerned about the espresso machine hissing across the shop. He tugs at his shirt collar.

Finally, Caelar says, “Nothing.”

Lena’s lips thin. She stares at Caelar for a long, drawn-out moment, then her gaze slides to Hison. “Then it looks like we’re finished here.”

Hison must be paying attention to the conversation as well as the tech. He stiffens, looks at Lena, then turns to Caelar. “We don’t have a Descendant to place on the throne.”

“Someone will step forward.”

“Who?” Hison demands, keeping his voice low, as if he’s afraid the cashier or one of the customers will overhear him. They can’t unless they have the Sight.

“Someone,” Caelar says, not taking his gaze away from Lena. “The son of Hrenen. The son of Joest.”

“They can barely call themselves Descendants,” Hison says. “Both their bloodlines are diluted.”