"That girl is no Dallisor!" a woman yelled. "I know the truth about her. This girl bears the blood of our enemy. She is Endrean!"
That clearly wasn't common knowledge. The initial uproar threatened to become a mob, with most people on their feet and directing their anger at either Kestra or Trina. She was standing tall, biting on one lip and looking around in case anyone tried to rush the stage.
Tenger stared at Kestra with his mouth hanging open, his face hardened with sudden coldness. Obviously, he had not known who Kestra was, but now that he knew, he must have been thinking of the Corack oath regarding Endreans.
"Kill the Endrean!" someone cried.
"No!" Thorne stepped to the center of the stage, waving his arms and trying to get their attention. "I tried to warn you three years ago. This girl will help us, as no one else can! We need her!"
But his voice was drowned out in the anger of the crowd. Tenger put a knife to Kestra's throat, weighing the choice of whether to heed the crowd's wishes before the ceremony or after.
Their chants rose in the air, until it was all I could hear. "Kill the Endrean. Kill the Endrean."
It didn't matter how high I arched my neck, Tenger's blade dug in deeper with every move I made. His grip on my arm was so tight he had cut off any feeling there. I doubted he truly wanted to kill me, but he might, if the Halderians kept this up. For them, my very existence was an injustice that should have been corrected three years ago. If Tenger did as they wanted, he would cement the bond between these two groups. He knew that better than anyone.
Thorne wasn't far away, but he couldn't help me now any more than he did three years ago. Besides, he had a bigger problem: Trina and the Olden Blade.
She stood in front of the dagger, clearly furious at having the attention turned away from her. But she was going to change that.
"Wait, Captain," she said. "First let me claim the Olden Blade. Then I'll take care of Kestra, proving my loyalty to the Halderians."
Tenger's knife lightened against my throat, though he pushed me to my knees and pinched a hand onto my shoulder. "If I'd known who you are, Endrean, you never would have made it this far," he muttered.
Well, this was a relief. Trina would kill me instead, immediately after claiming the Blade, which she was unqualified to wield. At least I wouldn't have to be around to see the havoc she would wreak on my country.
Antora was still my country, and I was amazed by the sudden realization that I wanted it to remain that way. Had
I betrayed it? Or had my country betrayed me? Would I die here as an enemy of Antora, or a martyr for it?
Above the continuing chants for my death, Thorne tried again. "My people, stop this madness! Kestra is our last hope! She--"
"No, I am your hope!" Trina shouted. "I am the daughter of Risha Halderian, heir to the Olden Blade, and your Infidante! This is my moment!"
With Tenger's nod of approval, Trina returned her attention to the dagger. The unruly audience shifted their attention to her, eager to see her reach for it.
Before she touched it, Thorne shouted, "Wait!"
Trina froze, but did not lower her hand. "Why?"
"Something is wrong," he said. "In the presence of so many Halderians, the Blade should have a faint glow about it, in anticipation of being claimed."
Now Trina pulled her hand away. "This is the true Olden Blade; I swear it is."
"I believe you," Thorne said to Trina. "This fits the description of the Olden Blade, and its nicks and scratches match those that were on Risha's dagger when we last saw it. However, we are certain it should glow for the Infidante."
Tenger leaned forward, staring at the dagger as if silently commanding it to glow. I doubted he could stare hard enough for a blade of magic to care what he thought.
"Maybe she broke it," I mumbled.
"This girl is a fraud!" a woman shouted. "Trina Halderian is not worthy of the Olden Blade!"
"No!" she shouted. "I am the Infidante! I will prove it to you!"
She put her hand onto the dagger's handle, and although she pulled away at first, she gripped it again and her face immediately twisted into a grimace. I knew exactly how much it was hurting her, but she refused to let go. It was a warning: Release the handle or it would kill her.
"This is mine!" she shouted. She tried to lift the dagger, to hold it aloft as a victor might do, but the dagger refused to move from its place on the table. I brushed my fingers across my palm. The burn had faded a little but would never go away entirely.
And now the Blade was burning her too. It was rejecting her. How could she not be the Infidante, I wondered, considering who her mother was?