Greythorne (Bloodleaf 2)

“Our resources are stretched thin as it is,” Arceneaux said. “And if things carry on as they are, our economy, our traditions, our very lives will be threatened.” She paused. “But that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

My nails were biting into the skin of my palms—if I wasn’t careful, I’d draw more blood. I wondered how long I could maintain control of myself if that happened.

I joined her in the aisle, addressing the pews beseechingly, “My fellow citizens, I ask you to listen. I understand that you’re afraid. Of me, of Achleva, of what you don’t understand, of a future that can’t be known.” My soft entreaty was quickly taking on the hard edges of a demand. “But we will take in the refugees. We will give aid to the lost and needy. And we will become better for it!”

Arceneaux moved with a predatory grace. “Do you think to speak for the king, Aurelia?” My name without a title—she was artfully sabotaging my already flimsy authority.

“You are on dangerous ground,” I said tightly. This close, her perfume was sickeningly sweet, a musky floral that made my head ache.

She said, “We’ll see.”

Dread was twisting into a dark funnel inside me. This was her crescendo, her big move. If it were a game of Betwixt and Between, this was her setup to play the Two-Faced Queen.

“I submit to all here,” she declared, “that Aurelia Altenar, a blood witch known to have caused the destruction of the walled city of Achlev and thus Achleva’s subsequent descent into civil war, has been conspiring with her lover, the former king of Achleva, to overtake Renalt and subjugate its citizens.”

“I haven’t! And that’s impossible, anyway! Valentin is dead.” My voice cracked. “Zan is dead. How dare you invoke his name—”

But Arceneaux continued over me, “When she speaks of a new age, mark it: she means an age bathed in blood and witchcraft. Where ordinary, innocent people like you and me are little more than servants and slaves to her wicked whims.”

“Lies!” I declared furiously. “Every last ridiculous word. All lies.” I pushed the words out through my bared teeth. “I want only peace! Equality! Equanimity! Tolerance—”

“I don’t expect anyone to believe my word alone,” Arceneaux said. “I’ve come with proof. Lyall”—she gave a decisive wave of her gloved hand—“and Golightly. Bring in our honored guest.”

The two acolytes went out the crimson doors while the occupants of the church waited in uneasy silence. I traded a tense glance with Kellan, but when my gaze moved to Conrad, it found him sitting with his hands resting in his lap, quiet and composed.

The acolytes returned moments later, dragging a man between them. He had a sackcloth hood covering his head, and blood from his clothes left a crimson streak across the pristine marble floor. When they reached the head of the nave, the second acolyte, Golightly, yanked the man’s head back and ripped off the hood as the audience gasped.

My world stopped.

I stared, as still as an insect in amber. Unable to move. Unable to think. Unable to breathe.

My bones were leaden, but my blood began to surge through the concourse of my veins, hot and heady, like the strongest of spirits set suddenly aflame.

Zan.

Zan.

Alive.

Beneath his coat, his linen shirt was torn and mottled with bloodstains, of both old rust and fresh ruby. He was gagged, but through the dark strands of his hair, his eyes, emerald green and glinting with golden fury, met mine.

The magic in my blood responded to the sight of Zan in danger by battering against my skull and the skin of my fingertips. To quiet it, I tried to employ the calming methods he’d once taught me. Breathe in. One, in. Two, out. Three, in. Four, out . . . But I might as well have been using a bellows to quench a fire; the flame of my anger fed on the air and grew.

“Release him,” I said through clenched teeth. “He is a king.”

“He’s not my king,” Arceneaux replied. “Or yours. Or even Ach­leva’s, really, as they seem to have already found a replacement, and this one was supposed to be dead.”

The pinprick in my finger burned as the magic, fueled by my wrath, demanded release and retribution.

But that was what Arceneaux wanted. I would not give in.

Golightly and Lyall dragged Zan up the nave and pushed him to his knees at the altar in front of Conrad.

“If I’m wrong about you, Aurelia,” Arceneaux said carefully, “now is your chance to prove it.”

Golightly stepped aside as Lyall pulled a Tribunal blade from the black scabbard at his hip and placed it against the back of Zan’s bent neck.

Kellan and Conrad were silent as Zan tried not to shudder; one wrong move could permanently relieve him of his head.