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.
Someone runs into me. I throw my weight back into them then slip through a narrow gap I opened. I’m looking everywhere for Lena, but all I see is a mob that’s becoming increasingly angry.
A hand locks on my shoulder. I grab the fae’s wrist and twist. Or try to. The arm doesn’t budge. I follow the arm to the fae’s shoulder then to his face.
Aren, and beside him, hidden beneath the hood of a dark gray cloak, is Lena.
“Thank, God,” I mutter out loud.
Aren shoves away a fae who slams into me, then he holds up a cloak that’s the same dark gray as Lena’s.
“For you, nalkin-shom,” he says, his silver eyes practically sparkling.
I want to ask him why the hell he’s happy, but I just grab the cloak and slip into it. Aren tries to pull my hood up, but I stop him, turning and waiting for . . .
Kyol. He and two of his men carve a path through the crowd. Most of the fae scramble out of their way when they see the lord general and his men, or rather, when they see their swinging swords, but a few of them don’t back off. Their swords meet Kyol’s in attacks that are halfhearted. They’re just causing trouble and are caught up in the moment. They’re not elari.
Kyol shoves one last fae away, then grabs my arm.
“Where’s Lena?” he demands. I nod toward my right. Lena’s stony silver eyes meet his unflinchingly.
“Go,” Kyol says, fury riding on his order. Pain pulses behind my eyes. It feels like someone’s taking a jackhammer to my brain. I reach for Kyol’s hand, intending to calm him, but he pulls back. His eyes lock on me, and he grates out, “Move.”