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The crowd is larger than I thought. Tens of thousands have gathered, and they’re armed, pushing against the palace gates.
I tap the royal guard in front of me. “I’d like to see.”
He doesn’t move out of the way. Since he’s tall, with broad shoulders, there’s no way I can see clearly with him standing in front of me.
I use my best firm voice. “Stand aside.”
He sidesteps. Huh. I’ll have to remember that.
“Where are the other guards?” I ask.
A male on my left answers. “At the palace walls.”
“Not at the gates?”
“No, my queen.”
“Why not?”
When he doesn’t respond, I look at the guard on my left.
Our eyes meet, but he glances away. “I don’t know for sure.”
“If you had to guess.”
“Commander D’Artaron pulled the guards off the gates so as not to further provoke the people. He wants to minimize…conflict.”
He means loss of life. D’Artaron wants to spare people. The same people who are rattling the gate and threatening to charge the palace. With so many pushing forward, the gate is barely holding them back. Any more pressure and it will give way.
The metal bar that locks the gate starts sliding out of position, and the spikes at the top of the gate start bending inward toward the palace. Warily, people begin to calm down, their shouting turning to whispers as they watch the gate open.
At first, the males at the front just stand there, but then one of them thrusts his sword in the air and charges inside.
I gasp, covering my mouth.
Suddenly, their swords, spears, daggers, and other weapons are ripped from their fists and held above them. Uneasy, the crowd stops advancing, looking up. Murmurs start, some males already preparing to flee.
The wooden doors of the inner palace creak open, and I hear booted footsteps hit the stone before D’Artaron comes into view downstairs. He’s marching toward them. Alone against thousands. Fearing for his life, I turn to run after him, but the throne room doors slam shut, and the bar slides into place.
With his shoulders pulled back, he faces the crowd. His magic holds their weapons above their heads and makes them sway in the invisible wind. The rhythm matches the swaying of his long jacket and the curtains inside this room.
The crowd freezes, and silence falls.
“I don’t want to hurt any of you. At the same time, I won’t hesitate to protect my royal.” He knows I’m here, then, and even as he charges in alone against many, he’s aware of the royal he’s protecting.
Thousands of weapons hovering in the air zip past him and line up behind D’Artaron like soldiers.
“Commander D’Artaron,” a male calls out. “What are you doing here?”
“Ensuring the throne is preserved after Frederick murdered his brother and his side of the family. You have one surviving royal who has assumed the throne this evening after executing him for his crimes. She will find the bodies of your former king, queen, and prince that Frederick has hidden, and will give them a proper burial.” D’Artaron pauses. “After which, she will hold an open-court dinner.”
Open-court dinners are open to anyone.
“She’ll invite us to dine with her?” a female asks. “At the palace?”
“That’s right,” the commander confirms.
“What about the season?” a male asks. “We depend on the tourism the season brings. Most of us have purchased merchandise we need to sell to get by during the winter.”
