Page 109 of Down Comes the Night

Admiration. Her reputation restored. Her position secure.

It was all so hollow now.

Una—her head held high and her sleek braid swinging like a gallows rope—walked alongside Wren up the pristine white stairs of the royal palace. She led them through halls and up stairs to a balcony filled with the black-capped heads of the Guard. From her vantage point, Wren could see the throne room stretched before her like a theater. Terraces and boxes and tiered seats buzzed with courtiers and wealthy business owners. Isabel so rarely held court, everyone was dressed for the occasion in their finest: bold Cernosian-flag red in support of their new ally, elaborately beaded gowns, and expensive fur stoles draped over shoulders.

On a marble dais, Isabel, veiled and crowned, sat atop her throne.It was a monstrosity wrought in silver, its back twisting skyward like spires of ice. A canopy of lace, as delicate and liquid as poured water, concealed her from the direct view of her subjects. Isabel, as always, hurt to look at with her glass-sharp beauty, but Wren could only focus on Lowry.

He sat at the place of honor on the right hand of the dais. More extravagantly dressed than she’d ever seen him, he wore a red brocade cloak fastened at his throat with a solid gold brooch. A circlet of gold, a jaunty mockery of a crown, rested atop his neat black curls. His cloak spilled onto the floor, the exact color of blood. Even from here, she could tell something waswrongabout his wide, exhausted eyes. Everything about him—from his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair to his bouncing knee—radiated a restless, hungry energy. As if the inevitability of his success tormented him, haunted him.

He looked like a snag in stitching. Something that would unravel if pulled too hard.

But then, as someone caught his attention across the room, his smile slipped effortlessly into place, and Wren saw not a monster or a madman, but exactly what he wanted everyone to see. Someone charming and unassailable and visionary.

“Um, excuse me.” A voice yanked Wren from her thoughts. A young Guardswoman, no older than thirteen and too small to fit into her standard-issue uniform, was gaping at her from the adjacent seat. “You’re Lieutenant Wren Southerland, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

Her eyes bulged. “You’re the one who saved Lord Lowry.”

Wren felt ill. The crowds outside were easy to ignore, easy to dismiss, but she saw herself in the earnest openness of the girl’s face. It was a painful reminder of how naïve she’d once been. What she’d done was nothing to admire, nothing to aspire to.

“I am.”

“What was it like? Facing the Reaper?”

Before Wren could even begin to formulate an answer, the doors banged resoundingly shut. A glasslike quiet followed, ringing andfragile, as two soldiers paraded a prisoner down the central aisle and shoved him toward the dais. The tether of her magic pulled taut, snapped against her breastbone.

Hal.

As if she’d called him, he turned his head toward her. Longing and fear and hope welled up in her all at once. He washere—painfully, tantalizingly close. She wanted to throw herself from this balcony and run to him, to tear through every soldier that stood between them. Her thoughts churned restlessly, searching for any possibility, any opening. But she found nothing. Nothing that didn’t end with both of them dead before she even reached him.

She’d never felt so powerless in her entire life.

“Your Majesty,” one soldier said with a deep bow. “We bring you Hal Cavendish.”

The room exploded into chaos: gasps of horror, shouts of fevered delight. Hal’s head hung low, and his arms were twisted and bound at a sharp angle behind his back. His once white shirt was torn and spotted with oxidized blood.

Anger and horror clawed their way up her throat like bile. Hal wouldn’t have fought them, so they must have hurt him only for sport. They’d even left her makeshift blindfold fastened. It wasn’t only a precaution to keep him from using his magic. The blindfold, its sequins glittering darkly, almost mockingly, was a humiliation tactic, forcing him to stumble blind into this den of wolves.

This wasn’t a trial. It was sick, cheap theater.

The queen did not move. The lacy sleeves of her gown sparkled like frost in the faint sunlight. From behind her veil, Isabel said, “Hal Cavendish. How long I’ve waited for this day.”

He remained silent.

“Show some respect,” the soldier snapped.

He delivered a blow to the back of Hal’s knees with his sheathed sword. Hal crumpled, and a strangled sob escaped Wren’s throat. Mercifully, it was drowned out by the laughter of the spectators. He looked so small and defeated. Not at all how she knew him to be.

“Today, you shall receive judgment for war crimes committed against the Queendom of Danu, as well as the attempted murder of Lord Alistair Lowry. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

Hal kept his head down.

The room fell into a tense, vibrating hush.

“Speak when you’re addressed!” The soldier cracked the hilt of his sword against Hal’s back, sending him sprawling across the floor.

This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real. This was a nightmare she’d surely stir from. At any moment, she’d awake somewhere else—anywhere else. But she found herself out of her seat, her fingers digging into the balcony’s cold iron railing. Slowly, Hal heaved himself to his knees and spat a glob of blood onto the floor. It was shocking crimson against the white tile. The crowd jeered again. Although he remained impassive, Wren could see his dread in the tension of his shoulders, the firm set of his jaw.