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I take a breath and steel my spine. “Let’s stop this,” I whisper to the king.
“Indeed.” He clucks to the horse, and we spring forward.
Hearing about the carnage from Thorin was vastly different from seeing it with my own eyes. Bodies litter the ground as we get closer to the Circle. The fires are massive, filling the air with light and smoke. The rebels keep adding fuel, sending sparks flickering into the night air. The lanterns that seemed so beautiful when Corrick and I had dinner are lit now, and they throw garish colors across the faces of the rebels on the dais. There are hundreds of them.
At the edge of the dais, two dozen people are on their knees. Many are wounded or bleeding.
Every single one of them is bound, with a blade or the point of a crossbow against their neck.
It’s a macabre re-creation of the execution Corrick was expected to perform.
Hundreds of soldiers stand just outside the reach of the explosives.
“You will bring us the king,” a rebel man shouts. He throws something that glitters in the firelight but explodes when it hits the ground, sending glass and flaming steel flying into the air. The soldiers closest skitter back.
“The king and his brother!” shouts a woman.
Harristan guides the horse wide, well away from the flames. As soon as the soldiers spot us, a dozen crossbows are jerked in our direction.
“Hold,” says Thorin, and his voice isn’t loud, but it’s loud enough to stop any triggers from getting pulled. “You face your king.”
The weapons are lowered immediately. The soldiers look from us to the flames.
“We will begin killing the consuls,” the rebel shouts, and I realize it sounds like Lochlan. “You will bring us the king.”
“If you begin killing consuls,” shouts a soldier, “we will have no reason to hold.”
“Bring us the king!” shouts another rebel. “Bring us the king!”
They quickly take up the chant. More explosives are thrown.
A soldier steps forward. “Your Majesty,” he says. “Allow us to take you to safety. They intend to kill you.”
“They’ve made no secret of that.” Harristan swings a leg over the horse’s neck and drops to the ground. “Bring me armor.” Then he holds a hand up to me. “For Tessa as well.”
“Armor?” I say. But soldiers are used to taking orders, and they’re already pressing a steel breastplate to my chest, buckling it in place. The heat from the fires is intense, and sweat drips into my eyes. The armor doesn’t help. My breathing is shaking.
The rebels haven’t stopped chanting. Bring us the king! Bring us the king!
“I warned you!” shouts Lochlan.
A crossbow snaps. One of the prisoners jerks, then falls. I stop breathing.
“It’s Craft,” one of the soldiers says. “Consul Craft.”
The other hostages start screaming. Many are begging.
The army seems to take a collective breath, men readying for violence. Harristan shouts, “Hold!”
Theyhold, but they shift unhappily.
The king’s expression is as hard as granite, his eyes ice-cold. He looks at me. “Amnesty, Tessa? Really?”
I swallow. “Do you want them to forgive you?”
He stares back at me, and I remember his voice when he said, It’s the same to the night patrol.
“Not all of these rebels deserve forgiveness,” I say. “But not everyone who was captured deserved punishment.”
