“How did they get in?” I look up to the ramparts, seeking signs of an attack. All appears quiet and still atop the walls. “Did they breach the sea gate? Or sneak in on a merchant ship?”
Soren’s head shakes. “Every arrival has been accounted for, every manifest inspected multiple times.”
“Then I don’t understand…” My heart is racing. Something is not adding up here. “Why set fire to the market? And why kill themselves? Is it some sort of message?”
Overhead, the beacons continue to sound despite the fact that the fire is out. Soren’s eyes shift up to the royal grounds, narrowed to pinpricks. As though he is trying to pull something into sharper focus. I do not know what he is looking for, what he is sensing…Not until I see the shadow of fresh smoke snaking up toward the stars. Not until I feel the rush of fury burning down the bond.
Pendefyre.
Soren and I look at each other, both feeling it. Both fearing what it means. Without another second of hesitation, we take off running again.
The fire atthe floating market was a diversion, designed to cause chaos, to shift focus from the true target of this attack. And it worked. For at the first sight of flames, every member of the Hylian Guard went running to help…
Leaving the royal grounds undefended.
My heart pumps with dread as we sprint up the many sets ofsteps, passing darkened villas, winding through silent olive groves. Smoke thickens the air as we ascend. The fire is close now.
But what is burning?
My eyes go wide as the stables come into view. They are ablaze, a raging inferno. I hear the sound of equine fear—neighs and snorts of distressed Paexyri—along with Yara’s voice, yelling in the night. I want to stop, to offer my help.
I cannot.
Not now.
Both Soren and I feel Penn’s burning wrath and know, without a spoken word, that whatever horrors are unfolding before his eyes far exceed a few smoldering stalls. This blaze is more than likely another diversion, designed to pull attention from the wedding feast.
We run on past the dark silhouette of Arwen’s villa on the cliffside. As we cut through the lemon grove, we pass by two dead bodies lying face up on the path. They, like the ones we saw on the bridge, are covered in blood. I am again struck by the sheer amount of it as we leap over them. It is not applied in careful stripes, like the Reavers’ black warpaint; they look as though they’ve fully submerged themselves in it. Their lips and eyelids are coated, along with every bit of visible skin.
Some strange intimidation tactic?
An odd form of camouflage?
It makes no sense.
Racing up the steps toward Soren’s villa, taking them three at a time, we hurtle into the gardens—and into a scene ripped from my darkest nightmares.
Chapter
twenty-six
Everywhere I look, I see corpses—lying amid overturned tables, bleeding onto plush floor cushions, staring sightless at the skies from the abandoned dance floor. Most of them are enemies, their blood-streaked skin and sliced jugulars giving them away. But several of the fallen are clad in the blue-gray colors of Daggerpoint. A handful of others are navy-uniformed Hylians, swords still clutched in their slackened hands.
Melité helps a battered Tethys onto a chair. Someone has tied a makeshift tourniquet around her upper arm. Mabon wipes blood from a gash over his eyes, Cadogan at his side. On the grass, Harpina clutches her lovely dancing companion close against her chest. Her tears fall, an endless torrent, onto the woman’s death-stilled features. Her wail of grief is a lance that goes straight through me. Bretiax squats next to her fellow Paexyrian, stroking her short blond hair with breathtaking gentleness.
Fresh horrors greet my eyes wherever they land. The more I see, the thinner my sense of morality grows.
Someone should pay for this.
Someonewillpay for this.
I search the sea of slaughter for an enemy to battle, my bodytaut with the need to exact retribution. But there are no enemies left alive. Floral centerpieces crunch beneath my sandals as I run blindly forward, seeking familiar faces in the crowd. Where is Farley? Where is Jac? Where are Alaric and Arwen and—
“Rhya!” Penn is suddenly there before me, cupping my cheek with one callused hand. His other still grips his broadsword, which glows red from his battle-fury. “Gods, you’re safe. You’re here.” He exhales roughly, not quite able to hide his panic. “When I arrived and did not see you, I feared the worst.”
“I’m fine. I’m not harmed.” My voice wobbles. “Farley? Jac?”
“I told Farley to stay behind, but he insisted he was sober enough to help. He made for the stables to help put out the fire.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t seen Jac.”