“Try not to scare them,” Prince Hedrick repeated, sardonically. He twisted in his seat. “By the gods!”
Emily followed his gaze. A cluster of severed heads, mounted on pikes, had been placed just past the gatehouse. Blood dripped from their wounds, pooling on the ground below. They hadn’t been dead very long... they couldn’t have been, unless someone had charmed the blood to keep it from clotting. Her head spun as she stared, feeling sick. One of the faces was almost familiar. Was it...?
Her blood ran cold as she remembered someone she’d met in happier times. “Is that...?”
Lady Barb nodded in grim confirmation. “King Jorlem. Dead.”
Chapter Eleven
“MY FATHER,” PRINCE HEDRICK SAID. His voice shook. “They... they killed him.”
Emily felt a stab of sympathy, despite everything. Alassa hadn’t wanted her father dead, despite everything he’d done to her. Prince Hedrick’s father hadn’t been a monster, by all accounts. He certainly hadn’t been that kind of monster. Stiff-necked, stubborn, too wedded to his royal rights... but not a necromancer like Alassa’s father Randor. He hadn’t threatened to turn his entire country into a slaughterhouse. And yet...
She shuddered. The king had been a man, but he hadn’t just been a man. He was the law of the land, if the royalists were to be believed. He was the kingdom in his person... she cursed under her breath. If the rebels had wanted to ensure there was no hope of compromise, of coming to terms with the royalists, they could hardly have picked a better way to do it. The king’s death by beheading would make it impossible for the princes to do anything but seek revenge. There would be blood.
And there’s nothing I can do to stop it, she thought. Crown Prince Dater had never struck her as being cold-blooded enough to overlook his father’s death. He’d go to war... no, he was already at war. She was tempted to turn and leave, on the grounds the mission had already failed, but it would lead to a bloodbath. She had to do something, but... What the hell am I going to do?
“Monsters,” Prince Hedrick growled. “I’ll kill them.”
Emily looked up. The rebels were closing in, carrying a dizzying array of weapons from muskets to breadknives and pitchforks. They all wore a little cloth cap, something that nagged at her; their faces were twisted with anger and hatred as they spied Prince Hedrick. Emily would bet half her fortune that everyone in the city knew him by sight, rather than paintings. They’d have good reason to hate him, if his chatter along the way was any indication. She reached for her magic, unsure what to do. If they were in a trap, and had to fight their way out, there would be no hope whatsoever of completing the mission. But the rebels themselves might have already made it impossible...
Hedrick drew his sword and leapt out of the coach, landing neatly on the cobblestones. The crowd hissed in anger - “kill the royalist scum” - and lunged forward. Emily braced herself and cast a freeze spell, striking Hedrick in the back. His entire body froze. He tumbled forward and hit the ground with an almighty crack. The impact wouldn’t hurt him - the spell would see to that - but it would be embarrassing. The crowd hooted and jeered, waving their weapons in the air. It felt as if the slightest misstep would be enough to trigger a riot.
Emily stood, drawing on her magic. “I am Emily,” she said, carefully. She took advantage of the sudden pause to levitate Prince Hedrick’s frozen body back into the coach. “Take us to your leader.”
The crowd seemed to hesitate, as if they were as uncertain as herself. Emily waited, sensing Lady Barb’s magic coiling behind her. If the rebels came for them, or demanded Prince Hedrick’s head, they’d have to grab hold of the prince and teleport out. Silent had her own teleport amulet, but would she realize the danger in time to escape? Emily cursed under her breath. She should never have agreed to take the maid. It wasn’t as if she needed someone to lay out her clothes, help her dress and generally treat her like someone who couldn’t do anything without help.
“Emily,” a new voice said. “Welcome to Freedom City.”
Emily looked up. A middle-aged man was walking towards them, wearing a little cloth cap and a dark outfit that looked like a cross between an apprentice’s trousers and a soldier’s tunic. It was strikingly drab, but she suspected that was the point. His face was nowhere near as handsome as Prince Hedrick’s - he was unshaven, with scars on his right cheek - but he had character. His voice was calm and compelling, the sort of voice - Emily conceded ruefully - that made you believe in the man and his cause. The crowd opened up to allow the newcomer to walk up to the coach. She saw a dozen admiring glances thrown at his back.
Her eyes scanned his body. He was clearly used to working with his hands. His arms and legs were muscular, yet not absurdly so. She guessed he’d been a craftsman before he’d become a rebel, although it was hard to be sure. Farmers tended to be more conservative than craftsmen. The latter wanted to push the limits of the possible, while the former was disinclined to experiment. She reminded herself, sharply, that she could be wrong. The man was a stranger.
“I am Althorn, Son of Tyler,” the man said. “I greet you, Emily, but I cannot welcome your comrade. He needs to face the People’s Justice.”
Emily could hear the capital letters thudding into place. The crowd murmured in agreement, inching closer and closer until they were pressing against the coach. She forced herself to think. Handing Prince Hedrick over wasn’t an option, not when
