I can see what she’s spotted, that each member of the little group is wielding some kind of makeshift weapon—a mixture of shovels, iron bars, and lit torches.
“They’re demanding that their kin be released,” Hyllus says as the group come to a halt in front of the sanctuary doors.
“They’re going to get themselves killed,” Ana says, scrambling back toward the wall.
“Ana, don’t.” I reach over and pull her against me just as the air fills with the crackle of a violent wave of magic. One of the villagers immediately goes up in flame, the fire from their torch engulfing them. They scream, trying to use their own incendi magic to pull the flames away, but the fire keeps flaring up, overcoming their magic.
Two more figures hit the ground, both pierced through by the wooden handle of a shovel one of them was carrying a moment before, as the pair of cleavers on the rear entrance are joined by the other two guards from the front door.
Ana bucks and writhes against me as she watches the scene, but I don’t let go. The remains of the little group of villagers is fleeing now, trying to outrun the cleavers’ power. But as the maroon-uniformed soldiers advance across the square, they easily mow the civilians down. They don’t even need to draw their blades.
In the end, only two escape, darting beyond the square and down a side street. The cleavers don’t follow them. Instead, they watch them from the edge of the square, still as statues. I suspect they’ve been told not to leave the sanctuary unprotected under any circumstances.
Two figures emerge from the sanctuary. The villager’s body is still burning on the ground, though it’s long stopped moving. By the flickering light of the flames, I can make out that one of the newcomers is wearing robes of bright scarlet and the other robes of deep purple, a red sash cutting through the color like an open wound.
“We know him,” Alastor says. At this angle, he sees the face of the scarlet-robed man before I do, but as they turn toward the cleavers, I see Alastor is right.
“That’s the cleric from the palace,” I say to Ana, who has finally stopped fighting me. I loosen my grip around her, letting her lean forward for a better view.
“Nunias?” she asks. In this light, I doubt she can make out his features.
“Yes. If you wanted confirmation that this is a trap, there it is.” I watch her expression, but it doesn’t change, still stuck on the horror of what she’s just seen.
The two men watch the cleavers return to their posts at the sanctuary doors.
“What does the purple mean?” Stratton asks. “Is he some kind of head cleric?”
“He’s a bearer,” Ana says flatly. “A cleric who only answers to the Grand Bearer himself. The smugglers said Sophos is his name.”
“Should we be worried?” Phaia asks.
“No,” I say. “If stealth won’t work for us, we’ll just do this the straightforward way.”
“Besides,” says Stratton. “We’ve never met a bearer before. Could be fun.”
“He might be worse than those maroon puppets,” Eryx says, a note of warning in his voice.
My gaze meets Ana’s, and I suddenly want to say something to lessen the awful sadness in her eyes.
“Maybe he is, but no matter. Ethira himself couldn’t stop us freeing those prisoners come sunrise.”
Chapter30
Morgana
Although Una offers me a bed, I can’t sleep. I know the Holms family doesn’t either. I can hear Tira’s father pacing back and forth in their bedroom down the corridor, his steps counting down the minutes until sunrise.
A few hours before dawn, I give up trying to get any shuteye and head downstairs. The remnants of the fire are still smoldering in the grate of the tavern’s main room, and I crouch beside it, watching the embers flare and die among the ash.
“It would be better if you rested.”
I turn to see Leon at the bottom of the steps. The rest of his unit have piled into the rooms upstairs. On any other day, the Holmses would have put up a fight at the idea of dangerous fae bunking in their pub, but tonight their minds are occupied with other, more terrible problems.
“I don’t know how the others do it,” I say. “Every time I close my eyes, I see those people being murdered. And then I think about Tira joining them.” I shake my head, nauseated by the images.
“They’re soldiers,” he says. “They’re used to the night before a battle. They know that sleeping now gives them a better chance later.”
“You mean a better chance of not dying,” I say, thinking about exactly how many people could get hurt when we try to stop the execution.
