Sandy Williams - The Sharpest Blade

“You’re just throwing around the death threats today, aren’t you?” My scowl is mostly fake, partly because I’m ridiculously happy that I have something on Trev and partly because I have no intention of letting anything happen to Lena.

Still carrying all three tomes, I run to take up a position to Lena’s left. Before she’s taken a dozen steps out of the palace, the swordsmen Trev called on for help create a semicircle around us.

Several hundred fae are gathered here. I finally catch a glimpse of a few of the kiosks on the perimeter, see their colorful canopies, which are designed to attract attention and keep off the sun. Their owners sell everything from fruits, grains, and meats to silver dust and anchor-stones, and they’re usually the reason fae come to this plaza. Not today, though. They’re here now to make their complaints known.

Lena’s guards effectively keep the crowd away, but they look uneasy. Understandably so. With this many people out, it’ll be difficult to protect her from an attack. The silver wall surrounding the Inner City prevents fae from fissuring, but it doesn’t prevent them from using magic, throwing a dagger, or aiming an arrow her way.

A cool, gentle breeze moves through the plaza, but when Lena reaches the center of the cobblestoned area, the wind picks up. It’s unnaturally strong, circling through the crowd and making cloaks and capes whip around their legs. Two giant blue flags, both sewn with Lena’s symbol, come to life as well. Their poles are set to either side of the doors we just exited, and each time they snap in the wind, it sounds like a firecracker’s exploding behind my ear.

This is a powerful display of Lena’s magic, and it captures the attention of the fae gathered in the plaza. They frown up at the clear blue sky. These kind of gales only come when there’s a strong storm rolling in . . . or when an incredibly strong air-weaver is present.

One by one, everyone’s gazes lock on Lena. Trev and I and the rest of her guards are standing a few paces away from her, so it’s easy for the nearest fae to spot her. The buzz of conversation abates, then dissolves completely.

A few seconds later, the wind disappears as well. There’s not even a breeze in the plaza anymore. Everything and everyone is seemingly frozen.

Except Lena. She tosses the book she’s carrying to the ground in front of her.

“King Atroth’s ledgers,” she calls out, making the air carry her voice across the entire plaza.

“I promised you changes,” she continues. “The high nobles are promising you the status quo. The last signature was written over two months ago. Who here would like to record your magics? Your children’s magics?”

Silence greets her words. I scan the faces of the fae. Some of them are shifting awkwardly, some of them are staring at me. If this is her idea of a motivational speech, she’s not off to an awesome start.

“I promised you changes,” Lena calls out again. She turns to me, grabs the top book off my stack. She opens it, then she places her palm on the center of one of the pages. She’s not adept enough at fire to throw it, but she has no trouble making tiny flames lick over her fingers.

“Here’s your first change.”

I watch the page ignite, and despite knowing how much the fae hate the ledgers, horror creeps over me. I mean, the book is a book . It’s huge and heavy, but it’s carefully bound, and the cover is etched with an ornate design in silver. Each ledger looks like . . . Well, they look like the types of books you’d keep protected in a glass case. Plus, I am—or rather, I was —an English major. Everything in me objects to the burning of books.

“Lena,” I whisper.

She grabs the other two ledgers out of my arms, then throws them on the pile at her feet. She must do something to encourage the flames because they crackle and leap into the air, almost waist high.

The only sounds in the plaza are the snaps and pops of the burning pages. No one has moved. I’m not even sure they’re breathing. I watch as the pages crinkle, turning brown, then black, and all I can think is that I’m going to English-major hell for being a part of this.

“Cadig!” A single male voice calls out the fae equivalent of huzzah. A shiver runs up my spine because I don’t know if it’s a pro-Lena yell or a . . .

Others take up the call, one at a time, starting from whoever first said it and moving through the crowd to the left and to the right, and soon, everyone’s yelling it. They’re yelling other things I can’t translate, too. Their words become a chant—a passionate chant—and I take an uneasy step forward, moving closer to Lena’s side.

Lena doesn’t budge; she remains standing in the sunlight, her expression grim and determined.

I glance at the crowd again. It’s moving, but not aggressively. Are they celebrating?

The “ cadigs ” and chants escalate. Swords are drawn, but they’re raised in the air, pointed at the clear blue sky. Yes, they’re celebrating. They’re elated to see the ledgers burn.

Lena waves her hand, and the small bonfire at her feet shoots higher. The crowd cheers, and someone slips through the guards’ perimeter. Trev moves between the fae and Lena, but the man just throws what looks like an empty crate—maybe from one of the merchant’s kiosks?—into the fire before he retreats, sword stabbing victoriously into the air.

Another fae makes it past the guards, then another. They each add to the bonfire, throwing more crates—some that aren’t quite empty—and cloaks and papers and anything they can get their hands on. Lena maintains her position as the flames grow; so do I despite the heat coming from the burning pyre, and a tingle runs through me when I realize I’m watching history. I’ve only seen scenes like these on television: the celebration in Baghdad when Saddam’s statue was toppled, the open elation in Egypt when Mubarak stepped down as president.

A flash in my peripheral vision makes my head snap to the left. A ball of flame, bright even in the full daylight, shoots into the air. It dissipates a couple of hundred feet up, but on the other side of the plaza, a second fireball is launched. Fire-wielders are in the crowd, ones who are at least as strong as Trev.

Lena’s guards are having trouble holding back the fae. Some of them are chanting Lena’s name now. A few call out nalkin-shom , too. That’s when I realize what we must look like from the crowd’s point of view: Lena, dressed in tight-fitting black pants and a silky blue shirt that swoops over both her shoulders to cross in the middle of her chest, and me, a human covered in blue lightning standing with her behind a gathering mountain of flames with the silver palace as a backdrop. Lena might need to work on her speech-giving skills, but she’s a pro at making a scene.

The crowd shifts again as fae jostle each other, everyone trying to get a better view and to get closer. A few more people slip past Lena’s guards. Most of them retreat back to their places but not all of them do.

“Lena,” Trev says, yelling to be heard over the crowd and the flames. “You must go back inside now.”

I agree with him. She’s made her point, and this could all get out of hand in a matter of seconds.

The fire crackles and licks at the air; and then, finally, she nods once. As I turn to follow her back to the palace, a blur of red and black moves through my vision. My brain recognizes the pattern a second later, and a warning bell goes off in my mind. I turn back to find it.

There. A name-cord. It’s braided into the hair of a fae who is not celebrating. He’s loud, and he’s angry. He grabs the arms of the people nearest him, yelling in their ears, pushing and pulling them. Then his gaze cuts across the plaza to another mass of people. I focus on them and spot the red-and-black name-cord worn by another fae.