Heir to the Sky (23 page)

TWENTY-THREE

I SCREAM AS
the string of the bow snaps loose. I know the bolt's in the air, and I can't react fast enough. But Griffin is standing at my father's right side, and he shoves him away in the quickest of movements. My father stumbles backward on the stone steps with Griffin over top of him, the bolt buried in the lean muscle of Griffin's bare shoulder.

Elisha screams, but Griffin is already up and running toward the crowd, the two men in dark stumbling through the stunned masses. Blood streams down his arm from the lodged bolt, but adrenaline has taken over, and he's hunting the men like a karu charging across the plains.

Elisha kneels down to tend to my father, but I can see he's all right—Griffin took the shot that was meant for him. I spring forward before I can think, the cloak slipping from my shoulders to the courtyard stones. Why aren't the Elite Guard chasing them? They seem more worried about crowd control.

I leap onto the platform of the Phoenix statue, the rough stone scraping against my knees and the palms of my hands. It's the quickest way to cut through the crowd and reach the fleeing men.

Griffin's already grabbed the first one, yanking his arm back and throwing him off balance. He's struggling to reach the crossbow while the man elbows him in the chest. The other one is sprinting away, his black cloak billowing behind him.

I leap down from the statue as the crowd parts before me. He's racing down the dirt path toward Lake Agur, past the landing pitch. He really hasn't planned this getaway very well. There are only so many places to hide on Ashra, and I know all of them. I wonder if maybe he's from Burumu, but why not plan an escape? It makes no sense.

The palm branch sandals Tash gave me pound against the ground as I chase him. I could never have run this far, this fast, without my past few weeks on the monster-ridden earth. My ribs have healed, and my breath doesn't sting or burn. I'm near the edge of the man's cloak and I pounce, grabbing fistfuls of the material to choke him backward. He stops running, pulling at the strings around his throat to untie them. The cloak falls from his shoulders, but it's slowed him down enough that we're side by side, and I wrap my arms around his legs to stop him from advancing.

Suddenly Griffin is beside me, tackling the man to the ground. The man grunts as he hits it hard, and struggles like a writhing worm, but we've got him.

“Where's the other one?” I pant.

Griffin nods back toward the courtyard. “The Elite Guard are holding him.”

Good. They finally shaped up. We yank the man upward and back to the courtyard while more members of the Elite Guard dash forward to help us.

“Highness,” one of them says as they take the culprit from our hands. I know I hardly look like the heir of Ashra now, panting and sweating, hair cut at odd angles by an old dagger.

They march both of the masked men into the courtyard before my father. Elisha is standing with him, her hands grasped lovingly around his. He looks flustered and confused, a shell of his former self. I look to Jonash, and he's standing there nervously, his face as white as the down of a hazu bird. He looks even more shaken than he was before I appeared, and it's making suspicions drift around in my head. Was he so worried about my father being shot? Why does he look more worried now that the moment has passed?

“Your Majesty,” says the soldier holding the culprit. “The traitors.” He clears his throat and averts his eyes, as if he's apologetic. Something's not right.

“I am grateful to your friend, Kallima,” my father says, his eyes shining at Griffin. “He's shown more loyalty and usefulness than my own guards.”

I look at Griffin, who's carefully pulling the crossbow bolt out of his arm. His face is one of concentration and control as he tugs the barbed tip out of his skin. The arrow clatters to the floor and blood seeps from the hole like crimson tears. I reach into my pocket for a handkerchief, and I press it to the wound for him. He looks up at me, his hazel eyes gleaming. He lives for this, I think. He's a monster hunter first, whether the prey is on four legs or six or two. He lives to save others.

“Kali,” he says quietly, nodding at Jonash. “He motioned them, in the crowd. It's a setup.”

I know it's the truth the moment I hear it. The assassination attempt is part of the ruse to spark a war against the rebels. That's why the Elite Guard were so slow to react.

I nod as he presses his hand over mine on the handkerchief. My fingers slip out from under his, and I step toward my father, who stands with Elisha and Jonash on the steps, Elder Aban a foot away from them.

“Well?” I say. “Unmask them.”

The Elite Guard look nervously at Jonash, who nods. They must be in on it, too, at least partially. After all, he's their lieutenant now.

The golden plumed masks clatter to the stone courtyard, and two young men stare back with wild eyes. I don't recognize either. Likely they are from Burumu, because I know everyone in Ashra quite well, as least whether they're a familiar face or not.

“Rebels, I'm sure,” says Jonash quickly. He's trying to cover, I think, trying to improvise on his feet. Aksel was right. He really is brainless. “I warned you all of the danger they posed.”

He's not the only one who can think on his feet. I've been raised my whole life for leadership under pressure. The flame inside me flickers. “So you said,” I say, stepping toward him. “And here they are, trying to assassinate our dear Monarch.”

Jonash looks relieved, the color returning to his pallid face. “Then...you can see what I've said is true.”

“The rebels are a threat, as you said,” I repeat, and Jonash smiles. But here's where I drive the sword through his treacherous heart. “And so they must be executed.”

His face is aghast. “Wh...what?”

“You said yourself,” I say, sweeping my hand to the crowd. “All rebels must be executed.” The two culprits look terrified, watching Jonash with big eyes. “Or are you not loyal to the Monarch and your own words?”

There is a long silence, as if the whole courtyard is holding its breath.

And then Jonash lowers his head. “Execute them,” he orders to the Elite Guard.

The man who held the crossbow jolts forward in the guards' arms. “My lord!” he says, struggling. “You promised! You promised us safety!”

My father's brow crinkles, his face filling with life. “What's this now?” he snaps.

I look at Griffin, and we both grin. Monsters snared in their own traps. The best way to bring down a monster, he told me, is to use its own weaknesses against it. And Jonash has tangled himself in a knot of a web.

“Please, Monarch,” the other culprit pleads as he falls to his knees. “He told us to do it. He promised our families a lifetime of protection and compensation from the Sargon. My family is starving in Burumu. I had no choice.”

“As I thought,” I say. “The Benu and the rebels are not our enemies. It is the Sargon and his son who have tried to assassinate my father. Spare the boys.” I raise my hand and point at my once future fiancé. “And arrest him for treason.”

“Jonash, why?” My father's face creases with sadness. “I treated you as a son, did I not? I offered my daughter's hand to you, and encouraged her to see good in you that was not there. Kallima, forgive me. I'm a foolish old man, and I'm ashamed.”

But before I can say anything, it's Griffin who speaks. “There's no shame in seeking good in someone's heart, Monarch,” he says. “Even when there's none to be found.”

“Take him,” I say to the Elite Guard, but they hesitate. None of this is going the way they'd expected. My father was supposed to be dead, bleeding on the steps, while Jonash and the Sargon mourned and reigned on his behalf with the support of the Elite Guard. I don't know how much the soldiers have been kept in the dark or brainwashed, or how much the Elders under Aban know, but I do know that the crowds are divided and confused in loyalty to their lieutenant and to me, their heir.

They step toward Jonash, and he's looking nervously around, trying to figure out what to do. Snivel for mercy? Bolt from the courtyard? Sweet-talk his way out? He hesitates, like a monster cornered.

I turn to Griffin to smile again, but his face is grim. And that's when I remember that he's warned me before. There's nothing more dangerous than a beast that's been cornered, a monster with nothing to lose.

Jonash starts to laugh, a cold and horrible sound that makes the guards approaching him halt. He looks up at me, his blue eyes shining. “Well,” he says. “This isn't turning out the way I'd planned at all.” There's an edge to his voice, and it's unsettling. “You're back from the dead and here to curse me, is that it?”

“Jonash,” I say. “It's over.”

He shakes his head. “It's only just beginning.” The guards step toward him, and he throws out a hand. They stop. Griffin stands at my side, still holding the handkerchief to his shoulder. “You,” Jonash says, pointing at him. “So you're the one they threw over the side, are you? The bastard from Ulan whose mother wouldn't shut up about him.” He sneers, looking him up and down. “I see they've dressed you in clothes from Burumu, but that doesn't make you a gentleman. I bet you roll around in the mud with the monsters, hmm?”

Griffin doesn't flinch. He's beyond petty words. But he can't help taking the bait. “What do you know about my mother?”

“Oh, so now you want to make friends, do you?” Jonash laughs, full of spite. “Sorry, I'm not interested in anything but getting rid of all of you. You're wasting my time.”

“How dare you speak to the royal family in this way,” Elder Aban snaps, stepping forward. “Surely the Sargon himself would take offense to your tone.”

A coolness flickers in Jonash's eyes. “The Sargon is dead.”

The crowds gasp; Aban steps back as if he's been hit. “What...what have you done?”

Jonash's face is pure darkness. “Long live his successor.”

He's gone mad. “You think the people will bow down to a murderer?”

“They can bow or they can die,” he says. “I care not. Those who will not follow will be thrown off the continents to their deaths. Live and obey, or fall to the talons of the monsters below.”

“At least monsters know when they're defeated,” Griffin says. “You're a flicker wasp crushed beneath our feet, and you're still trying to sting. Give it up.”

Jonash turns his head sharply. “What do you know of stinging? It's impressive that you've survived all this time, I'll give you that. But you're the one who was unwanted here. Did you ever think about why you and your mother fell? When so many other Benu could keep their mouths shut and survive? Your mother was the wasp, crushed under the Monarch's foot. She wouldn't shut up about the truth of the Rending.”

My eyes widen. Griffin's mother had found out the truth? Had she been the spark that ignited the rebellion? I imagine the ember, the truth smoking from its burial in ashes, the flame growing over the years. And, overcome with grief, she must have approached my father. Was she thrown away to hide what she'd discovered?

“Enough of this!” my father shouts, life flowing through him again. “Seize him now!” The guards march toward Jonash on the steps, swords drawn.

And then there's a brilliant flash of light and the sound of fabric ripping. And Jonash isn't on the steps anymore but in the air, suspended by a pair of fiery wings. The flames ripple up them as they flap, holding him aloft above the shocked noises of the crowds.

He's a Benu. The Sargon and his son were both Benu, the same ones they threw off the continent. Have they been holding to the grudge against humans all this time, or is this just a personal struggle for power? There's no time to wonder because Jonash is swooping away from the courtyard and soaring over the forests toward Lake Agur. The crowds are screaming and shouting while the Elite Guard try to maintain control. Aban's face has gone as pale as his robe, and he whispers prayers under his breath, while my father's face looks sunken and defeated.

“It's happening,” he says.

“What, Father?”

“This is why we've been throwing the Benu off the continents for the last three hundred years,” he says, and the words sting like ice. “To prevent them from using their power against us. And now it's happening again.”

Tash was right. My father knew. He knew people were being rounded up and wings cut off, thrown down to the earth to die. And he'd let it happen. “Father...no.”

“I am the wick and the wax,” he says. “I must crumble, or the people will. Forgive me, Kallima.” The betrayal cuts; it stings to think he knew of the genocide. That he continued it. He condoned it, for the people. I shake my head. I can't accept it. I can't believe that's the father I knew.

Griffin's gentle grip is on my arm, giving me strength. “Come on,” he urges. “We can't let him get away.”