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Chapter 882: The Return of the King

The king was coming.

Ever since Roland Wimbledon’s forces had taken up station in Redwater City, the old king’s city had been full of talk about little else. The discussion reached its peak when the Lord of Silver City submitted. A small faction insisted Roland had not yet been crowned, but against his previous epithets — rebel king, invader — most of the populace had already decided: the next King of Graycastle was standing right in front of them. The coronation was probably the entire point of the trip.

He had not been in a hurry. Each city got several weeks of him, and by the time he turned toward the old king’s city it was already midsummer.

The heat did nothing to cool the streets. Taverns were loud with speculation about the inauguration; colored ribbons dressed the main thoroughfares; every window and rooftop above two stories near the palace had been rented out. The desolate old city seemed to have remembered what it was for. Perhaps only moments like this reminded its citizens what a king’s city was supposed to feel like.

More than a year had passed since Roland had last set foot here.

When he came through the city gate, petals thrown by the local girls fell like colored snow; the crowd’s roar ignited the street in an instant. It was not precisely devotion to the new king’s wisdom or goodness — it was a habit the city had worn into its bones, a reflex older than any particular king. But it was loud, and real, and it made the air press close.

Nini and Pod were among the watchers.

They lived in a tower building close to the main road — close enough that when their parents were too busy chasing potential tenants to notice them, the two girls had climbed all the way to the rooftop and stretched out on the warm red brick to watch the army come through. The view was nearly perfect.

“There he is — is that His Majesty in the carriage? He looks so much younger than the Second Prince,” Nini shouted, straining forward. “He’s waving! Lord Timothy never waved!”

“He’s waving at everyone on this side,” Pod said. “We climbed all the way up here. He cannot see us.”

“We’re part of everyone, aren’t we?” Nini said, with unassailable logic. “And just from his appearance he already seems much nicer.”

“This nice king,” Pod replied, “hanged a great number of nobles — including His Highness Timothy, his own elder brother. The temporary gallows are still standing in the square. He’s killed more people in this city than anyone, probably including the Rats.”

“Why do you always have to argue with everything I say?” Nini glared.

“I don’t like him.” Pod’s mouth bunched. “He doesn’t think of this city as home. He says the Western Region has more work and encourages people to go — but what about us? My father’s tavern has lost half its customers. Who do you think is responsible?”

“So who do you like? The Second Prince?”

“I didn’t like him either. He turned the whole city upside down hunting witches. At least the old king didn’t—”

“Gods, look at the girl next to His Majesty!” Before Pod could finish, Nini’s attention had lurched entirely sideways. She pointed at the king’s carriage with both hands. “She’s turning around — oh, she’s beautiful!”

Pod could only sigh.

The discovery seemed to spread through the crowd like heat through iron. A girl riding the king’s own carriage was not a small thing. The noise in the street rose another register as people turned to their neighbors with questions and guesses, all full of interest in this strange, remarkable-looking girl.

Then a clear and peculiar cry cut through the air — not quite an animal sound, not quite anything familiar.

Before Nini or Pod could place it, a grey shape shot past them — fast as an arrow loosed from a bow — and drove straight into the tower building. Below, a series of crashes followed: shouting, something heavy hitting the floor, glass breaking.

“What was that?” Nini asked.

“I don’t know, but it came from our home.” Pod was already moving. “Let’s go.”

They went back down the way they’d come — down the brick face, through the window — and tumbled into the tavern to find half a dozen armored soldiers surrounding the guests. Spilled drink darkened the floor; shards of cup and bowl and a scatter of loose feathers lay everywhere.

Nini’s first thought was that someone had overheard Pod’s complaints about His Majesty, and she wanted to seize Pod’s arm, drag her somewhere dark, and make no sound no matter what happened next.

She never got the chance.

When the two girls came in through the window the soldiers noticed them at once. They did not move to arrest anyone. They smiled. A few minutes later they filed out one by one, and the man who appeared to be their leader pressed ten silver royals into Pod’s father’s hand on his way out.

After the last soldier had gone, Nini crept up to her parents. “What happened?”

Her father’s hands wouldn’t stay still. “You won’t believe it — when the honor guard was just coming around the street corner, one of the guests produced a loaded crossbow and aimed it at the king!”

Nini’s breath caught.

“We were terrified. If that bolt had flown, we’d all have been in trouble. But then — a bird. No, a person. Something flew in and hit the man in the head.”

“A person?”

“She flew in as a bird,” a guest said, finding words, “and she became a person when she hit him — a girl, about your girls’ age. We didn’t come back to ourselves until the crossbow clattered to the floor. Then we piled on the man and held him down, and those soldiers broke down the door.”

“Are you sure of what you saw?” Pod asked slowly. “The person who could turn into a bird — where did she go? Are you certain you didn’t all have a drink of Dreamland Water?”

Pod’s father’s palm connected firmly with the back of Pod’s head, making her stagger. “You dare suggest I’m hallucinating. You’re in for punishment.”

The room burst into laughter.

The feathers caught Nini’s eye. They were the color of a goshawk’s, but wider and softer than anything she’d seen. She gathered them carefully, pinned them through her hair, and looked herself up and down with private satisfaction. She felt, somehow, that she could fly.

The assassination attempt attracted almost no lasting attention. Within minutes the crowd had moved on to the king and his entourage.

They weren’t aware of it, but at least ten similar incidents had already been stopped along the route. With Sylvie on watch, every lone assassin who had trusted to luck found that luck had run out; the patrol teams had quietly caught most of them before their plans could begin.

“Well done.” Roland continued waving to the crowd as he turned slightly to acknowledge the carriage behind him. “I hadn’t expected this many remnant factions still active in the old king’s city. The situation is less stable than I assumed.”

“My pleasure, Your Majesty,” Sylvie replied.

“If you knew it was unstable,” Agatha said coolly — Roland had noticed lately that her approach to matters of security had grown increasingly similar to Scroll’s — “you should not have entered this way. Common people like you are fragile. Sometimes an inconspicuous wound is enough to kill you.”

“I could stop any attack,” Anna said, beside Agatha. “And Nana Pine is with the security team as well.”

“You are spoiling him.”

“Ahem.” Roland cut in before this could develop further. “A new king needs to be seen by his subjects. For the impression it makes, the risk is acceptable.”

Also, he simply enjoyed the spectacle. Given the freedom to arrange it himself, he’d have set up two voice tubes on the carriage front and addressed the crowd directly — Hello, my people — but he suspected nobody would survive the confusion.

“Your Majesty, we approach the palace,” his guard announced — which also, as a side effect, brought Agatha’s argument to a close.

Roland exhaled. Through the redecorated inner gate he saw them: nearly a hundred men standing in respectful formation, waiting. Some were Western Region veterans — Theo, Barov’s apprentices. Some were small nobles who had surrendered and been placed in administrative roles. But most were scholars and civilians newly enrolled, men of humble birth who had nevertheless acquired literacy and turned up to serve.

The City of Dawn had earned its reputation as the kingdom’s former center. That it had managed to produce so many qualified candidates within a year was remarkable; that most of them were commoners was more so. Neverwinter, perhaps, was the only city whose education could rival it.

When the carriage stopped Roland threw back his cloak, descended the steps with deliberate composure, and turned to wave one final time at the crowd behind him.

“Come. Follow me to the palace.”

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