Five Dark Fates (Three Dark Crowns #4) - Kendare Blake Page 0,86

bloated bodies.

“There are no queensguard soldiers.”

Jules looks up. Emilia has wiped her eyes and is picking her way through the battleground, kneeling to study wounds and scrutinize the edges of swords in the hands of the dead.

There are no queensguard soldiers. Not one amidst all of the fallen near the wall. Nor those strewn farther back through the streets.

“It is impossible,” Emilia says. “These are warriors!”

“Maybe they gathered their dead,” Jules suggests. “They must have.”

Beside her, Camden grunts. The cougar is no stranger to a bad kill, but she does not like this. Her ears flick nervously, and when Jules offers no comfort, she lopes ahead, away from the worst of the carnage. Jules kneels beside a woman whose legs have been severed. And not only severed but shorn off, as if by one stroke.

“These wounds,” Jules murmurs. “I don’t know what could have made them.”

Every wound is terrible. Every sword-strike deep and brutal, almost enough to cleave a torso in two. Other warriors lie broken against the sides of buildings, as if they were thrown like dolls. When Jules sees a head caved in, crushed flat as if by the stomp of a boot, she stands up and takes a deep breath.

“The queensguard couldn’t do this. Emilia, have you seen—?” She turns up the street. They have wandered among the carnage for so long, they are nearly at the temple steps. When Emilia sees what lies upon them, she screams.

“Margaret!”

Margaret Beaulin is strewn in pieces across the steps of the temple. Emilia stumbles up, scrambling. She crawls to her and falls upon her chest.

“Emilia!” Jules follows, but even her stomach turns at the sight of what was done. She cannot bring herself to go closer as Emilia gathers the severed parts.

“She was my mother’s blade-woman,” the warrior cries. “She would not have fallen like this! What could have done this to her?”

“I don’t know.” Margaret’s hand still grips her sword. The echo of a grimace still warps her face. Margaret Beaulin was fierce. One of the strongest war-gifted on the island. She would not have gone down easily. Yet the edge of her sword is clean.

Jules looks back through the streets. Bastian City is a city of the dead.

“What could have done any of this?”

From some distance, Camden screams.

“Camden!”

The big cat is not hurt; Jules can sense that. But she is agitated. Afraid. They find her in an alley, scratching at the door that leads to the Bronze Whistle, the underground pub where Emilia raised the rebellion. Emilia quickly kicks down the door and runs inside. Jules grits her teeth; the warrior is as rash and impulsive as Arsinoe sometimes. But before she can catch up, Emilia’s sword clatters to the ground.

“Emilia!”

Jules runs in and finds her on her knees, embracing two small boys. Jules quickly lowers her sword and urges Camden back as the children shrink away from her. There are at least twenty children crowded into the Bronze Whistle. Survivors. Little warriors with short daggers in their hands and wide, ready eyes.

“Hush, hush, it is all right now,” Emilia says, and draws as many close as she can. “Now you are safe.”

They waste no time getting the children out of the city. They find more horses in the stables and load the little ones into carts, set the older ones to driving.

“We’ll pass by Indrid Down in the night,” Jules says. “We won’t be seen. And then we’ll take them on, home to Sunpool.”

“No. Not Sunpool.” Emilia glances at the faces of the children. “The rebel city is not safe, and they have seen enough. We will take them to Wolf Spring.” It is an order but said with hope.

“Yes,” Jules says. “Wolf Spring. They’ll be looked after.”

As they mount their horses, Jules looks back at the broken city. Bastian had fallen completely. One whole arm of the rebellion snuffed out as quick as a candle. And it had been Emilia’s home. Jules cannot begin to imagine what she would feel if she had ridden into Wolf Spring and found it the same.

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes.” Emilia wipes her eyes dry. She looks at the children, and the tears return, so she wipes them again. “Beneath my sadness, I am angry. Soon the anger will rise to the top.” She takes up her reins. “Are you all right? You must be angry as well. Is the . . . tether holding?”

Jules nods. She does not, in fact, feel angry. All she feels is grief.