Queen of the Night (The Revanche Cycle Book 4) (19 page)

He nodded at Kailani. She raised her fingers to her chest, brushing rough burlap, tracing the scar beneath. The black imprint of Livia’s hand, seared into her flesh the day the Saint had saved her from an assassin’s blade.

“Her second miracle,” Kailani said.

A chorus of silent nods.

It was true. Kailani had been at death’s door—maybe she
had
died—and Livia’s prayers had healed her in front of a crowd of hundreds. Word spread like wildfire through the streets that day, proving to all with the ears to hear that Livia was their true and righteous leader.

“The Gardener showed Lychwold his divine will,” another said. “Who’s to say he won’t do it again? Livia is his chosen, the Saint Returned. Surely he wouldn’t let her fail.”

Kailani furrowed her brow. “We couldn’t expose her to danger, not directly. But if one of
us
posed as an assassin and put Livia in a position where she could invoke another miracle, exactly like last time…no. It’s too dangerous. One of us would have to risk their life, taking the blade.”

“I’ll do it.”

Freda took a step forward. The freckled girl pulled back her hood, putting on a determined face.

“I’ll do it,” she said again.

Kailani shook her head. “Freda, do you understand what you’re offering? If no miracle comes, you
will
die.”

“You had faith in Livia, and when you stood in front of that assassin’s knife to protect her, the Gardener rewarded you with a miracle. I have faith in Livia, too. And I know—I
know
—I will be healed. Let me do this. Let me prove my faith.”

Kailani cradled Freda’s cheek in her hand. Staring into the girl’s eyes. Judging her. She nodded.

“So be it.”

*     *     *

“It’s like riding a horse—”

“Don’t.” Livia flung up her arms, striding across her parlor in her ivory dressing gown as she frowned at Dante. “Don’t give me analogies. Don’t give me platitudes. Those people
hated
me out there.”

From his chair in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, Dante shook his head. “They don’t know you yet. That’s the entire purpose of these processions, to give people a chance to see you in the flesh. You’ll win their hearts, just like you did in Itresca.”

Amadeo stepped closer to Livia. One hand extended, as if to touch her arm, but she paced too furiously for him to catch her.

“He has a point, Livia. In a sense we’re starting all over here—your triumphs didn’t follow you across the sea. Rebuilding the Church is going to take a lot of hard work.”

She stopped pacing and pinched the bridge of her nose as she took a deep breath.

“It’s not the work,” she said. “I have never been afraid of hard work. You know that. It’s that my brother, by all accounts, sat on that throne in a drunken stupor while the College of Cardinals looted the treasury dry, and the people
want him back
. Now I’m here to
help
them, to change their lives for the better, and all I get is catcalls and angry glares.”

Dante chuckled. “You know the game by now, signora. It’s not who you are, it’s who the masses believe you are. It’s not what you do, it’s what you promise them. Reality and politics are barely dance partners. First we’ll win their hearts and minds; then you can do your ‘real’ work. Marcello’s given the College their marching orders; by next month, every priest in every pulpit from here to the edge of Belle Terre will be singing your praises.”

“For now, we just have to keep Lerautia from rioting,” Amadeo said.

“All right.” Livia took another deep breath. “All right. I’ll get dressed and play the show-pony again. Whatever it takes.”

That evening she stood outside the Papal Manse, garbed in green and golden finery, shivering in a chill wind under a lavender sunset. A procession of knights in gold and black, bearing the Imperial eagle on their tabards, led the way in tight, professional ranks. Then her honor guard, the Browncloaks. They surrounded her, walking in lockstep with a parade of musicians at her back.
At least it’s not bagpipes
, she thought as a drum line stirred, driving their march with a strident, rattling beat.

They took a winding path through the heart of the city. All along the route, people threw open their shutters and stood in doorways to watch the procession pass. Livia forced herself to smile, raising one slender hand to offer precisely measured waves to the crowd. She felt lost in the sea of people, adrift. She’d imagined her homecoming as a triumph. The thought of walking Lerautia’s streets to jubilation and cheers had kept her going through so many hard nights. And now, so many cold faces, looking back at her. So many doubting eyes and shaking heads, so many pointed whispers.

My own people
, she thought,
and they don’t even want me here
.

At her left, Freda gave her a nervous smile. “You’re doing great,” she said.

“I think they disagree,” Livia whispered back, waving as she kept her eyes on the crowd. “Are you all right, Freda? You look pale.”

Freda let out an awkward chuckle and tugged the hood of her cloak down. “Just a bit of tummy ache. Something I ate. It’s fine.”

On Livia’s other side, Kailani gave Freda a steely glance.

“If we have faith,” Kailani said, “the Gardener will open the city’s hearts. Every eye will see, and every tongue will speak of your glory.”

Livia gave a slight shake of her head. “I’m not here for glory, Kailani. This isn’t about me. I’m just here to help.”

“
Every
eye will see,” Kailani replied.

Something set Livia’s nerves on edge, and it was a struggle to keep the placid mask on her face. A creeping sensation, like a stranger’s fingertips stroking the small of her back, tracing the bumps of her spine as they slid up toward her neck. She tried to tell herself it was the crowds, the noise, the thudding of the drums at her back, but something was wrong.

Up ahead, a glimmer from a second-floor window caught her eye, movement behind a rippling sash. The dying sunlight glinting off a curve of dark metal. Livia had just enough time to raise her hand and point, her mouth opening to shout, before the archer fired. Everything happened in slow motion then. The crossbow bolt streaking through the autumn air like the last word in an argument, an inescapable message from fate forged in cold steel. The drummers striking up a marching chant as the bolt missed her and punched into Freda’s chest, tearing through burlap and leather to spear her heart. Freda falling to her knees, her eyes wide with shock, a gout of blood spitting from her waxy lips.

Livia didn’t hear the sudden screams in the crowd, the stampeding feet. She knelt at Freda’s side to catch the girl and pull her close. Freda trembled, bloodstains spreading, crimson leaking from the corners of her mouth.
Not again
, Livia thought,
please, not again
.

She stroked Freda’s hair, her hand damp with cold sweat. “Hurts,” Freda stammered. “Didn’t—didn’t know how much it would—”

“Shh,” Livia said, “hush now, don’t try to talk. It’s all right. You’ll be all right.”

She was back in Lychwold again. Another street in another city, and another one of her people dying in her arms. Dying to protect her.

And just like last time, she felt the stirring of magic in her blood, pinpricks of fire swirling in her veins. Her instinctive craft rising with her terror and her rage, fueled by her emotions. She’d saved Kailani’s life, working a “miracle.” She could save Freda too.

But last time, she’d had a body.

The power was in the blood. The life was in the blood. And in Lychwold, there’d been a fallen assassin, bleeding out just a few feet away. Livia had stolen the last of the dying killer’s life, ripping it from her body and passing it on to Kailani. Here, she had…nothing.

No
, she realized.
I have me
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Livia didn’t think about the price.

The infection in her veins, the stain of Shadow that might turn her into a monster, didn’t flicker through her mind as she gently laid Freda down on the blood-smeared cobblestones. The knowledge that one more burst of wild magic could kill her dead, or expose her as a witch, didn’t weigh into her choice. The rest of the world washed away in a hazy blur, reduced to two basic truths: a young woman was dying in her arms, her life spilling out onto the street, and Livia had the power to save her.

She took hold of the bolt’s shaft and tugged hard, the razor-tipped head hooked on Freda’s ribs. One more wrenching yank and it tore free, syrupy blood spurting in its wake as Freda let out a shrill scream of pain. Livia ripped the steel head across the palm of her hand, fast, hoping that in all the commotion the wound would look like an accident. She gritted her teeth at the sudden sting, her own blood welling up and beginning to flow as she pressed her scarlet palm to Freda’s wound.

The sparks in Livia’s veins turned into fireflies, dancing, spinning, flowing toward Freda’s heart.
Take my life
, Livia thought.
Take all of it if you need it, just don’t die. Not like this. Not in my name
.

Now her veins were a stream of oil, lit ablaze. Raw, searing agony coursed up Livia’s arm, spreading across her shoulders, down to the pit of her stomach, her muscles clenching and rebelling as she made herself a living sacrifice. Sweat dripped from Livia’s forehead, her hair clinging cold and damp, as she fought to hold her focus.

Blood roared in her ears and her vision went gray, then black, the darkness rising to swallow her whole. She let go. The fire in her veins turned sour and barren, like frost on graveyard dirt, and she tumbled into the Shadow. The last thing she felt was her body falling, and then she felt nothing at all.

*     *     *

A needle of sunlight poked at Livia’s eyes. Jostling her awake. Every muscle in her body ached, sore, twisted. Her mouth was dry. She squinted, the light dazzling, brighter than diamonds. She tried to move. Her limbs grudgingly obeyed, but only by inches, feeling silk against her naked skin.

Lying down. She was lying down. She cupped a hand over her eyes, groaning, and tried to focus. Her bedroom, her bed at the papal manse. The blinding sunlight was nothing but a thin shaft of feeble light creeping in the side of one curtained window. Still hurt to look at it. She lolled her head back on the pillow, turning the other way. Amadeo sat in a bedside chair, watching her, his face grave.

She looked at him. He gazed at her.

“Say something,” she croaked, her throat sore.

He shook his head. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Memories flooded Livia’s mind. The procession, the crossbow, Freda. She tried to sit up, alarmed, but a spasm in her back forced her to lie down again. “Freda, is she—”

“She’s fine. A full recovery. I understand she’s something of a hero now, among her ‘friends.’”

He was too curt for good news, his eyes too hard. Livia frowned. “Amadeo, what’s wrong?”

“Congratulations, Livia. You’re the talk of the town. You performed a miracle in front of hundreds of people. The Gardener made his will manifest, and you proved that he’s anointed you as his chosen servant.”

He leaned forward in his chair, locking eyes with her.

“But we both know what really happened.”

“Yes,” Livia said, “we both do.”

“You said you were done with witchcraft. You said you’d left that behind forever.”

She forced herself to sit up, wincing, clutching the sheets to her chest.

“And what was I supposed to do, Amadeo? Let Freda die? She needed help. I had the power to save her, when nobody else could.”

Amadeo’s jaw clenched. He glanced to one side, then looked back to her.

“Did you do it on purpose?”

“I just told you I did. I won’t be ashamed of saving someone’s life—”

“No,” he said. “The shooting. Did you arrange it, so you could perform a ‘miracle’ like you did in Lychwold?”

Livia’s lips parted. Her eyes went wide. Her voice, when she finally spoke, came out in a shocked whisper.

“How…
dare
you? How could you think, for one minute, for one
second
—”

“You were surrounded by Browncloaks,” he said. “They’re paranoid, especially after what happened in Lychwold. Eyes on every window, every onlooker, every face in the crowd.”

“So they missed something. I saw the archer, Amadeo. At least I saw his weapon, but it all happened so fast.”

“A weapon he had ample time to aim. Not an imprecise one, either, and not a shot from very far away. So tell me, Livia: why did his bolt conveniently hit the girl
right next to you
? Setting the stage for a perfect recreation of the ‘miracle’ that worked so much in your favor once already. She was even wounded in the same place as Kailani.”

Livia shook her head, mute. A gust of breath escaped her parted lips as she sagged back onto the mattress. She looked up at the ceiling, watching long shadows shift with the faint light from the window.

“You honestly believe,” she said softly, “that I would arrange to have one of the faithful
shot
—not just anyone, but
Freda
, our
friend
—to stage a miracle in the streets. Is that how you see me now, Amadeo? Is that the woman you think I am?”

Amadeo rose from his chair. He walked over to the window, blocking the light, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“I know that nothing matters more to you, right now, than healing the Church. You’ve taken the papal throne. Now you have to keep it. And you have a city of doubters, some of them convinced you’re a usurper, others refusing to believe a woman could ever be anointed pope. If there’s one way to change their minds in one fell swoop…well, it’s exactly what happened out there. And you know that. You know what else I think? I think if you asked Freda to take a bolt for you, she’d do it, without question.”

Livia squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear welled up, and she fought it back with everything she had.

“After all we’ve been through, after all we’ve done together, after the battles we’ve fought…you think this little of me.” Her voice quavered, then broke. “
Damn
you.”