The Empty Throne. Cayla KluverЧитать онлайн книгу.
gave way, and Cobi sauntered to the edge of the cliff, the toes of his boots sending a bit of rubble on a plummet of its own. He took a deep breath, but before he could step off, a frantic cry rent the air, and a small body, arms and legs flailing, plunged past.
“Mother of Nature,” Cobi swore, and everyone rushed forward to see what was happening. Everyone, that was, except Zabriel, who literally dived off the ledge after the child.
We stood in stunned silence, watching the drama play out in a column of air below us—Zabriel, trying to keep his direction and streamlined position as he rocketed downward, the child, wings partially open, spinning and somersaulting in an effort to slow. Then we launched, spreading our wings to fly after them.
The fall seemed to take forever, the bodies ever closer to the ground, ever closer to destruction and death. “Pull up, Zabriel,” I shouted, for he had passed the point of safe landing. And yet his wings did not unfurl. Finally, heartbeats from the ground, his black wings opened like a canopy, only to crumple like paper upon impact.
I landed, along with the others, and we ran toward Zabriel’s form, for there was no view of the child. My cousin moaned and rolled onto his back, his arms releasing a boy no more than eight years of age. Whimpering and trembling, the youngster scrambled to his feet, miraculously unharmed, and Ione swept him into her arms. Heart pounding, I went to the Prince, while Cobi, Evangeline, and the others fell in behind me, fear on all of their faces.
“Zabriel, are you all right?” I asked, hand hovering inches above him, afraid to touch him.
He opened his eyes and laboriously pushed himself into a sitting position, one wing hanging at an odd angle.
“I’m okay. I busted up my wing. Possibly a few ribs. Oh, and my wrist doesn’t seem to work.” He glanced around, searching for the child. “How’s the boy?”
“He’s perfect, no injuries at all,” Ione responded, her voice filled with relief. She shepherded the lad forward. “His name’s Dagget.”
“Thanks,” Dagget mumbled, appropriately in awe of his Prince. “S-sorry you got hurt.”
“What happened up there? How did you go over the edge?”
“I—I got a note.” The boy rummaged through his pockets, then held out a scrap of paper.
“If you want to watch the Prince, come to the Crag at noon,” Zabriel read. “Hide on top of the overhang or they’ll make you leave.” He handed the note to me, then addressed Dagget once more. “So you came to watch us plummet?”
Dagget nodded, then burst out, “We know you’re the best. We just wanted to see for ourselves.”
“And who sent you this note?”
“I don’t know.” The boy hung his head. “We just wanted to see you drop. We didn’t mean any harm.”
Zabriel reached out to muss the youngster’s hair. “I know that. So did you lose your balance? And who is ‘we’?”
“I came with two friends. But when you didn’t show up right away, they left. Thought making us climb was a bad joke or something. I knew you’d come, though.”
“Did you slip, then?”
Dagget shook his head vehemently. “No, not me, I didn’t slip. Someone shoved me.”
Everyone stilled and silence descended, all of us struggling to comprehend what the boy had said. He could not lie, and, yet, how could his words be true? Then Zabriel clenched his jaw and came to his feet.
“Who?” he demanded, a storm of anger brewing inside him.
“I—I didn’t see.”
“Let me take him home, Zabriel,” Ione softly volunteered, and my cousin nodded, frowning.
“You should see someone about your wing—” I began, but he cut me off.
“No. We’re going back up top. I want to know who would do such a thing.”
I glanced at the others, feeling cold and scared, but none of them met my eyes. Something evil walked the earth in the Faerie Realm, and I had no confidence it left any tracks.
* * *
I awoke with a start, for noise had erupted on the street. I rubbed my eyes, then stiffly stood and hefted my pack. I was cold, grumpy, hungry, still tired, and not in the mood for more trouble. Nonetheless, I hobbled to the end of the alley to survey the scene. People were dashing every which way, handing out some sort of announcement, while others had gathered in groups, excitedly talking.
“What’s going on?” I called to a man hustling by.
“Execution! One hour’s time. Better hurry or you’ll miss it.”
“Whose?” I demanded, but he had already moved out of earshot.
Not knowing what else to do, I fell in with the stream of foot traffic heading toward the execution plank, fear filling my empty stomach. Desperate for information, I grabbed the arm of the woman next to me.
“Do you know who?” I asked.
“Pyrite,” she gleefully answered. “They finally caught him!”
My heart seized, and I halted, wanting to process this information, wanting the flow of time to stop, wanting fate to justify itself to me. But I was pushed onward by the swell of people behind me. Still, none of this made sense. Why would the government rush into an execution when they’d already been holding Pyrite for a week? Maybe it was some other pirate. The woman, the fliers, they had to be wrong.
A tremendous crowd had formed by the time I arrived at the ravine where death sentences were carried out, and the prisoner had already been led to the scaffolding. I pushed my way forward, wanting to get a better look, unable to believe they would be executing such an important criminal on such little notice. On the verge of panic, I climbed on top of a waiting carriage to get a better view, squinting against the morning sun. I swore under my breath in frustration, for there was a black bag over the prisoner’s head. But he was Fae, with wings the color of Zabriel’s—black, rimmed turquoise, extending from his back at a proud but resigned angle, any chance they might have saved him from the plank negated by the weights that bound his wrists and ankles.
Feeling as if I’d been kicked in the gut, I jumped to the ground, clawing my way closer, wanting to disprove what my eyes told me was true. But the haphazard stitching over the wound in the prisoner’s left wing allowed no room for doubt. Zabriel had been shot at the time of his arrest by a brute of a man named Hastings. The bullet had passed through his shoulder before damaging the wing. I had been there, I had seen it, and I knew without doubt who stood on the plank. I shuddered, besieged by memories of the drop taken by the Faerie hunter Alexander Eskander a short time ago. Eskander had soiled his pants before meeting his unceremonious death. Would Zabriel wet himself, too? Or would the hood that covered his eyes help preserve his dignity? He was a prince facing his end—he deserved to keep his dignity.
The crush of people in whose midst I stood jostled me, their jawing and laughter churning my gut while their sheer numbers impeded my movement. I felt sick with fear, for I had miscalculated—the Queen wouldn’t arrive in time to demand her son’s life be spared. And Zabriel himself must have refused to reveal his parentage.
But did I have to honor his stubborn and prideful decision to go to his grave with his secrets intact? He was only seventeen, a year older than me, and his life was too important to let him forfeit it so foolishly. Maybe, just maybe, if I could reach the Governor before the plank dropped, I could stop this