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Possibly I should be more concerned about the other passenger we’re concealing. As the street opens up ahead of us to reveal a teeming swarm of festival-goers, Petra scoots to the spot right behind our driver’s seats.
The Melchiorek heir has tucked her smooth black hair beneath a mousy brown wig for the ride. A baggy wool dress covers the finer gown that indicates her actual station.
I still would rather our future queen was safe back in the temple while we carried out this mission, but she rightly pointed out how upset people were that she didn’t show herself properly when she spoke in Florian. She wants her citizens to see how far she’s willing to stick her neck out to win them over.
“The river’s to the right, isn’t it?” she says. “Which building do you think will work best for our… presentation, now that we can actually see the options?”
We pull the cart over to the side of the square, and I take in the sprawling space.
More inverted All-Giver banners hang all around the square. Not far from us, several long wooden tables have been laid out with glasses of ale and platters of stuffed rolls, dumplings, and cut fruit. The mix of savory and tangy scents wafts through the air.
As far as I can tell, the attendants in crimson shirts behind the table aren’t charging for the refreshments. They smile and nod to the people who stop by, many gaping at the spread wide-eyed before plucking up some morsels.
A lot of the revelers look oddly scruffy in their elegant clothes. Most of the men are sporting embroidered tunics or vests, the women in brightly colored silks, but looking a little too loose or too tight. Their hair is rumpled and loose—some look as if they haven’t bathed in at least a week.
When my gaze snags on another table across the square, I understand why. This one is heaped with fabric that newcomers are snatching off it.
Casimir has spotted it too. He arches his eyebrows. “It looks as if the Order of the Wild is supplying the costumes too.”
And where did they get all those fine clothes? It’s not hard to guess.
“Looted from the noble estates they’ve taken over,” I mutter. “And probably the royal residences too.”
Or bought with all the gold the scourge sorcerers have looted as well. What is Lothar sacrificing of his own rather than giving away what he’s stolen?
“Come play the games of old!” an announcer is calling near the center of the square. “Let’s reclaim the heart of our heritage!”
A few older kids are already jostling each other between chalk lines marked on the cobblestones. It looks like one of the games Alek told us he’d found references to.
A game that often ended with broken bones when the revelers of the past got particularly caught up in it. For now, the children are simply giggling, but we’ll have to keep an eye on it in case it becomes more intense.
A woman in a deep red dress has gotten up on a platform near the games area. She holds out her hands, her voice projecting over the crowd with magical amplification. “The king can’t hold us back any longer! We’re free to get back to our roots, what connected us to this world and the gods who made us.”
Spirited music blares from a cluster of musicians behind the platform, and the woman whirls into a flailing sort of dance.
We were prepared for dancing too. I was hoping the civilians would be put off by the chaotic cavorting Alek described, that we could point to it as evidence of the Order’s ill intents, but I can already see an echo of the woman’s movements spreading through the crowd around her.
Oh, well. We can still challenge the Order of the Wild’s appeals to history. Something has to snap these people out of their stupor.
I return my gaze to the buildings along the right of the square. We want a position that puts us a safe distance above the crowd but still easily visible to the people below—and within easy reach of the river that’ll serve as our escape route.
I point to a two-story stone structure with a flat roof and a narrow alley between it and one of its neighbors. “That place looks promising. Let’s go around back and make sure it’s got everything we need.”
Rheave scrambles out, followed by the soldier and the devout who’ve accompanied us. They help Poltus off the back of the cart. Thankfully, the winter is chilly enough that the low hood and scarf obscuring most of his head don’t look all that unusual. We’ve padded his clothes beneath the cloak so it’s less obvious how much of his body is missing.
Skirting the crowd, we ease through the milling bodies toward the alley. I scan the revelers around us—and nearly walk right into a little boy who steps in front of me as if unaware of anything except the scene he’s staring at.
As I jerk myself backward, the kid—who can’t be more than six or seven—stays focused on the mass of festival-goers in the wider square. His gaze is avid, but something about his expression makes me think he’s unsettled as well.
Then he turns his head toward me, and I freeze.
His eyes are nothing but whites and pure black, as if the pupils have swallowed his irises. The fathomless gaze takes me back weeks to the strange man we crossed paths with on the road to Nikodi—who warned us of impending doom and then vanished.
But that man had the wizened face and hunched posture of a body that’d passed through many decades, and there’s no way the kid in front of me has lived for even one.
The boy peers at me for a moment before his lips curl with a small smile, as if we share a secret. He looks at the revelers again, and the smile falters. “It’s all a mirage. They don’t know what lies underneath.”
“What—” I start, but he’s already darting forward to merge with the crowd. In a matter of seconds, I’ve lost sight of his pale hair.
