“I know why you’re here,” Vigan shouted at them. “You’re here because of one man.” He pointed at Emery. “He has incited you to perform criminal acts. Normally, I would have each one of you executed for treason, but I can see it’s the traitor Emery Dorn, and not you, who has caused this. You are victims of his poison, so I’ll be lenient. Put down those stolen weapons, return to your homes, and I’ll only hang the leaders that led you astray. Continue this and you’ll be slaughtered to the last man.”

“Steady, men,” Emery shouted. “He’s just trying to frighten you. He’s offering you a deal because he’s scared—scared of us because we stand before him, united and strong. He’s scared because we do not cower before his threats. He’s scared because, for the first time, he does not see sheep, he does not see slaves, he does not see victims to beat, but men. Men! Tall and proud. Men who are still loyal to their king!”

Vigan raised his hand briefly, then lowered it. There was a harsh crack followed immediately by a muffled thwack! Emery staggered backward. Blood sprayed those near him. A crossbow bolt was lodged in his chest. An instant later, the fiery red-haired boy fell into the mud.

The line wavered at the sight.

“No!” Arista screamed, and shoved through the men and collapsed in the mud beside Emery. Frantically she struggled to turn him over, to pull his face out of the muck. She wiped the mud away while blood vomited from his mouth. His eyes rolled wildly. He wheezed in short, halting gasps.

Everyone was silent. The whole world stopped.

Arista held Emery in her arms. She could see a pleading in his eyes as they found hers. She could feel his breath shortening with each wretched gasp. With each jerk of his body, she felt her heart breaking.

This can’t be happening!

She looked into his eyes. She wanted to say something—to give him a part of her to take with him—but all she could do was hold on. As she squeezed him tightly, he stopped struggling. He stopped moving. He stopped breathing.

Arista cried aloud, certain her body would break.

Above her the sheriff’s horse snorted and stomped. Behind her the men of the rebellion wavered. She heard them dropping weapons, discarding shields.

Arista took in a shuddering breath of her own and turned her face toward the sky. She raised one leg, then the other, pushing herself—willing herself—to her feet. As her shaking body rose from the mud, she drew Emery’s sword in a tight fist, lifted the blade above her head, and glared at the sheriff.

She cried in a loud voice, “Don’t—you—dare—break! Hold the line!”