I wondered which Ledenaether my mother had found. I wondered which king had greeted her.
The thought almost undid me.
4
Secrets
I was kept in one of the Citadel’s towers for three days, in a bare room that overlooked the sheer drop on the northern side of the mountain. There was a blanket on the floor for me to sleep on, and I was released once each morning to visit the latrine. I was fed twice—a bowl of porridge on each occasion. The Captain had disappeared after depositing me there and didn’t reappear until the third morning.
“Your trial is to commence,” he told me, the sun streaming into the room behind him, the flung-open door banging against the wall.
I jumped up from the blanket, astonishment on my face. I pointed to my lips and held up my hands in a helpless gesture.
“You won’t need to speak,” he told me. “We will take the testimony of the dead and let that be our truth. Come.”
He turned, and I followed for fear of being left alone in the room again. We walked up a few more levels of the Citadel before coming to a vast platform, open on all sides and supported all along the border by long marble pillars. The tiles underfoot were so polished that I could see myself in their reflection, my hair a matted mess, my eyes as glittery and dark as ever, though there was something different about them now. A sharp agony that hadn’t been there before. My skin was a ghostly colour, my lips a startling blood red, darker than the sunshine-red of my hair. I sucked in a breath, seeing my mother staring back at me, and focussed ahead.
A lowered dais marked the middle of the platform, large marble chairs dotting the outside. They were all turned toward the middle where an iron ring was bolted to the ground. There were no people in any of the chairs, but the Captain walked me to the ring in the middle of the dais and proceeded to secure my chains to it. His gloved hands skimmed over my manacles, checking that they were still secure.
“The dead don’t tell lies,” he murmured, still bent over me. “If you are innocent, it will show.”
I turned my head from him, looking out across the clear morning sky. It might have been an accident … but I had still killed two people and participated in an illegal trade. I was guilty of something, if not many things. He stepped away from me without another word, disappearing from the platform. I waited like that for several minutes until people began filtering into view, led by the Captain. He took one of the marble seats, his head turned toward the woman he was in conversation with. She wore a black robe with draped sleeves lined in gold. The neckline of the gown dipped so low that the pale, flat skin of her stomach was on show, the opening in her gown secured by only a delicate network of golden chains. Her hair was dark, her eyes a pale blue. I missed examining the others as the last person I had expected to see took the seat on the other side of the woman. The Weaver had his cowl thrown back, his moonlight hair loose about his shoulders. His eyes met mine, but there wasn’t even an ounce of recognition in them. He simply sat and stared. I swallowed, but I wasn’t scared of him anymore. I had already lost everything. What more could he do?
Another three women entered—two of them with visible rashes spreading over their skin, one with strange bumps on her hands—and another two men, who both had strange, coloured markings on their faces, spreading into their hairlines. They all spoke softly to each other, mostly ignoring me, until footsteps behind me had everyone turning at once in varying degrees of surprise. Those who had taken a seat jumped back to their feet. All of them except the Weaver, who remained, a grim smile taking hold of his lips.
“Vidrol.” His rough voice shivered over the platform. “Late, as usual.”
Vidrol … as in King Vidrol? It was the name belonging to the royal family, but the King was the only remaining member of that family.
I spun, dread in my throat. The man walking toward us was as massive as the Weaver, a light fur shawl covering his shoulders, his belt decorated with a golden eagle clasp. His clothing was a richly brocaded blue colour, his eyes reflecting the deepest, darkest parts of the forest. I could feel them slithering like things in the underbrush and whispering like leaves in the breeze in a single moment of them passing over me. “Vale,” he greeted, speaking to the Weaver. “Those who arrive early have nothing better to do.”
The Captain ducked into a short bow before his eyes slammed into me. His gaze was unreadable, but even I could tell that he was surprised.
“Your Highness,” he stated, switching his attention back to the King before glancing to the Weaver. “Who else has been called upon for this trial? I only summoned the Inquisitor and the small council.”
It was the ebony-haired woman who answered, inclining her head toward the King. “I believe that will answer your question.”
Three other men had taken the place of the King, who was moving to the seat beside the Weaver. I thought it curious that they called each other by their real names and that the Weaver hadn’t bowed to the King or even stood from his chair as courtesy would have demanded. My brows were knitting down further, confusion pushing away my fear. The three remaining men were of the same vast size and height as the Weaver, without a single visible magic mutation, each of them emitting a strong vibration of power hidden beneath the savage perfection of their features. I had never seen magic do the opposite of mutating before. I hadn’t believed it to be possible, but there was no denying that I was seeing the evidence of it now. In the Weaver, the King, and these three men. Their power was so great it had surpassed the stage of mutation and twisted them instead into different versions of frightful perfection.
“Morning,” one of them boomed out, his translucent brown eyes seeking out each of us and then moving beyond us, examining the entire platform. He had wild dark hair, half pulled into a leather tie, his face and skin marked by battle, a huge broadsword hanging by his hip, another strapped over his wide back. He had a thick shadow of stubble covering his neck and chin, and he reminded me instantly of a bear or some other wild beast, stuffed into clothing and dragged into polite society, where he might tear us all limb from limb.
I realised who he was even as the others stirred into action.
“Warmaster,” several of them stuttered in reply.
“Vale.” He lifted thick, dark brows at the Weaver. A greeting of sorts, which slid to the King. “Vidrol.”
The King nodded back. The Weaver didn’t utter a word. It seemed natural for him to simply sit and stare.
If stories of the Warmaster of Fyrio were passed around the fires as commonly as wine from the skin, then I had drunk of him so often that seeing him now—though I had never laid eyes upon him before—was a familliar taste. Every month, I had hastened to the celestial feast atop Breakwater Canyon, each of us forgetting our bitterness and prejudice as we huddled by the travelling bards, begging for new tales of our favourite characters. The memories had my eyes pricking as he sauntered past me, my hero in the flesh, come to condemn me as a criminal.
I stuffed a hand into my pocket, my fingers curling around the bell … but I didn’t need it to swallow my misery, because I wasn’t going to cry. Now was not the time for mourning. For three days in an empty room, the past had been my haunting companion, but now it was time for me to look to the future. I had to focus on surviving the result of this trial, even if it meant fleeing a death sentence.