A guard struck Chancellor Berle across her face and she jerked, as much from startlement as from pain. Suiden moved to stand in front of her, and the guard drew back his fist.
“Don’t hit him,” Ilenaewyn said. “Despite Sro Kenalt’s intimations, the Amir of Tural hasn’t disinherited the prince and I’m sure the amir will be glad to get his heir back reasonably whole.” He ignored Kenalt’s sudden scowl as he turned his head to look at me. “Just as Kareste is glad to have his apprentice returned.”
The wind gave a sudden howl, shaking the windows hard and long.
“Hear how the wind cries for him,” a sylph said, her voice like the rustling of leaves in a summer breeze. The air elemental looked at me with large sky blue eyes full of scudding clouds, and I realized who’d blocked me. “Are you sure this is wise?”
“What do you mean?” the water sprite asked.
“Giving the human to the Magus,” the sylph replied. “He managed to get away once.”
“I also have reservations,” a firedrake hissed. “It’s taken a glory sphere, chains, and an elemental to contain him.” He rustled his leathery wings. “But where else can we put him?”
“Nowhere,” a gossamer-winged faerie said. She also turned her moss green eyes on me. “It’s either that or kill him.”
“Don’t worry, honored folk,” Kareste said. “This time Rabbit will be bound tight enough so that he’ll stay put.” He gave his wintry smile again. “The sphere alone will ensure his obedience.”
Ilenaewyn nodded again and settled back into his chair, looking at Berle. “We will send you back to your king with our declaration of war, Chancellor.”
Chancellor Berle, her hand to her cheek, whispered, “But the parliament—”
Ilenaewyn ignored her, turning his attention to us. “Bring the accused forward to stand before the Council.” He waited until the guards prodded, shoved and pushed us into position before the dais. “The Council will hear what you have to say in your defense, before we render judgment.”
“Against what charges?” the Fyrst said. “Have they been published?”
Ilenaewyn smiled and held out his hand, and the gnome handed him a scroll. “These charges, Loran, given into Pellan’s hand and published by him. As he will attest.”
“Including the human vicar’s accusations?” the Fyrst asked. “He could have made them only a short while ago, as he has just escaped the ship’s brig. Have you had time to write his charges out and publish them also? Will Pellan attest to that?”
Ilenaewyn’s smile disappeared as he gave the Fyrst an annoyed glare. He then turned to Pellan. “Bring us paper and writing implements.”
Pellan nodded and sent a guard scurrying. Ilenaewyn beckoned Obruesk to the table, Gherat and Kenalt following, and we were once more shuffled off to the side.
“Why are they bothering?” Esclaur said. “They’re going to kill us anyway. Might as well get it over with, and pox rot all this sodding nonsense.”
I supposed Esclaur’s posturing came of hanging about with royalty to whom dying valiantly was, at least in bards’ songs, better than victory. But I didn’t want multiversed eddas of how I died a hero’s glorious death. I didn’t even want a refrain. I wanted to live, and live free of the Magus. The glory sphere kept interfering with my view of the Council, but I caught glimpses of Kareste. While he wasn’t outright gloating, he oozed a terrifying subtle satisfaction, reminding me of a spider in its web anticipating a leisurely meal of a particularly plump and juicy fly.
But more than the thought of being back in the Magus’ hands, more than the betrayal by Berle, more than the looming death of my friends and war with the Border, the memory of Honor Ash, Basel, and the rest of the haunts struggling as they were compelled by the Magus’ summoning, and their look of terror and agonizing silent screams as they were banished, kept prying at the edges of my mind. Anger crept up on me, a knot in my chest. I took a deep breath trying to ease it—and got a faint smell of sweet grass and rich earth. I shot a glance to Laurel, but he stood staring at the Council, his tail lashing back and forth.
“They must follow the form, even if the substance is gutted, Esclaur Dhawn’son,” Wyln said, “so that they’ll be blameless when the true session begins and they announce that we’ve been executed for crimes against the People.”
I looked over at the council table, trying to see if the scent was coming from those who had the earth aspect, but the damn sphere floated in my face and I lowered my head, only to get another whiff of green life. I lowered my head further and inhaled, filling my lungs. It was coming from where I stood.
“But why?” Berle asked, her hushed voice anguished, her hand still on her bruised cheek. “Is it because of the smuggling?” Her fox eyes were wide on Gherat. “Do they truly believe that I lied? That Dru is innocent?”
“No, Chancellor,” the Fyrst said. “You had secret meetings with certain Council members, yes? Before they officially arrived?”
Berle’s unbruised cheek turned red. “Lord Pellan took me to them, Your Grace,” she admitted.
“And they asked you not to reveal to me that Dru was involved in the running?” the Fyrst continued.
“Yes, Your Grace. They said if it were to get out, it would undermine any chance for peace.”
“No, it would’ve undermined them.” The Fyrst turned to look at the Council. “They know exactly who was felling and running and where it all was going, because they initiated it.”
“Their own people?” Javes asked, his uninjured eye wide as he looked at the Fyrst. “Slaughtered and enslaved and sold to us! What on earth for?”
“It’s a spur, Javes Merchant’son,” Molyu said. She shifted her stance so that she partially blocked my view of the Council—and theirs of me. “They will blame your king, thereby roweling the People with such rage and grief that this time when they go to war they won’t stop until the entire human kingdom is swept into the sea.”
I inhaled again, feeling intoxicated.
“If you continue chattering, I will nail Molyu to the hall doors,” Ilenaewyn said, raising his head from speaking with the archdoyen.
“You will harm the surety for our parole though we’ve not broken it?” the Fyrst asked. “That’s not wise.”
“And then I will kill the vicar and rub your faces in his blood,” Ilenaewyn snapped, goaded. A guard placed his knife once more against Doyen Allwyn’s neck.
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Wyln asked, sounding interested.
“Not to me,” Allwyn said, his voice calm. “My soul is prepared to meet my God.” He looked at Obruesk. “Is yours, Your Reverence?”
“Perhaps a little flaming will convince them to remain quiet,” the firedrake suggested before the archdoyen could respond.
“Flame me, Senass?” Wyln asked, just as interested. He shifted to look at the guards around him and, parole or no, they eased back.
“Perhaps we just should kill them anyway,” the faerie said. “We have the prince and the apprentice. We don’t need anyone else.” She smiled, showing pointed, sharp teeth. “How about an escape attempt? Those can be lethal.”
I inhaled again, the fragrance of the earth suffusing me, and I was once more behind a plow on my parents’ farm. The sun was warm on my back as I followed the horse, the fertile loam a song of spring and new beginnings. I stumbled and, looking down, I saw a branch reaching up from the ground towards me, a single ripe fruit hanging from it. My hand yearned towards the fruit’s smooth fullness and I slid my fingers around it, gently pulling. As I did, the branch came up also and, catching it in my other hand, I saw it was really a staff of ash wood—
“Where did he get that?” Ilenaewyn shouted.
My head snapped up to see the glory sphere flying at me. I knocked it away with the staff, my chains rattling.