Chapter 10
Thirty-Four Days Later
They said, when they pulled him from his cell, that they were on their way to his trial. But the room into which they shoved him was like no judge’s chambers Nik had ever read about. There were no men of law. No witness chairs. No tables. No red-frocked judge presiding over them all.
There was a podium in the center of the room with a crystal bowl, filled with water.
Twelve gray-robed people stationed around the circular room like numbers on a clock, each standing with his or her back to the podium.
And there were the Vektors who had followed him the whole way up from the prison, pounding a beat onto a drum that every guard’s footsteps moved in time to.
It took every ounce of rebellion inside him to keep his feet from falling into the same rhythm.
From his cell, where light from the outside just reached through the bars, he had been counting the days of his imprisonment. Each sunrise he’d marked with a scratch into the block of the wall, knowing this day would be coming.
Kyrja had kept him updated, as much as she could. She’d come nearly every day—not just to his cell, but to all of them. He’d heard her murmuring to the other prisoners, heard their joyful and often weeping greetings, smelled the food she brought them.
He’d seen the tight jaw of one of the prison guards, and then not seen that guard again. The new warden had taken her job seriously, and she had made changes that had clearly upset the order of things.
Praise be to the Giver.
He stood now with his shoulders back, knowing that if she had her way, there would be justice today, not just vengeance. But not at all sure she’d have her way.
Day after day, she’d come in, sat down on the cold stone floor with him, and done something unthinkable.
She’d asked him—a mere thane—to teach her.
Teach her what he knew of the law, yes, which could be helpful here today.
But more than that. Teach her of the Giver, of his only-born son, of how the Blessing she’d received was from him, and why, when she’d humbled herself in his presence in the Grand Kyrka before her family’s funeral, he had accepted her and given her another Blessing.
A crown.
Nik glanced around the room, looking for her, but she wasn’t one of the gray-clad figures. She wouldn’t be, as the Heir. These would be the Blessed of the High Council, the twelve most powerful people in the kingdom beneath the king and her.
She still doubted that, though—that she was a step above them.
He’d seen it in every twist of her features, each curl she fiddled with when he told her that if the Giver had anointed her, she needed to do something about it.
Not just the jobs her father had given her, but the real work, the work of ruling.
It was hers. Hers to take. The crown, the throne. If she but stood up, the Giver would see that her enemies became her footstool.
She inevitably changed the subject, usually back to his defense.
Pointless. Nik was the son of a terror-maker—therefore, his own blood condemned him. His father had killed the king’s children, and now the king would kill Tristan’s son. The king would call it fair, just, and who would ever say otherwise?
Raf would have, if he was still here. But Nik was more than merely grateful that Kyrja had found him and sent him into hiding.
The relief was a river of peace through his soul.
If Raf had been arrested and hauled in here too, he’d never have forgiven himself.
No, worse. He’d never have forgiven his father.
Which meant he’d have gone to meet the Giver with that stain of bitterness on his soul.
But Raf was safe, and if Raf was safe, then it meant Brother Gylfi was safe too. Please, Giver.
And other than those two? He’d been so long with Brother Gylfi, learning all he could, that most people in the village wouldn’t even notice when he didn’t come home.
There was no sweetheart to miss him. No aunt to fuss over his absence.
No other friends to cry out for justice.
Just Pab, dead, Raf, who’d know better than to say a word, and Nik himself—soon to be convicted.
And Kyrja. Strange, but she’d become a friend. He’d never have seen that one coming. Friendship required equality, and who could be less equal to a princess than him, a landless thane whose father had killed her family?
She’d take this personally. See it as her failure. He would become a burden on her shoulders, and he regretted that.
But he also trusted. Trusted that this was what the Giver would use to light a fire of purpose under her. To make her stand up and take her rightful place on the throne of Fjordlandi. His death would sear her.
What a humbling thing, to realize his whole purpose in life had been for this. To inspire a future queen. To show her that justice had failed in their society, but that she could do something to reinstitute it. To teach her the ways of the Giver.
He would never be a dominie. Never be a man of law.
But he’d gotten to teach his princess about both the Giver and the law.
His life had mattered. He closed his eyes now, his favorite hymn filling his mind.
The holy Words he’d read to Kyrja joined the praise as well, as he spoke of the curse. The redemption. The promise.
The Vektor whose hand had been vised around Nik’s arm through the entire metered walk maneuvered him into position in front of the podium and then disappeared somewhere behind him.
Nik didn’t bother turning around to see where he’d gone.
He had a feeling the door in front of him, between two of the gray-clad, hooded figures, was where he should keep his attention.
He wouldn’t crane his neck about, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of tackling him to the ground if he dared to move from this spot.
He didn’t want to die. But he was ready to.
He had fulfilled his purpose here, shared those Words with the next queen of Fjordlandi, and the Giver would welcome him.
As would the faithful who had gone before.
His mother, his infant sister, his grandparents.
He had no family left on earth, but they awaited him above.
That would be a nice change, wouldn’t it?
Someone to embrace him. Someone to understand him.
He hadn’t had that in…ever, really. In his memory, at least. Pab had always been more concerned for the thanes as a group than his own son in particular.
Raf’s family had welcomed him, but he was always just their youngest brother’s friend.
He’d never been like the other children, content to run free through the fields until they learned to plant them, harvest them.
He’d always been happiest at a desk, with a book in hand. Paper to record his thoughts.
Nik drew in a long breath, slowly enough that no one would notice it, if anyone was paying attention.
The door opened. Nik didn’t flinch, didn’t straighten, didn’t so much as flex his hands, cuffed again with frozen metal cords. He’d cling to what dignity he could.
For the mother he didn’t remember. The sister he’d never met. The father who had chosen vengeance over his son. The friend who would have to claim never to have known him. The dominie who had taught him about the Giver, about the law, even when he shouldn’t have.
The king stepped out, wearing a robe much like the others but of a shimmering white instead of gray, like new-fallen snow.
His hood was over his golden hair, casting a shadow over his face.
He strode to the beat of the drum that still kept its cadence, a slow heartbeat promising Nik’s would soon stop.
Thump, thump, tha-da-dump.
As the king cleared the circle, the other figures turned, all together. Slowly, each move to the beat.
Thump, thump, tha-da-dump.
The king stopped opposite Nik, on the other side of the podium. The drum halted, silence falling like a blanket of ice, slick and deadly.
Then a rustle of fabric as the king removed his hood and the twelve around him did the same.
Men. Women. All beautiful. All young of face, though the eyes boring into him struck him as far older than their features would indicate.
The High Council of the Blessed—so of course their faces looked young, ageless.
They had each won their spots through the Proving, demonstrating the strength of their magic.
He’d watched the recordings of past exhibitions in school, along with all the other children.
Wondered at their power. At how it had ever come to be.
But no Kyrja. Where was Kyrja? His throat went tight, even as resignation filled his soul. She was his only hope of justice—and of course, that’s why they’d cut her out. The proceedings wouldn’t be legal without her presence, but he’d be dead and not there to cry out for justice.
Another flame to light under her though. That was a misstep on her father’s part.
“Nikanor Tristansson,” the king intoned, his voice pitched lower than when Nik had heard it before. “You stand accused of association with a terror-maker. How do you plead?”
To association? How could he plead?
The door wrenched open again—apparently more shocking to everyone else than to him. They all spun, those whose backs were now to it, even the king.
Kyrja stormed in, fury in every line as she slammed the door shut behind her.
“It seems both the king and the High Council have forgotten that you still require the Heir to stand beside you at these proceedings, Fodur. My apologies for being late to the trial that I was informed would take place four hours from now.”
One of the gray-clad Council members nearest the door held out an arm to keep her from entering the circle. “You may not join the proceedings without the proper attire, Princess.”
Nik was rather glad he wasn’t the recipient of the look she sliced the woman’s way. He was a bit surprised the Blessed didn’t fall to the ground, cut to ribbons.