Chapter 3 #2
The first woman with the tattoos picks up her quill again. A tinge of sadness swims in her dark irises. “We’re going to give you a minute to prepare yourself.”
I take a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. Breathe in for four seconds, hold for four seconds, and breathe out for four.
Then a judge with shaggy black hair shuts his journal with a thunk that reverberates throughout the room. Even the Hawks are silent, holding their breath.
The man rubs his hands together and looks at the table as he speaks. “Before we begin, you need to understand. What I’m about to say may be distressing for you to hear, but I’m afraid it must be done.”
My blood freezes in my veins. Every muscle tenses. Why can’t he look at me?
“Unfortunately, we have come to the decision, with approval from Spokesman Malyk, that you will not be having your trial today.” The man holds up a scroll bound with Spokesman Malyk’s house seal.
Father leaps from his chair, and the chair legs screech across the floor. Mother puts a hand on his arm, but his eyes blaze. “What’s the meaning of this? My daughter—”
“I’m sorry. Let me explain.” The man holds up his hands, a feverish red hue rising in his cheeks. My own skin tingles all over, and I feel like I’ve fallen off a steep cliff and am waiting to hit the ground, grateful for the impact just so the dizziness will stop.
“Resurrectors are too dangerous. They offer no real benefit to society and suffer very little consequences for their use.” As he speaks, the red-haired woman reaches into a case beside the table.
“We cannot allow your daughter to continue. If she’d been an alchemer, of course she would be permitted to stand trial. But resurrectors…”
The tingling stops, and I’m numb. I wonder why they let me prepare for so long if they were going to take it from me. But I know why. They were afraid of how I’d react. How my father might react.
The woman now holds a potion bottle in her clenched hand. Cloudy gray liquid.
An extraction potion.
The judge murmurs, “We’re so sorry.” Strands of black hair fall in his eyes as he tries not to look at me or my father.
Gray, usually calm and collected, jumps to his feet. “You can’t do this. There must be a mistake.”
Mother clings to Father’s sleeve to keep him from lunging forward, but her pursed lips tell me everything I need to know. She never wanted me to keep my Morphia. All her children are now safe and normal.
The thought makes me want to scream. The ice in my veins melts. My hands shake, not from nerves, but from anger. Stomach clenching and heartbeat thumping hard in my chest, I force myself to breathe.
The judges repeat their apologies. The woman holding the potion uncorks it, her eyes cast downward.
Black spots seep into the edges of my vision, and I press a clenched fist to my chest. People are talking, but I can’t tell what they’re saying.
Someone grabs me from behind and secures me in place.
I don’t struggle. Gray clamps silver crafter-made bindings around my wrists, the same kind he used on the prisoner yesterday.
He does it fast for someone who protested only moments ago.
Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
My chest aches with the thought that Leith would never tie me up.
Even if the judges had a knife to his throat.
He believed in me, and now it’s all over.
The woman with the potion walks forward and holds the bottle out to me.
If I drink it, the Morphia will come out through my tears.
I’ll cry until there’s none left. Nothing of me left.
Voices clamor in my ears, but they may as well be in a different language.
They’re afraid of me. Terrified to look at my face, to get too close.
Good. They should be.
Something snaps inside me. A tornado of anger, anxiety, and fear forms in my stomach. The tips of my fingers throb, vibrating with the energy pumping through my body. I reach for the spirits waiting in the spiritual plane. They itch to escape and run with my rage.
I call on the spirits of two black wolves. Their bodies turn solid, and they gnash frothing, fanged jaws at the judges. With powerful muscles in their broad hindquarters, both wolves lunge forward, talons clinking against the wooden floor.
Mother screams and Eliza ducks behind her chair as the wolves crash into the judges’ table. The table clatters to the floor with an echoing bang. I’ve never done this before. The spirits I conjure look solid, but they’ve never been able to do any real damage.
One of the wolves circles back and lashes out at the judge holding the potion.
Its muscular front legs leap from the ground, and its wide jaws clamp around the woman’s arm.
She screeches and drops the bottle. Blood drips down her arm in thick streams of hot scarlet.
The wolf won’t let go and snarls as her flesh tears in its mouth.
These spirits are real. Solid. They’re hurting people.
With a start, I realize Father’s shaking my shoulders. “Roe, stop! Stop!”
I let out a gasping breath and cut the cord of energy between me and the wolves. The connection severs, and the bodies dissolve. They decay and then disappear in a fine, silvery mist.
That’s not the only thing to disappear. The scene dissolves too.
I stand in the center of the room with my hands at my sides. My family, our guests, and the Hawks are seated, their faces tight and colorless. Father’s still in his seat, but he holds a hand to his mouth.
Three judges sit in their seats, but the table’s toppled over. The red-haired woman clutches her bleeding arm, but the smashed potion bottle’s gone. Maybe it was never there.
The tattooed woman slumps in her chair. She’s lost energy. She must be an illusive. Someone who can manipulate the mind. Illusives lose energy for a time comparable to the amount of Morphia used.
The truth slams into me with all the force of a crashing waterfall.
None of it was real. She made me hear and see lies.
I did get my trial. The judges did give me a chance to prove my Morphia is worth keeping.
But I failed.