Chapter 10
“Grand Chancellor, I swear on my accolades,” Roan pleads from the white stage beneath us all, the buffed surface gleaming like a Moonplume moon. He splays his shackled hands toward the many golden buttons securing his filthy, bloodstained Runi robe. “The book evaporated.”
I frown, gaze lifting from the proceedings to scan the murmuring crowd of witnesses. Perhaps a hundred male Runis packed within the uppermost mezzanine, leering down, come to watch the persecution of one of their own.
“Evaporated?” the Grand Chancellor echoes, tapping his sharp nails against the curved armrest of his white-stone throne that looks like a dragon claw.
“Surely I misheard.” He gestures about the chamber to the other fourteen councilmembers stationed around the ruling stage, perched on similar thrones of their own, all but one empty.
“Speak clearer so my tri-beaded Brothers can hear.”
Many of the members lean further forward, all shrouded in hooded robes of white. Most so aged only their daely dose of bloodstone keeps their skin from looking like wrinkled parchment.
But you can see it in their eyes, gone milky with age. In the way they move—slow, like they’re built from heavier stuff than the rest of us.
Roan clears his throat, raises his voice.
“You did not mishear, Grand Chancellor. And I swear to you, this is no folly.” He folds into a wobbly bow that shows the ladder of ribs protruding from his back—skeletal compared to when I saw him last. When he knocked on the door to my suite, asking if I had time to speak.
After feasting, I’d said. But then I’d received a moonshard lead. My first in over a phase. I was gone before the aurora set without a word of goodbye to anyone.
Now this.
Roan’s being trialed by my late pah’s most powerful allies. Tri-beaded males also gifted in the Runi arts.
My blood simmers as I consider how much this group of folk could positively influence the political sway of things, if they only put their minds to it. Instead, they believe the world is theirs by divine right to mold at their will. That the rest of us are livestock—quality marked.
Bleat too loud and you get butchered.
I’ve worked hard to keep The Burn quiet and avoid political tangles since I took Pah’s crown.
Wanted to give my folk a chance to heal, grow, and thrive after everything they went through under Ostern’s regimented rule and the bloody usurping that followed.
Seems peace is about to bleed dry, because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Roan.
I made a promise to his sister and, on my honor, I will not break it.
“All it left behind was a cloud of silver particles that seemed to … well”—Roan winces, looking abashed—“prowl right out the door.”
“You expect us to believe the Book of Voyd—the ancient artifact we firmly believe was written by Caelis himself—prowled free of the chamber?” the Grand Chancellor presses, his blunt voice a hammer echoing off the amphitheater’s walls.
“A chamber which,” he adds pointedly, “is so heavily runed against intruders that all have perished the moment they stepped foot over the threshold. Until now.”
Roan’s cheeks redden, while Pyrok groans loud enough that one of the other Runis gives him a side-eye.
I elbow him so hard he grunts.
“I know how it sounds.” Roan straightens his copper-framed spectacles—the perfect match to his floppy locks matted and caked in grime.
“I wouldn’t believe it myself had I not seen it with my own eyes.
But there I was, standing at the plinth, about to flip the cover after loosening the book’s bind, and”—he flicks his hands, making the chains jingle—“poof. Gone.”
The councilmembers turn their heads and convene while the observers erupt with a swell of furious mutterings.
Roan shifts, and I glimpse his bare feet. Shackles bind his ankles, blood weeping from where they’ve bitten deep.
I clench my fists.
“The idiot’s not kissing enough ass,” Pyrok murmurs, digging into the pocket of his faux Runi robe. He fishes out a copper flask and tosses back a glug. “He should be on his knees, begging for his life.”
The smell of burnt spirits wafts between us.
“They have no proof he stole the book, and the Tri-Council values knowledge and power above anything else. Roan achieved something remarkable. They want to know how.” I glance at the Mindweft sitting at a desk beside the scribe, his unblinking gaze fixed on Roan—pupils dilated, perspiration beading off his brow.
“They’re using this trial as a scare tactic. ”
I hope.
I notice the beads of sweat also dripping from Roan’s bruised brow, curls of red hair plastered to his temples. A sign he’s exhausted, struggling to maintain his mental void.
“So long as Roan doesn’t challenge them,” I say beneath my breath, “we should be okay.”
I can break him from a cell. What I can’t do is bring him back from the dead.
There’s not a force or power on our world that can revive a soul from the type of death the Tri-Council dishes out to those who ruffle their pristine robes.
Pyrok grunts, taking another swig as a large shadow passes over the amphitheater.
My gaze spears through the crystal ceiling, half expecting to see a moon plummeting toward us.
Instead, a mature Moltenmaw cuts through the patchy clouds, almost skimming close enough to slash one of the heavily runed, white-stone arches straddling the Citadel from all angles.
Silencing the Creators for everyone beneath except members of the Tri-Council, their brows adorned with diadems eerily similar to the one Kyzari wears.
The one Elluin used to wear … before childbirth cruelly tore her away, ridding Kyzari of the chance to know her. Love her.
The thought kneads my heart so hard it aches.
“Silence.” The Grand Chancellor’s booming voice hushes the crowd.
Roan straightens, brows pinched as he looks up at the councilmembers with a hopeful gleam in his bright-green eyes.
“Alchemist. Given your solid mental walls render our Truthtunes useless at picking apart fact from fable, you put us in a difficult position. You want us to believe your absurd story, yet the fact remains that you were found in the chamber after breaking past the chain of runes that have been etched in place for eons, fashioned to protect the Book of Voyd.” The Grand Chancellor gestures to the other councilmembers, the wide cuffs of his sleeves dangling.
“We unanimously believe you may have used one of your rogue Runi techniques to hide the book, and that it’s still currently in your possession. ”
“That’s a fucking stretch,” Pyrok mutters beneath his breath.
Roan’s head kicks back as he frowns, and a sense of dread stomps me. He may be unmatched at mental voiding, but his face shows every emotion that passes through him. And I’ve seen this look before.
When he’s genuinely perplexed by the might of someone’s stupidity.
“With my greatest respect …” He pushes his hands forward to boast his shackles—iron etched in a band of runes. “Given the many beatings I’ve endured since being tossed in the Citadel’s dungeon, I would’ve used the book to find a way to free myself of these.”
I sigh. Everyone else gasps before the room erupts with bellows and gnashing chagrin.
“Broken free?”
“—go against the Council?”
“Did he expect to be coddled after he was caught stealing our most sacred artifact?”
The Grand Chancellor hushes the crowd with a sweep of his hand. “For the record, what was the reason you broke into the chamber?”
Roan frowns. “I’m certain the reason is quite obvious, given my many written requests to sight the Book of Voyd’s unrendered pages.”
“Ahh, yes.” The Grand Chancellor lifts a flattened lark from the plinth beside him.
“We received your firmly worded requests. But our lack of response was because, simply put, any unrendered pages were damaged from a time before the book was discovered and safely stowed away. And therefore, undecipherable.”
Roan screws up his mouth and shifts on his feet. Enough that I can tell he’s trying to distract himself from embarking on one of his conspiratorial outbursts—his gaze bouncing from Chancellor to Chancellor.
Don’t do it.
Don’t do it.
Don’t—
“In that case, surely there was no problem with me sighting them as requested,” he responds, and I almost sigh with relief—“Unless, of course, the Tri-Council has been cloistering knowledge?”
Fuck.
“Blasphemy!” The Grand Chancellor’s hands bunch into fists. “We would never.”
“Then what about those?” Roan looks skyward, brow raised—a very pointed stare at the arches of stone that bridle the Citadel.
He shrugs. “I try not to make a habit of believing everything that spills from a waif’s maw, but apparently there are new invisible runes on those arches that protect this place from moonfalls. ”
More gasps while I frown.
That’s a new one …
The Grand Chancellor pales, and my brows shoot up as the crowd blares with a torrent of whispers.
Fuck … It’s true.
Pyrok leans close. “This is not good.”
No. It’s not.
Many in this room will have family beyond the gates. Will pass this rumor on. And once word gets out about the impending falls, folk are going to swarm the Citadel in hopes of finding refuge behind its thick, iron-laced walls. There will be riots. Deaths. Roan will be blamed for it all.
He’ll be hunted for the rest of his existence … if he survives the trial. Something that’s growing more unlikely with every word that blurts from his unsocially adjusted mouth.
Another wave of the Chancellor’s hand silences the crowd, his upper lip trembling as he looks toward the red-faced Mindweft now weeping bloody tears. “Are you any closer to cracking his mental void?”
The Mindweft mutters a garbled “no,” then collapses sideways, falling off his chair into a heap on the ground.
The Grand Chancellor sighs. “Then we must initiate an inquiry with King Kaan Vaegor to ascertain whether he had a part to play in this malicious act,” he states, the words a heavy punch to my chest.
Pyrok swears, while I work to ensure the wall I constructed within mine and Rygun’s shared heartspace is solid, keeping him well the fuck out. The last thing I need is for him to sense danger and come blasting into Bothaim.
“The summons will be sent immediately. Failure to comply will be indicative of a guilty plea. Trade licenses will be revoked and the Tri-Council’s favor will dissolve.”
Roan loses any remaining color from his already-pale complexion. He opens his mouth to speak, but with a few whispered words from the Grand Chancellor, wind whips through the room.
Roan falls to his knees, clawing at his neck, tendons straining.
Pyrok snarls, lunging. I tether him in place with a hand around his arm.
“Don’t,” I growl beneath my breath. “We’re no help if we expose ourselves.”
The Grand Chancellor stands, sneering down at Roan. “On the charge of treason, given your intention to cast bias upon the Council and usurp us from our thrones, we the Tri-Council find you—”
All members raise a hand. “Guilty!”
“On the charge of breaking and entering the chamber with intent to steal the Book of Voyd, we the Tri-Council find you—”
“Guilty!”
“On the charge of perverting the course of justice by burying essential information in your mind, we the Tri-Council find you—”
“Guilty!”
Creators.
“Roan Du Alac’ of The Burn,” the Grand Chancellor bellows, reciting the false name he’s been wearing most of his life, “you will now be stripped of your accolades. Wardens!”
As a group, ten dual-beaded Wardens glide forward from the wall, white eyes fixed on a near-suffocating Roan. They cluster around him and snatch his buttons, ripping them free.
“Two of your three rulings are punishable by death,” the Grand Chancellor continues, landing a blade of ice straight through my heart. “The other will be atoned with fire-lashing.”
Pyrok sways. Only my firm grip on his arm keeps him somewhat steady.
The Grand Chancellor flicks the lid of his weald, ordering a ribbon of flame to tangle through his fingers.
Roan’s robe is torn wide, the sound of splitting fabric loud in the sudden silence.
“Don’t watch,” I growl as Roan’s bony back is bared. As the Grand Chancellor snaps that ribbon of flame toward his pale skin. Not that Pyrok listens, trembling in my fierce grip.
Fire meets flesh—again.
Again.
Roan’s body buckles further beneath each seething snap.
The smell of burnt skin fills my nose, my throat growing tight with memories of Pah dishing me the same scorching treatment, screaming for me to stop crying and take control of the fucking flames while he made a mess of me.
I force myself to watch, even though the little boy inside me wants to fold down and scream. Even though every other part of me wants to leap off this mezzanine and crush the Grand Chancellor’s skull with my fist. Something that will only cause more harm than good, given I’m outnumbered.
Nulled.
By the time the final lash dissolves, Roan’s entire back is red, black, and blistered, his body trembling as he seeks cold comfort from the floor.
“What a disappointment you turned out to be,” the Grand Chancellor seethes, pinching his sleeves back into place with the smoking tips of his fingers. “The Wardens will have you cleansed, then feed you to the anthe. May the Creators have mercy on your soul.”
I battle to keep Pyrok standing while the Tri-Council members siphon out the exit, most other folk staying to watch the Wardens unhook Roan’s chains from where they’re tethered to the stage.
They kick him flat, then drag him away as he battles for breath, his spectacles left behind. Alone amidst a smear of blood.
“Do I have time to make it to the den’s outer city entrance?” Pyrok rasps, his voice laced with a chronic amount of fear and potent rage.
“I’m not sure how long this cleansing ritual takes.” The crowd begins to thin, weaving out through the many arched exits while we stare at the now-empty stage. “Our only choice is to stay within the Citadel and follow them down.”
Pyrok’s head whips around. “But he politically fucked you. And The Burn. Probably set a war in motion, too.”
“That was not his objective.”
He came here with the best intentions—to protect my folk from future moonfalls. Now he’s been sentenced to death. Had I given him the attention he deserved that dae, it’s quite possible he would not be burned and beaten, being dragged to his death. The fault is mine.
Pyrok stares at me, unblinking, jaw stiff.
I let some of Rygun’s flame rise within me. Feel its heat prickle the underside of my skin, warm the air. Sense the embers igniting in my eyes.
Pyrok sucks air between his teeth, yanks from my grip, and drains his flask in three deep gulps—hand trembling with barely contained rage. “Fine,” he hisses past clenched teeth, stoppering the cork. “Guess we’re all dying this dae.”