Chapter XLII Trial
XLII Trial
I stand on a dais in Magnar’s austere throne room. It’s smaller than the one in Farneer and darker, with standing room only for everyone but the king and queen. Magnar sits on his throne, sprawled comfortably behind me.
Before we came in, he cupped the back of my head in his palm and gave me a hard, almost bruising kiss. When he let me go, I could barely catch my breath, and he laughed.
“Slay, my queen.”
I only managed a pale smile. Slay, indeed. Because if I am successful, someone will die.
Before me stand the ministers, Ronan in shackles and flanked by guards. Behind them are a few generals, a group of courtiers, and representatives from Roharra’s five main regions. They are the spokespeople for their towns and villages.
A royal trial is a big event, especially the first one led by the new queen.
My hands shake, and I clasp them tightly behind my back. I’m wearing a crown, a slim one encrusted with obsidians and rubies. Magnar bears its more masculine, heavier version.
“Thank you for coming,” I say when the crowd settles.
I instantly see the sneers and eye rolls, and my heart hammers even faster, my palms sweating. No, I don’t speak their language. They understand me, because Magnar made the language of the Eleven mandatory in the army and his court. But it doesn’t mean they like it.
“I am going to try Ronan, the Minister of Beekeeping, for treason. Bring him forward.”
Whispers and murmurs break out in the back rows. Ministers are usually tried for negligence, since it’s the lightest offense, and it allows their families to remain honorable.
Treason means everyone associated with Ronan will be tainted, and the only possible punishment for him is death.
The shackles ring and clink as the guards push him closer.
He stops right in front of me, and I swallow with difficulty.
I hadn’t thought this part through. Yes, I stand on a dais, but he’s an Agnidari.
I barely see the crowd over the top of his head, and he knows it.
His eyes are insolent and hard, mouth twisted with loathing.
“And on his knees.” I clench my fists hard behind my back, forcing my face to remain impassive.
One of the ministers I have an eye on, Lagnar, comes forward. “You will make him kneel, Your Majesty? The man has a right to defend himself as per our customs.”
Our customs. It’s a vicious jab delivered with perfect courtesy.
I take a deep breath, hating the fact I have no lectern to stand behind so at least my legs wouldn’t be seen.
The dress should cover the shaking of my knees, but if it gets any worse, my entire skirts will flutter along with my anxious heart.
For the hundredth time today, I remind myself why I’m doing this. Magnar hates dealing with the council, and I’ll be glad to take at least this burden off his shoulders.
But first, I must make the council respect me.
“And he shall defend himself, minister,” I say, my voice sounding cool despite my nerves. “In due course. Unless you believe treason is a trivial matter and should be treated carelessly, of course.”
Lagnar gives me a small bow and retreats, my point made. At the far end of the throne room, there is a commotion. I strain my eyes.
Idrina comes in her chair on wheels, pushed by Khay. He gives me a quick, reassuring smile, and wheels her slowly through the crowd to the front. I don’t know whether to feel comforted or even more nervous, so I do my best not to look at her.
“During our investigation into the matters overseen by Ronan, we have discovered multiple irregularities. We have proof of thirteen missing shipments that he recorded. Thousands of barrels of honey that were intended for Serilla, Zanvar, and the Kingdoms of Agvaran in the south disappeared without trace after leaving the warehouse.”
“Shipments go missing all the time in a war!” explodes Dartel, the Minister of Rubies, who’s incidentally guilty of the same crime, only on a smaller scale.
I know, because I had the soldiers Magnar gave me follow him and look into his personal finances.
“That’s true,” I say, bolstered by that knowledge.
“Your shipments disappear like clockwork, don’t they, Minister?
One every six months, and it’s happened for three years.
That’s enough wealth to fund that new estate you built for your mistress.
Would you like to explain yourself, or will you let me speak? ”
Dartel grows purple with embarrassment and anger, and the ministers who stand near him subtly shuffle away, distancing themselves. I nod, fighting an urge to smile. Oh, this is fun now. It pays to be prepared.
“But shipments do go missing,” Lagnar says in a reasonable voice. “Ronan doesn’t personally travel to ensure the safety of every barrel. That would be preposterous. Besides, even if he did send some of that honey where it wasn’t intended, that’s not treason, but negligence.”
I want to ask Lagnar if Ronan promised him something in exchange for his support. The accused himself kneels meekly at my feet. He’s too calm. Just like that, my newfound confidence evaporates. I straighten my spine and remind myself to breathe.
“That would have been the case if those barrels didn’t end up in Trista, containing secret documents of the state.”
Shouts of outrage and disbelief break out in the room. I let people talk and scream, taking that moment to compose myself. Ronan looks up, his eyes cold with hatred, teeth bared in a clear threat. I watch him without reacting, and he bites down on his tongue and spits blood onto the floor.
It’s an Agnidari challenge. He’s promising me a violent death.
Raduna, who stands by the dais, sees it and takes a step forward, his face calm, eyes furious. I motion with my hand for him to settle.
“Silence!” I shout, and slowly, the crowd quiets grudgingly, though I still hear a few murmurs. I narrow my eyes, but I know a trick for holding the crowd’s attention thanks to one of the afternoon lessons with my father.
The trick is simple. Tell them things they are eager to hear, and they won’t interrupt your address.
“As you know, Trista was supposed to be the next conquest of His Majesty, Magnar, after the taking of Farneer. It shares only a sliver of a border with Serilla, and that’s the route where those honey barrels were sent.
We only took the latest shipment, but its contents were damning, and gave us an idea about the sort of information that was funneled to the hands of Roharra’s enemies. ”
I pause for effect. People in the back crane their necks, and no one speaks. They badly want to know what Ronan put in those barrels.
“We found documents sealed in protective sheathes of wax and leather. They included maps delineating vulnerable areas in the three of the Eleven ruled by Magnar. There was also a detailed map of the keep with a clear path marked to show attackers how to approach it to avoid detection. Last but not least, we found detailed reports on most of Magnar’s rulings and decisions since he came back from Farneer. ”
I pause again, and Lagnar, who evidently doesn’t know what’s good for him, scoffs.
“Anyone who lives in the keep could have put those documents there. You don’t have proof any ministers were involved.”
Ministers, plural. Aha.
I can’t prove it right now, but I finally understand why he tries to protect Ronan—it’s because he’s involved, too. Maybe not just him. Maybe more of them are corrupt, paid off by the Table of Kings to hand over secret information and make us vulnerable.
Behind me, Magnar curses softly. He probably came to the same conclusion.
I glance at Idrina. Does she still think I shouldn’t exchange all thirteen ministers at once? But if anything, she looks bored, twiddling her thumbs on top of her blanket.
“The proof is in the writing, Lagnar,” I say, motioning at Arvi, who waits in the doorway with a small table on wheels. He brings it in, and I gesture the ministers toward it.
“Please, examine the handwriting in the book belonging to Minister Ronan, and again in the report detailing Magnar’s new tax rates for the region of Alwar. It was found in one of the honey barrels heading for Trista.”
The ministers shuffle over, their expressions uncertain. There’s a thud behind me. Magnar stands and leisurely walks over to the steps leading down. He gives me a sharp smile when he passes, and my belly warms. I’m doing well then. He’s pleased.
When he approaches the table, the ministers tread on each other’s feet in an almost comical attempt to get out of his way. Magnar leans low over the documents, taking his time as he examines them. He hums quite audibly, and I bite back a smile, knowing it’s for show.
He straightens once he’s done, and faces the crowd.
“I’m convinced.”
With that, he goes back to his throne. I glance at the ministers, whose faces have soured significantly. Oh, they could still pronounce the handwriting samples dissimilar, but it would go against the word of their king.
“And you, ministers?” I ask, knowing what they must answer. “Do you believe the same hand wrote the entries in Minister Ronan’s book and the treasonous document?”
They nod and shuffle until the elderly Minister of Agriculture steps forward and answers clearly.
“Yes, my queen.”
A triumphant smile curls around the corners of my lips when Ronan speaks for the first time since the trial began.
“It wasn’t my hand.”
I stare at him, nonplussed, and speak before I have time to think. “What do you mean it’s not your hand? Isn’t it your book, Minister?”
He nods easily. “Yes, it is. I must admit to some negligence, however. I had my nephew write in my book while I dictated. He must have betrayed me and the king.”
His eyes brim with insolence, lips curved in a smirk that only I can see. I don’t believe him for a second. He’s the one responsible, and this is just a ruse—a ruse to spare his life while his nephew gets the blame.
Because if the only crime Ronan is supposedly guilty of is trusting the wrong person, I can’t sentence him to death. I can imprison him for up to a year, and then he’ll walk free, a traitor ready to get us all slaughtered.
My first trial will be a disaster with catastrophic consequences for Roharra.
The floor wobbles under me, and I desperately dig my nails into my palms to regain composure. Think, Caliane! What would your father do?
Strangely, that helps me calm down. Oh, he was a horrible father and a cruel king, but a skilled politician. It doesn’t matter his lessons were only an excuse to grope me. I’ll use them.
“Very well,” I say, doing my best to sound unaffected. “What’s your nephew’s name? I want him brought forward to testify.”
“I only have one nephew,” Ronan says, his eyes glittering with triumph. “His name is Bodra. He should be here, Your Majesty.”
“Bodra, come forward,” I command.
A boy of no more that sixteen, gangly and big-eyed, steps out of the crowd. I watch him grimly. On Lirande’s veil, will he actually admit to his uncle’s crimes and sacrifice himself? I hope not, but I have a bad feeling. Ronan is too confident.
“Have you written those entries?” I ask the boy, gesturing at the documents.
He doesn’t even look at them, his voice trembling. “Y-yes, Your Majesty.”
The crowd erupts in shouts of surprise and a few laughs. My hands shake, covered in cold sweat, and this time, I don’t know what to do.
The Agnidari treat an admission of guilt as the ultimate proof.
“Are you aware you will die for this?” I ask among the cacophony of excitement in the room.
The boy looks up, his eyes filled to the brim with terror. He nods, his entire body trembling. My heart sinks. He didn’t do it. And yet, Ronan must have threatened him somehow, done something to him.
The boy is going to die for his uncle’s sins unless I do something, but I have no idea what. No more of my father’s lessons rise from my memory to help.
I have failed.