Chapter 52 #2
Some of the clamor quieted as attention turned to the lone female member of Meress’s Conclave. Ms. Carrow’s crying continued.
“How can you ask for calm in the face of such abhorrence, Beulah Porter?” Lucien said loudly enough that the crowd could hear.
“We are not a community of impulsive beasts,” Beulah said. “This Conclave will not stand for incitement of violence.”
Lucien’s gaze swept the square. “Violence has already been done. We are here seeking punishment for those responsible.”
“You do not have the authority to pass independent judgment, Lucien Cross,” Beulah declared loudly. “And communal sentencing is not our way. You speak of lawful obeisance, of justice. Then let us be just. Let us follow law. We are a Conclave of five, are we not?”
Lucien glared.
One of the men stepped forward next to Beulah.
His thick black hair was neatly styled, matching beard tapering to a short point beneath his narrow chin.
Keen green eyes surveyed his surroundings with calculated awareness.
“Beulah speaks soundly, Lucien,” he said, voice calm and assured.
“The five of us will deliberate. We will consider the evidence presented by both parties and reach an acceptable verdict.”
“This matter calls for immediate action,” Lucien argued. He gestured to where Ms. Carrow still rocked over the bodies of her sons. “You would deny these brutally murdered citizens fair recompense? You would delay a grieving mother her due? Look at them!”
“As Vorak said,” Beulah replied carefully, “we will deliberate.” She glanced at her companions. “But all members must weigh in. We cannot make a decision without Saul.”
Felíne’s relief welled. He still lived.
Lucien shared a look with Rask. Kal noticed it, missing nothing.
Rask eased away from the platform as Lucien began arguing enthusiastically with the other three members of the Conclave.
Beulah’s meaty palms found her hips. The crowd watched the lawmakers trade verbal blows, their voices low and harried.
Felíne tracked Rask’s movement through the square.
A sick, sinking feeling spread through her chest. No one was watching as he reached the edge of the crowd—no one but her.
And Kal.
“Rask Harless!” Kal bellowed. Felíne flinched, his voice booming in her ear. Rask froze, and the Meressians looked about. “Creeping off like a dog to finish what your master started?”
Beulah frowned, noticing Rask’s aborted departure. “What’s this, Kal?”
Lucien stepped forward. “We don’t listen to traitorous filth, Beulah. His words are contemptible. Irrelevant. This discussion is not over.”
Kal leaned away from his shackles and the iron rod at his back.
The barbs of his skullcage bit into the sides of his neck.
He bared his teeth, heedless of the metal piercing his skin.
“Lucien Cross,” Kal said with all the formality of a king addressing his court, “you stand accused of conspiring to assassinate a citizen of Meress.” Kal swung his gaze to the Carrow brothers’ bodies.
“With two added counts of defiling the dead.” He met each of the present Conclave members’ eyes, settling on Lucien last. “And the attempted murder of Saul Leino, leader of Meress’s Conclave. ”
The gathered shurii clamored at Kal’s accusation.
Santhe, still standing rigidly near the Porter children, twisted her skirt in clenched fingers.
Penn was on his feet, hands fisted at his sides.
The tall, bearded man with green eyes, Vorak, narrowed his gaze on Kal. “These are serious accusations, Kaine.”
Felíne caught sight of Rask attempting to slink into the crowd. Kal did as well. “Don’t let that man leave!”
A familiar figure separated from the throng and clamped a heavy hand around Rask’s upper arm, hauling him back into the square. Beaumont Stonehaugh stood like an armored mountain next to the fair-haired man, preventing his quiet escape.
“Kal?” Beulah asked again.
“Unhand him, you devil!” Lucien snarled at Stonehaugh, his cultivated facade cracking. He whirled on Kal and shoved a finger up at him. “This foul-tongued traitor spews venomous lies. How dare you entertain such dangerous slander!”
“It’s not a lie,” Felíne said. Eyes turned to her. “Lucien Cross has been poisoning Saul, likely for days. I recognized the symptoms immediately. Look at his hands. He’s got blisters from the morticana he used.”
Lucien shoved his hands into his pockets, lips curling in a snarl. He stomped up the platform steps. “You lying bitch. Morticana is more bitter than High Country coffee. If I were to poison someone, I wouldn’t be foolish enough to choose an herb so easily recognized.”
“That’s why she said it took you days,” Kal growled.
“Small doses wouldn’t be noticed,” Felíne explained in a rush. “Especially if concealed in coffee or strong tea. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Beulah looked sharply toward Lucien.
“What qualifications do you have to make such a claim, madam?” Stef asked.
“She trained under one of the most renowned menders in Ilistaar,” Kal said.
Felíne’s heart squeezed at the quiet pride in Kal’s voice. “I have treated patients with morticana poisoning,” she answered. “I know its presentation.”
Beulah stepped toward the platform. “Show us your hands, Lucien.”
“You would take the word of this liar?” Lucien spat. “And his scheming vixen? He murdered two men!”
“Men you paid to kill us,” Kal retorted. “We were attacked on my property. I was within my bounds to defend myself and my mate by any means necessary.”
Felíne’s gaze shot to Kal’s, but his attention was focused on Lucien. Did he even realize what he’d said? His mate? Gods above, he’d just publicly claimed her as his. Her stomach did a happy little flip, heedless of their precarious situation.
“You tortured—”
“I am not so impetuous, Cross,” Kal said with disdain. “I do not deny killing Robb and Skott Carrow, but I did so quickly and without theatrics.”
“I saw the bodies,” Adder agreed, speaking up for the first time. “Kal wrapped them with care and delivered them to the Conclave’s hall. They bore none of the wicked marks they now carry.” He spat on the ground. “That was all you, Cross. You and your henchman, Harless, I’d bet.”
Ms. Carrow sniffed and peered up at them, bleary face pale and tear-stained. Her focus skipped between Lucien, Rask, the Conclave, and Adder. “What?”
“Lucien,” Beulah said, voice deceptively calm. “I will not ask you again. Show us your hands.”
Lucien’s hands tensed in his pockets. His eyes locked on Rask. Felíne noticed the moment he realized he was caught. She saw the defiance deaden his features. Her stomach dropped to her toes.
“Fools,” he grunted. “You will regret this.”