Chapter 8
This World Only Gives You What You Fight For
Sweat trickled between my breasts and along the curve of my spine, and had already dampened my frock where it cradled my underarms. Though sweltering, I didn’t begrudge the sun high overhead. It was a welcome reminder that I’d escaped my underwater tomb.
I’d escaped the fighting pits. Survived my rebirth as a s?nglure…
I’d escape this prison, too.
I was just … still working out the how. Three additional torturous days of solitary confinement hadn’t yielded a plausible plan.
In a modest courtyard in front of the prison, and in view of the palace, beneath a canopy that appeared to float on its own—faithum, surely—sat a portly man and an even more portly woman.
Although he was human and she was fae—from the point to her ears—and their features were noticeably different, their dour pinch made them resemble each other.
They were elevated on a one-step dais that held just their seats, a small table between them with a gavel and refreshments. More faithum was at work; the two judges appeared cool and comfortable despite the stuffy high collars of their shirts.
I stood directly across from them, in a line with four other prisoners.
All men, all criminals. It wasn’t anything in particular about any one of them.
By appearance, they were all quite different, even after a night or more in the same prison.
But when you grow up in Zaraga’s underbelly as I had, you learn to recognize their ilk—our ilk.
It was a sometimes subtle, sometimes not, vibe that tickled at the fine hairs at the nape of my neck, that put me on guard.
A calculating gleam in their roving eyes.
Despite my present company, however, the judges glowered at me. Only me.
Maybe Heartbreak had enlisted Death to punish me for my insults, proving herself to be the very cunt I’d accused her of being.
Death hadn’t come for me when I wanted. It would be just like him to take me when I wasn’t ready.
I’d seen no one in my cell after the curera’s visit. But I understood these judges had the power to order my execution.
The other prisoners were tense, coiled for action. Their eyes darted everywhere at once.
So did mine.
Even while sliding free of my birth-mother’s womb, I would bet I came out throwing kicks and punches. This world only gave you what you fought for.
The fae judge leaned forward in her seat, clutched the gavel, and smacked it against her palm. It clanged as if striking a metal bell.
More than a dozen people and creatures crammed to either side of the dais. Faces flushed from the heat, they looked at the judge.
“Order, I call order,” she said.
The onlookers rustled with impatience. They were already quiet.
She clanged her gavel again.
The man beside me muttered under his breath, “Shove that gavel up ‘er fat, entitled ass, that’s what I’d do.”
The prisoner to his other side snickered.
The judge rang her gavel more. “Order, I say. Order!”
The man beside her cleared his throat. “We are now in order.” The more reasonable of the two, then. “The Magistrate of Zaraga”—my ears perked—“Territory of the Domdurron Empire”—my blood chilled—“is now in session.”
Zaraga … territory of the Domdurron Empire. The title rattled around my mind, unable to find a home.
“We are gathered here on this blessed day, thanks be to the Fuerin…”
“Thanks be to the Fuerin,” echoed the audience.
“…for a reading of the charges levied against these five individuals.”
What of the demigods? The Fuerin were dragons of ancient lore. No one knew if they’d ever even been real. The demigods, however, were very real. And very vengeful. They wouldn’t like being ignored.
“They stand accused of various offenses against the empire.”
Someone booed, drawing my eye. A tiny figure with a fuchsia head and clad in leather flew behind them. She zoomed to the front, where she hovered with a blur of wings.
The man recited each prisoner’s name and his attributed offenses: a combination of violation of the dominium, faithum interference, larceny, fraud, breach of contract, and assault, which had resulted in two deaths in one instance.
The audience shifted from foot to foot, scratched, picked, or fanned themselves.
“The soldiers responsible for capturing these four prisoners have waived their right to read the charges. For our final, however, we have Cosette Darling, Investigatory Soldier of the Blue Band, here to read her prisoner’s charges.”
The audience jostled and peered at me.
Cosette flew in front of the dais. There she turned, clutched her hands at her back below her wings, and ahemed.
“I hereby charge Prisoner 300033,” her voice boomed, causing two children to giggle.
Cosette ignored them with an upward tilt of her chin.
“She has refused to supply her name. I charge her with three counts of aggravated murder, three counts of assault against a soldier of the realm, resisting arrest, two counts of littering a public beach, two counts of improper remains disposal, one count of loitering—”
“Oh, come on,” I mumbled to myself.
“Parvtits are the worst,” Shove That Gavel Up Her Ass empathized beside me.
Cosette tacked on, “Two counts of feeding without consent, two counts of feeding outside an officially approved feeding den, one count of failing to report her s?nglure nature to the proper authorities, and…” She sucked in a breath.
“…one violation of the dominion, for refusing the very existence of the Domdurron Empire, and another violation of the dominion, for denying the authority of Emperor Junot of the Domdurron Empire.”
No one made a sound, not even the gavel-happy judge.
“You’d think the ‘aggravated murder’ woulda been the one to get ’em,” I muttered under my breath.
This time, Shove That Gavel took half a step away from me, the farthest he could go given the five of us were shackled together around the wrists and ankles. Our fetters were made of iron imbued with shadole faithum—unbreakable.
Cosette’s wings buzzed behind her as the half dozen guards stationed at our backs—one for each of the men, two for me—crept forward.
“My investigation is complete. I have concluded, without a single doubt, that Prisoner 300033 is guilty of all stated charges. There is no reason to delay her sentencing or the execution of said sentence.”
Was it just me, or had Cosette emphasized execution?
Eager, if hushed, commentary swept across the crowd, which was growing, until the judge smacked her gavel again.
“Very well. Does anyone seek to defend Prisoner 300033? Speak now or cast your objection to the Ethers.”
With her gavel at the ready, she waited mere seconds before saying, “At the count of three, this magistrate will find for the Dominion unless someone rises to her defense. One … two…”
“Wait,” I said. “I will defend myself.”
With an infuriatingly smug little smile, the judge answered, “No. You denied the emperor and his empire. Ergo, you have no rights under the empire. Only a loyal subject can claim the right to defend you. Now, be silent.”
The judge drew back her gavel. “Two, and—”
“Halt!” someone wheezed.
The crowd gasped. My heart stuttered.
I had no one.
And yet … was Cosette perhaps not an eager overachiever without a heart after all? Could she have gone to my parents?
The audience parted to reveal a panting goblin, clutching at his heaving chest. He opened his mouth, had to wait to catch his breath, and held up a finger.
His hair was shock-white and wild around his face, which was even droopier than was usual for goblins.
His frame was hunched, his legs extra thin, his knees knobby.
Even the scales of his dragon-feet were starting to fade.
They’d once, perhaps, been the vibrant orange of leaves turning color.
“Hoo,” he exhaled. “Just one more … moment please.”
Gavel Happy frowned. “Hurry it up, goblin. You’re wasting the magistrate’s time.”
She plucked a grape from a platter. It was plump, shiny, and beaded with condensation.
I salivated.
She tossed it into her mouth.
The goblin nodded to express imminent cooperation. He sucked in a few deep breaths. “My master bids you halt the trial of this prisoner and dismiss all charges against her.”
“The murderess?” Cosette asked. “No. She’s mine.”
So totally the eager, stone-hearted version, then.
The male judge looked between me, the parvnit, and finally the goblin.
“Who is your master to think he has such authority?”
The goblin brushed his hair from his face, patting it into some tidiness. After another marked inhale, his answer was steady.
“Drake Alonso D’Arco of the Zaraga Territory.”