Chapter Fifteen
Archer leaned back in his chair, watching Silas’ calm summary of events as he ensured the members of the committee investigating the old council’s treasonous plot were all on the same page.
His voice wavered slightly as he described Alistair’s execution, leaving out the more gruesome details of the traitor’s death.
Lord Pryce, who had interrogated Alistair himself, clenched his fist on the table until his knuckles turned white.
He had argued with Silas during every step of their investigation.
After confronting Alistair—hearing the mage confess to murder and more—Pryce was silent.
Dark circles under his eyes and a pallid cast to his skin aged him ten years since the last time Archer had been forced to share space with him.
“We are interviewing the remaining soldiers to see if anyone has leads on Varro,” Silas continued. “And we are still awaiting reports from the search parties sent after Jacoby and Niall.”
“Any news about who set the fire?” asked Mr. Tomlin.
A loud thump interrupted Silas before he could answer. Everyone turned to look at Quentin, whose hand trembled as it pressed one of Jacoby’s ledgers into the table. After a long moment, he finally looked up and jumped, startled to find everyone’s eyes on him. “Ah, I … I’m sorry, I saw a spider.”
“Not more fucking magic bugs,” Griselda growled next to Archer. She inhaled deeply, then her brow furrowed, and she shook her head.
So it wasn’t magic? Archer watched the accountant with displeasure. Quentin had been twitchy and nervous since the first meeting. Unfortunately, Archer didn’t know how he typically acted, so he wasn’t sure if the behavior was suspicious or simply annoying.
Silas pursed his lips, then said, “As of now, we suspect that the soldiers who broke Varro out of prison set the fire as a distraction. There’s also evidence that they broke into the Records Room, though the significant damage means we’re unable to determine what they were after.
“That brings me to my last point. As I’ve already discussed with the new council”—Silas nodded to Felicity and Mirinda—“because of what happened with the Records Room, we’ll be moving the evidence files to a more secure location.
However, I acknowledge that some of these files are needed for kingdom upkeep.
Over the next few days, everyone here will have special permission to use the Council Chambers and review the documents as needed, with the caveat that you will be under guard.
You will also need to speak with me before removing any files from the room.
If any new information relevant to the investigation comes to light, I will call a special meeting.
Does everyone understand and agree to this arrangement? ”
“Why bother with it at all?” Pryce asked.
“You made your decision on Alistair without evidence. You’re the king.
” His tone made it difficult to tell if he was mocking Silas or simply stating a fact.
“All you must do is declare them traitors, and they are. Unless the only point of this trial is to sway public opinion?” He glanced at Archer, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
A muscle ticked in Archer’s jaw, and he leaned forward, glaring at the lord. He wanted to tear into him, to expose the rot settled deeply within Bellacostan hearts. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a fight of swords, but words, a weapon Archer had never sharpened.
“And if it is meant to sway public opinion?” Silas asked.
He sat straight, shoulders back, gaze hard.
“Alistair and his accomplices spent decades poisoning the Bellacostan citizens against Arnsveld. It is our responsibility to provide the antidote, in whatever way we can. A public trial isn’t our only option, but it is one way for the citizens to understand exactly how they have been manipulated over the years and to hopefully shed whatever biases they still cling to. Something you could learn, Lord Pryce.”
“You’re working so hard for this alliance with Arnsveld,” Pryce said, his eyes raking over Archer. “I’m sure I’m not the only one wondering what they’ve offered in return.”
“You mean aside from thwarting a coup?” Silas asked dryly.
“And retraining your shit soldiers,” Griselda added, baring her teeth at the lord.
Pryce arched an eyebrow. “Is that for our benefit or yours? You will need to convince more than me that this is a true alliance.”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Mirinda said. Although she spoke quietly, she immediately captured everyone’s attention. “Lord Pryce is not the first to question the alliance between Arnsveld and Bellacosta. We need to strengthen the treaty so that it is beyond reproach.”
Her words echoed the lecture she had once given Archer when she tried to convince him to marry a Bellacostan noblewoman. His jaw clenched and he glared at her, trying to silence her before she could state her thoughts outright.
But the usually meek adviser never broke eye contact as she said, “You should consider a marriage alliance, Your Majesty.”
Archer’s head whipped to Silas, a protest hovering on his lips.
Even if Archer had to lay his heart bare in front of witnesses, he would assure Silas that he would never even consider the option.
The words scattered when he saw the brightness in Silas’ eyes, like he’d been handed the solution to all his problems on a silver platter.
“I was considering the same,” Silas said, practically buzzing with eagerness.
“You were?” Archer croaked, barely forcing the words out.
Silas nodded. “It’s a classic solution to our problem, even if it’s unconventional. It might be a little crass to hold a wedding in the shadow of tragedy, but an engagement might go a long way to quelling the rumors of an Arnsveldian invasion.”
From the way Silas spoke, he must have already chosen someone for Archer to marry. “Who?”
Silas’ brow furrowed. “You, of course.”
The answer confused Archer but so many questions flowed through his head that he didn’t know how to ask for clarification. How would our relationship work? Would you hide me, push me off to the side, because this is the easiest solution?
“He doesn’t look particularly willing,” Pryce drawled.
Silas scanned Archer’s face, then whispered, “I’m sorry, we should discuss this in private. It’s a new idea, and I haven’t had a chance to …” He cleared his throat and turned back to the table. “A marriage alliance isn’t necessary. We’re negotiating new trade treaties, which can involve … uh …”
“Lumber and stone,” Mr. Tomlin offered, smoothly interjecting himself into the discussion. “Which was something I wished to speak to you about, Your Majesty.” He looked directly at Archer as he spoke.
Trying to shake off the doubts crowding his mind, Archer straightened and asked, “Why?”
“Arnsveld is the largest producer of many building materials,” Mr. Tomlin explained. “From Strider Morten’s initial reports, it’s already clear to the Guild that our current supplies are too low for a project as large as reconstructing the palace.”
“Exactly,” Silas latched on to Tomlin’s suggestion. “Even if we don’t completely rebuild the South Wing, we need to make it habitable again. As one of the residents, you should have a vested interest in the repairs, Pryce.”
“I do, yes,” Pryce agreed. “I can’t say the general public will agree.”
“The reconstruction will employ the locals,” Felicity said, speaking for the first time. “His Majesty has already been very generous with compensating the cleaning staff, and I’m sure the citizens will support any efforts that continue to employ themselves and their families.”
“Quite the plan you have,” Pryce said. “Villainize the old council—the traitors,” he corrected, as if it were an afterthought, “with a public trial. Offer the nobles the carrot and the stick: ‘do as I say, and you will retain your titles and the luxuries you’re accustomed to. Disobey, and you will join Garan in exile.’ Then offer the citizens lucrative jobs, hoping that is enough to convince them that Arnsveld is our ‘ally’ rather than an ‘invader.’” If he’d addressed Silas, it could have sounded like a compliment. His eyes never left Archer.
“Thank you,” Silas said, dragging Pryce’s attention back to him. “I’ll take that to mean it has your support.”
“Whatever my king asks of me,” Pryce replied, void of any sincerity.
“Right now, I’m asking you to give this alliance a real chance.” Silas turned his attention back to the rest of the committee. “If you’re staying to review the documents—”
A soft pop interrupted the rest of his sentence as a flimsy, torn up piece of parchment fluttered onto the table in front of him. Griselda sneezed loudly again and cursed magicians under her breath.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Silas said, covering the letter with his hand and sliding it toward him. “As I was saying—”
A second pop preceded a letter appearing in front of Archer.
His first thought was that Valerian had finally reached out to them, but his relief quickly darkened to dread as he saw the jagged tear in the parchment, the hurried fold, and the edge of bold black letters peaking from one exposed corner.
Whoever had written this was in a hurry, which did not bode well for the sender.
Silas frowned as he met Archer’s eyes. “You’re all dismissed. Please give me the room.”
“But, Your Majesty,” Felicity began, her face pained as she looked at the paperwork spread around her.
“Now, Felicity.”
The committee members exchanged concerned and confused looks before standing and abandoning their mess of paperwork on the table. They filed out of the room without another word.
Darian hesitated at the door, but when neither king invited him to stay, he slipped out with the others.
Griselda didn’t care about an invitation. She planted herself firmly in her seat and glared at both letters. “What does the Witch want now?”
Adelaide? Not Valerian? Archer and Silas opened their letters at the same time. Archer didn’t know what Silas’ said, but his only contained two words:
Come home.
-A