45. TREASON
A pulse rippled across the wards around the temple. I felt it in my bones—having been the one to place the wards. All magic was innately linked to its creator, and any defiance of it was a palpable thing. So I knew exactly who had tried to port out of here before he could be confronted.
Ramil.
When he’d seen enough, the coward had attempted to vacate the event the moment I had my back turned.
But where was the fun in letting him go that easily? I’d invited him for a reason, after all.
If he had decided not to accept the invitation, well, now that Auren could bring down wards at her will, we would’ve just gone with our alternate plan and paid him a rather unpleasant little visit in Benmoor.
But I had bet Roirdan an entire cask of the finest ale that the High Lord of the desert would show his face.
And he did, with Killian at his back, foaming at the mouth to get his hands dirty.
I knew their type: desperate to be included in anything and everything just to have firsthand insight. And the fact that I had slipped out of Ramil’s grasp after he had already failed to capture my mate and my advisor . . .
I was damn sure he was seething with contempt and writhing with desperation to gain a foothold of the control he thought he had.
So I’d used the same fucking tactic as him—an invitation to an event that wasn’t all that it seemed. Funny how easily one could be blind to the very same trap.
This was more than just a mating ceremony. These guests were to be witnesses. Because the next portion of this event was not the celebration—as was expected. That would come later.
Right now, there was to be a formal trial.
“Going somewhere, Ramil?” I spun on my heel, pulling Auren around with me.
The High Lord halted mid-step on the stairway, caught in the act of trying to slink away to the entry once he realized he couldn’t port.
Fucking pathetic.
Before Ramil could answer, Remic ported, materializing behind him, wings only half-extended due to the aisle’s width. His hands hovered at his side, fingers poised above the twin daggers at his thighs.
Ramil, the smug bastard, straightened the lapels of his golden tunic and lifted his chin in defiance, but he didn’t say a word. He was nervous, otherwise he would have slung some sarcastic retort back at me.
“You know, I was raised to be a kind and gracious host,” I mused.
“My mother—AEbon rest her soul—always told me that guests should be honored. Perhaps you should take a few notes from her wisdom.” He didn’t respond.
“I never wanted to disappoint my mother. But today, I’m afraid I’m going to have to.
” I flicked my eyes to Remic and gave him a nod. “Bring him.”
Remic latched onto Ramil’s shoulders and shoved, forcing him down the stairs toward the center of the room. Ramil whipped his head around, but Remic had a dagger unsheathed and pointed at the High Lord’s throat in the blink of an eye.
“Move,” he growled, pressing the tip of his blade into Ramil’s skin.
Ramil held up his hands, feigning surrender as he conceded a step, but his eyes narrowed on the Dionach, the promise of wrath lining his expression. Remic angled his wrist and the blade, prompting Ramil to move faster.
Nivelle stepped into the stairway, and with one flick of her wrist, she bound Ramil’s hands with ropes made of Roirdan’s lightning. When she turned back around to face me, she smirked, then walked past the basins of fire and took up a spot near the altar, next to Auren.
Ever since we had returned from our visit to the wraith, she had become strangely protective of my mate, and I wasn’t complaining one bit.
The rest of my Trium followed her, coming to stand at our sides.
All around us, my court eagerly watched, glancing between me and the High Lord of Benmoor as he made his descent. I supposed it was time I made it known what they were about to witness.
“Ramil, High Lord of Benmoor, you are hereby summoned to trial, for the poisoning of Calledan’s Lady, and my second-in-command, and for the attempt to take both their lives.”
The audience gasped in disbelief.
Killian—realizing that this was not about to end well for his only ally amongst the courts—stepped out from where he had been standing, and attempted to lunge for Remic’s unguarded back.
Silas was immediately there to intercept him. He grasped Killian’s neatly-pressed vest and lifted him off the ground. Then, he flung the woodland lord to the stone steps with ease, and glared down at him. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you. Unless you want to join him.”
Ramil made it to the base of the stairs, and the fires in the nearest basins raged, causing him to cower backward to avoid the heat. The enchantment recognized him as a threat.
With a wave of my hand, the fires calmed, and Remic shoved Ramil past the threshold and onto the platform where a chair materialized before him.
“Sit,” I commanded.
Ramil’s pointed boots clicked against the stone floor as he slowly approached the chair and lowered himself into it. Nivelle’s ropes readjusted themselves, binding his wrists to the armrests.
I spoke to the masses this time. “Nearly two weeks ago, the High Lord of Benmoor welcomed us into his home for a celebration—much like this one, in fact.” I glanced up at Killian. “Shame that arrangement didn’t pan out.”
To my left, Morah smirked.
“He then proceeded to poison, capture, and incapacitate Auren and Aremis.”
I stalked closer to him and immediately noticed he appeared far more haggard than before.
Like he’d aged a decade in the short amount of time it had been since we’d escaped his territory.
He’d been drawing from the power of the Alatyr, which had kept him from aging further .
. . until Auren took it from him in Benmoor.
Without it, the effects were weighing on him tenfold.
“If it weren’t for my mate’s prior knowledge of the particular remedy for the poison, both of them might very well be dead.” I came to a stop at his side, lowering my voice to speak directly to him. “Do you deny these charges?”
His smug expression remained as he ignored my question and said, “You failed to mention that you were there with them. And if they were affected by my alleged crimes, wouldn’t you have been too? Or are you trying to hide your vulnerabilities from your court?”
I leaned down next to his ear. “I don’t give a damn what happened to me. I would let myself burn in the fiery pits of hell if it meant the ones I loved were safe. That is the difference between you and I.”
Ramil scoffed and turned his head away from me.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Haven’t I? Besides, you have no proof.” He spoke the last part loud enough for everyone to hear.
Auren stepped forward. “As a matter of fact, we do.” She reached into her pocket of space and pulled forth Benmoor’s Alatyr.
Murmurs stirred around the temple.
Ramil seethed at the sight of his stolen treasure. “That stone does not belong to you, half-breed!”
Auren laughed. “I could say the same to you. You stole this from your territory’s Elder, didn’t you? Just before you killed him. What was his name . . . Afsin?”
Ramil’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“I’m afraid you do not know the true depths of what these stones are capable of.” She dangled the amber stone in front of her face, eyeing it with particular fascination. “It just so happens that our Elder does. And she has graciously shared her knowledge.”
Ramil shifted uncomfortably against his restraints.
“The Alatyr,” Auren said, “is a time capsule of sorts. That was one of the first things I learned about it. And as such, it has properties that not only store information, but share it as well. It’s like reliving a memory, right before your eyes.
” She turned back toward Ramil, a smile tugging at her lips.
Gods, I loved seeing her on the edge of enacting vengeance.
“Shall we take a look at your memories, Ramil? You wore the stone for quite some time. I’m sure it’s dripping with secrets.”
Up the stairs, Killian took a threatening step, but Silas slammed a fist against his chest, halting him.
“Maeson, if you would?” Auren passed the necklace to her, never breaking eye-contact with Ramil.
Maeson took the stone in both hands, and recited the words—a string of incantations of Old Magic that not even I understood.
The candles throughout the temple dimmed until there was hardly any light at all, and the stone pulsed to life, emitting a warm, orange glow.
Maeson held her arms out before her, and the Alatyr sent a beam of light into the air above her head.
The beam spread horizontally until an image appeared, like a dream playing out before our eyes, hovering for all to see.
Within the projection, two figures emerged. The smaller one was elderly and hunched, while the other one stood tall, holding a curved dagger behind his back. It was as if we were viewing the memories from someone else’s point of view. Like the Alatyr had another form—one outside of its actual self.
Everyone in the temple watched as treason was committed before their eyes. As Ramil slit Afsin’s throat and left his withering body to be buried by the shifting sands.
Maeson spoke again, low and steady, commanding the stone to divulge the next stored memory that we needed.