Chapter 39
I exchanged a worried glance with Enhart. The gaggle of armored soldiers stared at me through the bars, their faces pinched in disdain. I could almost feel the sting of it. I wondered nervously how many of them had witnessed the events of yesterday evening.
“I need to speak to the King alone,” I protested, meeting Sir Raltisse’s stare.
“You’ll speak to him in a matter of moments,” he assured me. “Once you put these on.”
I recoiled as he unfurled a pair of iron shackles.
The metal was laced with rust, as if they hadn’t been used in years.
The hair on the back of my arms stood on end as I recalled the sensation of the angelica-laced rope from the witches’ encampment.
The iron bars before me nearly made me sick, and the last thing I wanted was to be wrapped in the cursed metal.
“Shackles?” Enhart asked, his brows raised. “That hardly seems necessary.”
Perhaps this was my destiny, I thought. The fate that had been waiting for me ever since I escaped punishment in Wealdstone. Perhaps I was not meant to save the kingdom like Mordric had believed, but to be its prisoner.
“It’s alright,” I whispered. “I understand.”
The shackles weighed down my wrists as we trailed along the winding corridors.
The castle was silent today. Not a single gossiping courtier wandered across my field of vision.
Even the staff were noticeably absent. I wondered if the seneschal had cleared them of their duties for the day, in order to keep the proceedings quiet.
A pit formed in my stomach as the Lord Seneschal ushered us into the throne room, before closing the gilded doors behind us.
The king’s council were lined up on either side of the dais.
The Duke of Altwater flashed me a sympathetic smile.
I nearly didn’t recognize him without his befeathered wife.
Lady Greenwood, dressed this time in copper, looked me up and down like a stray dog who had tracked mud into her house.
I wondered if she owned any gowns that were not the color of coins.
Lord Khalif appeared to have better places to be, his lips pursed and his foot tapping incessantly against the marble floor.
Sir Raltisse joined them, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the room.
Enhart lingered by the door through which we’d entered.
The chamber had otherwise been cleared save for an alarming number of armed guards. They watched me closely, running their hands along their weapons in a fashion that made me wrinkle my nose in distaste.
Heat lanced through me as I laid eyes on Mordric.
It was not the Ealdorfyre snapping its jaws, but my own fury.
He sat atop his throne dressed in the royal colors, a silver diadem placed on his neatly styled obsidian hair.
This whole time, he’d been plotting and scheming behind my back.
Winning my trust so that he could exploit me for his own means. Winning my heart.
What a fool I’d been.
I ignored the aching sensation in my chest, drawing myself up to my full height. When our eyes met, his flashed as if there were storm clouds behind them.
Mordric beckoned to his brother, who slunk toward the dais with a bored expression on his face.
It was strange to see him drop into the seat at the king’s right hand.
It was as if I’d forgotten his place in all this in the six months I’d spent under his tutelage.
As if I was only just now seeing him for the prince I knew he was.
Mordric turned to Lord Volorthen, who stood to his left. “Shall we begin?”
The Chief Adviser nodded, tugging at his beard with a spindly hand. “Miss Erramun,” he began, his voice like the creaking of a door with a rusty hinge. “His Majesty the King has summoned you here for sentencing for the attempted murder of the Crown Prince.”
“I actually have no quarrel with Miss Erramun,” Enhart interrupted. “Consider the matter forgotten.”
“You are not the king,” barked Sir Raltisse.
“Thank the gods for that,” quipped Enhart.
Mordric groaned and pressed two fingers into the crease between his brows.
Sir Raltisse’s mustache quivered as he exhaled a frustrated breath. He raised a finger, jabbing it in Enhart’s direction. “Miss Erramun attacked you before a dozen witnesses. His Majesty has a duty to administer justice on behalf of the realm.”
I winced at his words.
“Is it justice if no one seeks it?” mused the prince.
“There are many who seek it,” the Master at Arms bit back.
My attention flicked toward the window, through which I could see the bell tower at the center of the city.
I recalled the reception that Enhart received when we returned to Valnar.
The excited chatter of his subjects as they welcomed him home.
He was beloved by many, just like his brother.
And I’d nearly taken him from them. Could it be that they were now calling for my head?
How fast could word have spread? The duke shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot.
If his wife was involved, it would only have taken minutes.
“Enough, both of you,” sighed Mordric. The rich timbre of his voice, once a siren’s call to me, now set my teeth on edge. “This is difficult enough as it is.”
Enhart crossed his arms, staring at his brother expectantly.
Mordric cleared his throat. “Prince Enhart has informed us that as long as the witches hold the weapon anointed with your blood, they can control you,” he said to me. “Except, of course, when you are behind iron.”
An image flashed before my eyes of the opulent room he had designed for me, its doors barred and its walls laced with iron. My pulse quickened. He was finally going to get what he wanted. Me in a cage.
“You’re going to lock me away?” I asked. I felt so small.
He held me in his gaze, his voice softening. “I’m going to offer you a choice.”
Lord Volorthen slipped a hand between the folds of his dark robes, unveiling a simple circlet wrought of metal. My eyes narrowed as I peered at it, its image vaguely familiar.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A relic from the early days of the kingdom,” answered Mordric.
My gaze drifted toward Enhart. His expression was calm, but his eyes were knowing. I knew this device, I realized. I had seen it on display in Ivor’s office.
“This is one of Chancellor Sorrell’s inventions,” explained Lord Volorthen. “It is designed to render its wearer harmless. Few of them exist today, so we are lucky to have it.”
I grimaced. “You mean it would rob me of my magic.”
“As I said. Now, the decision is yours.”
“And you’ve agreed to this?” I asked Mordric, raising my brows.
“I have.”
Enhart snorted. “Tell her the truth, brother.” The prince’s jaw was tensed, his arms crossed tightly before his chest.
“What truth?” I pressed.
An awkward silence descended upon the room. “If you choose to wear the device, instead of staying in the suite that was designed for you here in the castle,” said Mordric slowly, “then I’m afraid I cannot allow you to remain in Valnar.”
I sucked in a breath, the angry jeers of Wealdstone’s people ringing in my ears. “You’re sending me away?”
Sir Raltisse huffed, his armor creaking as he shifted from foot to foot. “Did you expect that you could walk the halls of Valnar Castle freely after making an attempt on the prince’s life? Attend the next solstice ball in a pretty gown, perhaps?”
“Bite your tongue,” Enhart snarled. “Or I will cut it out.”
“Please,” said Mordric, holding up a hand to silence them both.
“Where would you send me?” I demanded.
I jumped, my shackles clinking together, as a shadow peeled off from the wall.
As they stepped forward, I recognized the dark hair and yellow eyes of Victoria, the king’s Keeper of Secrets.
Her hands were clasped neatly behind her back, her expression unamused.
“That information is confidential, Miss Erramun.”
I balked, glancing at Mordric. “You expect me to make this decision without knowing where I could end up?”
His expression softened. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of his throne. “I would hope that you know I have your best interests at heart, Finn. I would hope that you trust me to send you somewhere safe, if banishment is what you choose.”
Trust. How dare he even say the word. It took everything in me not to look in Enhart’s direction. If I did, Mordric and his entire council would know that he was the only person I trusted now.
“What is your decision?” Lord Volorthen pressed.
My gaze drifted toward the circlet hooked around the Chief Adviser’s forefinger.
So little time to make a life-altering decision.
The quarters Mordric had prepared for me were nothing more than a cage.
If I stayed, I had no idea how much freedom the King and his council would grant me, if any.
Still, the thought of what awaited me outside of the confines of the castle sent a chill down my spine—wightgasts and witches eager to rip me apart, control me.
They weren’t the only ones. Everyone wanted to control me now. To decide my future.
An idea sparked to life in my mind like an ember.
“If I were to destroy the athame,” I mused aloud, “the one that the witches anointed with my blood, and sever their ability to use me as a weapon, would I be free then?”
A stunned silence descended upon the room. The council stared at me with blank expressions, save for Victoria who simply narrowed her eyes. Beside Mordric, Enhart winked at me.
The glance that Victoria shared with Mordric stung.
“I have been unable to locate the witches myself,” said the vampiress, “but if you somehow manage to do what I cannot, then I suppose you would.”
“Of course,” Mordric assured me.
The shackles clinked together as I squared my shoulders. After everything I’d been through to get to this moment, I refused to let a paltry band of witches, or the godsdamn king’s advisers, win. My defiant stare bored straight into Mordric’s eyes.
I had made my choice.