Chapter Two
A silence sweeps over the room, and the hush that follows seems to vibrate.
It’s strange, standing before the Syndicate once more, and this time my tongue is not clamped.
I take stock of them all in more detail now, noting a handful of delegates along with the Crowns.
I recognize Prince Raiden, though his hair is slicked back and his silver attire collared up to the neck rather than loose, as at the Gathering.
The Lord Sovereign of Serai sits at the head of the table, his deep purple robes open at the chest to reveal a woven tunic that matches his deep red crown.
There are a few representatives from Kasim and the Karithian Isles, and of course the Brisendali council in full—all seven members—each donning a matching blue tabard with the emblem from the flag.
Then there are the stills themselves, which are more numerous than I had originally thought when I first woke in Razam.
Anton had indeed gathered ample proof of the deceits, and he hadn’t been collecting it alone.
There are stills of Illian and Aesir. Of Illian whispering to my father in the Hall of Thrones, just before I betrayed Laurent.
Sundar had taken that one himself, because Anton knew he was being watched. And that Gustav was, too.
The most notable, however, is the still of Illian at his desk, signing papers with Anton’s seal. Signing the very letters Illian later used to accuse Anton of conspiring with Razam. This one was taken through a mosaic, tinted in red.
Before them all stands Gustav, surprise widening his eyes at the sight of me. I offer a small, reassuring nod, though his brows only pinch in worry.
My father, it seems, recovers first from the shock of seeing me. “How dare you barge in uninvited, daughter? This is not your place—”
“Why the fear of letting me speak? Could it be that you have something to hide?”
When finally I settle my gaze on him, the sight of him in all his glory—the regalia, the spiked crown—is enough to clench my stomach.
It doesn’t slip past my notice, either, that his bride is absent.
There is no hint of the queen he groomed from such a young age.
It should come as no surprise that he stashes Aesir away from as many proceedings as he can.
He was never going to let her have any real power.
The Lord Sovereign of Serai speaks loudly. “As is custom with every Syndicate hearing, Maksim, we do not dismiss a testimony before it is spoken. You will allow your daughter to speak.”
“You cannot expect me to entertain those in league with my enemy!” he shouts, red patching his cheeks. I’ve truly unsettled him. “My beloved Vastianna betrayed me when she hopped into bed with the man who aided Razam in the death of our former king, may he rest in peace!”
“Maksim, contain yourself,” the Lord Sovereign says. “We will weigh everything in equal measure, fairly and with evidence. If her words are false, do you not trust us to discern it?”
And so there, before the Crowns of the north, I tell my story—from the very beginning.
My father murdering Emilia.
My time in Illian’s court.
My imprisonment, and then my role in the Gathering.
I omit only two details. I do not confess that it was my hand that held the katar that split open King Rurik’s neck—though a part of me longs to.
I still feel the pressure of the blade, how easily it cut.
The guilt of it sickens me even now, as does the lie I tell next: that Illian had confessed to me that he had hired a guard to do it—a guard that he had dressed in Razami gear. At the insistence of King Maksim.
The second detail I leave out is that I died—and came back. That Anton did, too. Even so, the weight of Anton’s pendant between my breasts seems to pulse as if it might reveal my secrets.
I’d give anything to have him beside me. A familiar ache clenches within me, but I force myself past it.
“Everything the stills reveal is true,” I say once more, gesturing to Gustav’s latest demonstration. The image in the glass is beginning to show now, albeit faintly—but enough to prove the process works. “And my father has been planning this for years.”
My throat closes on a swallow.
For a moment, no one speaks. I shift on my feet, feeling unsteady—more so as I watch them take it all in.
Then I notice one of the council members seated at the far end, behind the map of Sira. She’s perhaps sixty, with a frame as delicate as her voice. “If what you say is true,” she says, “it changes everything.”
Her gaze slides to Maksim, and while her expression is unreadable, there’s something of a warning in the way she says it. I don’t recognize her from the Gathering, however, and it takes me a moment to place her.
Ivory hair woven through with gray, arranged in a half coronet.
Pale, piercing irises, like an icicle lit by the sun—
So like the single one I’d gazed at while the life bled from Rurik.
She must be Sofya Kosarev, Rurik’s older sister.
Again my father raises his voice. “The stills incriminate Illian alone. I was unaware of his forgery. Perhaps he discovered Anton’s treachery with Razam and, desperate to prove it, falsified the evidence himself.
Of course I would never take part in such deception.
However, I fail to see how any of these stills prove my daughter’s allegations against me… ”
“According to her, this was a ploy in the making for decades,” Sofya points out. “And there are images of you in secret meetings with Illian.”
She’s listening to me. Questioning him. That counts for something. My shoulders relax, if only a measure.
“I met with Illian, yes,” he says. “However, it was merely to ensure the man I was marrying my daughter to was worthy of her. We discussed what our relations might look like moving forward, and how he might take care of her. As you can see, she is not well—though I did not know that he was the cause of her ills. And I certainly did not instruct him to kill King Rurik, of all the ridiculous stories! But such is the problem with these so-called stills. They provide little context. One cannot derive the full truth from them.” He swings his gaze around.
“Can you not see what is happening here? Can you not ascertain the truth? My daughter was part of Illian’s court, was abused by him, and so fell for Anton’s manipulative charm.
Because I could not see the man Illian truly was—and because I refused her wishes to end an engagement that I had, unbeknownst to her, arranged when both parties were much younger—she now strikes out at me.
“She has been brainwashed by Anton’s court of liars into doing their bidding—a court that has always sought to weaken Brisendale.
And now they seek to dethrone me by blaming me for their own horrific acts—and by rewriting the past, including the passing of my beloved wife, may she rest in peace…
” His voice breaks—an excellent performance, I must admit.
The worst part is that some of them seem to buy the act. Each member of the Brisendali council, at least, looks aggrieved on his behalf. He intends for them to dismiss my claims entirely—and for a moment, I worry they will.
Except perhaps for Sofya.
“So far, all of this is all hearsay,” says a delegate from the Karithian Isles—a slight man with deep red-brown curls that flow over his floral robes.
“May I remind the Syndicate to look at the facts? It is King Maksim’s word against Regent Bayard’s and Vastianna’s.
The stills are interesting, but they only prove Illian’s crimes, and Illian is dead.
And King Rurik was slain by a man in a Razami uniform. ”
“If I may,” Prince Sundar cuts in, “I wish to also corroborate Vastianna’s story, and to speak on my mother’s behalf. Razam has no reason to have murdered King Rurik. Beyond that, we have never wished ill will upon Brisendale. We have no reason for it.”
“Was it not King Rurik who first denied your mother aid when the southern lands encroached on her border?” says the man.
“It was indeed, Lord Dameron,” says the Brisendali councilman beside Sofya. “I was there.”
“As was I,” says another from across the table.
“And what, I might ask, is Miss Stova’s motive for such claims against her father?” inquires a Kasimi delegate, her braids threaded with indigo silk as rich as her garments. She doesn’t look at me, though; hardly anyone does.
As if I’m not even here.
“Why, clearly, she has designs on the Brisendali throne,” Maksim thunders, gesturing back at his seat.
I grit my teeth.
“And yet,” says Sofya, “if the young Miss Stova wished for your crown, surely she would realize that her actions today would achieve the opposite. If her claims are true and you are indeed behind my brother’s death, your kingship would be revoked, as would her position as your heir.”
“Lady Sofya is correct to point out that Her Highness Vastianna has little to gain in coming forward,” says Prince Raiden, seeming far older than his seventeen years.
“Aside from bedding another king to faster gain a crown?” says a man beside Lord Dameron. “And we all know Anton’s reputation.”
My mouth falls open and I step forward, but Sundar halts me with a hand on my shoulder, leaning in. “Show any semblance of a temper, and they’ll use it against you.”
The room erupts into an uproar, voices piling on top of one another—so much it makes me dizzy.