Queen of Fire

The Empress sat in silence for a time, regarding me with practised detachment before turning her gaze to Fornella, her mouth twitching in momentary disgust. “Lord Velsus,” she said to the Imperial Prosecutor. “The prisoner has the right to hear the charges levelled against him.”

 

 

Velsus bowed to her before turning to me, producing a scroll from the folds of his robe. “Lord Verniers Alishe Someren, Imperial Chronicler and First of the Learned, is hereby charged with treason,” he read. “Be it known, as established by credible testimony, Lord Verniers conspired with the Imperial Prisoner Vaelin Al Sorna to effect his release and evade just punishment for his crimes. Be it also known that Lord Verniers did conspire with agents of a foreign power, to wit the Volarian Empire, to injure the person of the Empress and her son Iveles.”

 

So there it was, not one lie but two. I cannot truly account for the icy calm that possessed me then, much as I remain unable to explain the presence of mind that allowed me to sink a knife into the base of General Tokrev’s skull. It could be that there are occasions when fear becomes redundant. “Credible testimony?” I enquired.

 

Lord Velsus blinked and I deduced he had been expecting some outraged protestation of innocence, no doubt to be shouted down by a well-prepared, and suitably theatrical rebuttal. He recovered his composure quickly, however, and gestured to the guards at the door. “Bring in the witness.”

 

I was expected here, I realised as we waited in silence. The trap is too well laid.

 

The witness was duly led in, a young woman in a plain dress, her colouring typical of the northern empire, dark hair and skin of an olive hue save for a cluster of livid red stripes on her neck. She was clearly overawed by her surroundings, hands clasped together and head held low, her eyes alighting on me for only a second before she snatched them away.

 

“State your name,” Lord Velsus ordered.

 

The young woman had to cough twice before she got the words out, her voice coloured by a barely suppressed quaver. “Jervia Mesieles.”

 

“That is your married name, is it not?” Velsus enquired.

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“State your birth name.”

 

“Jervia Nester Aruan.”

 

“Quite so. Your father was formerly Governor of Linesh, was he not?”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“In fact, he held stewardship of the city at the time of the Hope Killer’s occupation. An occupation many believe led to an outbreak of the red plague, during which you yourself almost perished. Is this not so?”

 

Jervia’s hands twitched and I surmised she was fighting an impulse to touch the marks on her neck. “It is so, my lord.”

 

“However, you were saved by the intervention of the Hope Killer, who called for a healer from his homeland. So, it would be fair to say your father considered himself in the Hope Killer’s debt, would it not?”

 

Jervia closed her eyes, raising her head and drawing a breath. When she opened them and looked at me I saw the unmistakable apology they held. “It would, my lord,” she said in a laboured tone, the voice of a reluctant actress.

 

“It is said,” Velsus went on, “your father was given a gift by the Hope Killer shortly before his arrest. What was it?”

 

“A sword, my lord.”

 

The Imperial Prosecutor’s gaze swept the assembled advisors, brows raised in surprise. “He accepted a gift of the Hope Killer’s sword, the very blade that had been stained with the divine blood of the Hope himself. A man of more noble spirit might have found such a gift an intolerable burden on his honour, but given your father’s ineptitude in defending his city and failure to take the honourable course in the aftermath of defeat, hardly surprising. Tell me, was there anything unusual about this sword?”

 

Jervia took another ragged breath. “Yes, my lord. The blade had strange markings upon it, and sometimes . . . sometimes Father would take it out, at night when he thought no one could see. He would draw the sword and the blade would glow with a strange, white fire. It . . . did things to Father, changed him, somehow . . .”

 

She faltered as I laughed, her face suddenly bleached white and eyes moistening.

 

“Forgive me, honoured lady,” I said. “Please continue.”

 

Velsus rounded on me, face twisted in anger, finger pointed in accusation “Mark well this man’s humour, my lords! See how he delights in his own evil!”

 

He turned back to Jervia, calming himself with an effort that made me suspect this was not all theatre. “You have seen this man before, have you not?”

 

“I . . .” She looked down at her clasped hands, white now and shaking. “Yes . . . Yes he came to see Father, the night before the Hope Killer was brought to the city.”

 

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