Margareta said, “Welcome, Princesa. We are glad to see that you are well, but this is hardly the moment for a wedding. Please be seated with Grand Leon. We are almost finished here, and we will be happy to celebrate your return more graciously once we have done with this dire business.” She gestured to the foot of the dais, where Príncipe Alejandro knelt in bondage, his feet bare, his neck fastened to the floor by a short length of chain.
Before him stood a judge holding up a large scroll. “Príncipe Alejandro de Aragoth, by means of your confession, thrice freely given, this court has no choice but to find you guilty of regicide. From this moment forward you are stripped of all name and title. Your eyes shall be burned from your head with hot irons, you shall be castrated, drawn, and quartered…”
Isabelle surveyed the galley of Glasswalkers. From the number of seats that were filled, less than half were present, presumably Margareta’s loyalists.
Assume I only get to say one thing. After that the axe would come down. Julio had said he would force the Sacred Hundred to choose between Julios, but that would only compound the problem of loyalty and treason. Once the príncipes started fighting and blood flowed, everybody would be a traitor in the eyes of his or her enemies. The only path to peace remained what it had always been, an accord between the brothers.
All three brothers.
Like a gladiator in the pits of ancient Om, Isabelle lengthened her stride and marched into the center of the floor, straight toward Alejandro.
“Mercy!” she cried, startling the judge to silence. She extended her hand toward Clìmacio in a gesture of supplication. “My betrothed, I beg you have mercy on Príncipe Alejandro.”
Margareta came out of her chair. “Isabelle, be silent. Alejandro is condemned by his own admission.”
“I beg your pardon, Majesty, but I do not answer to you. If your son is to be my husband, he and he alone is my lord and master. Only he can command my silence. Only he can order my punishment if I disobey, and I am sure he would think twice before having someone whipped.”
Clìmacio twitched at the mention of whipping. Every abuse Margareta had inflicted upon him was a weapon in Isabelle’s hand.
He cleared his throat and said, “Isabelle, this is a legal proceeding.”
Isabelle declined to dispute the dubious jurisprudence on display. “That is beside the point. The point is, this is your choice. Today, in this place, you have the singular power to begin the world anew. The question is, what world will you create? Will you create a world of strife? Where brother slays brother, where your beautiful city burns, where old rivalries crush new hopes, a world without friends where every shadow holds an enemy? That is the world Kantelvar wanted for you.”
Behind her, Kantelvar squirmed in Julio’s grip. Isabelle gestured them forward and Julio forced Kantelvar to his knees beside Alejandro. Alejandro let one shoulder fall to the ground and twisted his head enough to get a look up under Julio’s hat. His eyes grew wide.
Isabelle focused all her will on Clìmacio. “Here is the architect of all this misery. Here is Artifex Kantelvar, who had you tortured, who cut off your leg. By my hand, his power is broken. He cannot hurt you anymore.”
Clìmacio stared, eyes riveted to Kantelvar. A susurration of disbelief rippled through the Sacred Hundred. No doubt most of them had received Kantelvar and sipped of his poison.
One of the Hundred called, “That looks nothing like him, not even before he was Exalted.”
“This is his espejismo, the way he sees himself,” Isabelle said. “Shall I let him speak and recite all the promises he made to each of you, and the price he extracted when he did?”
The speaker in the crowd recoiled and many of the Hundred exchanged worried, thoughtful, calculating glances. Margareta, who had the most to lose if Kantelvar spouted off, just about stepped off the dais as she shouted, “Enough of this. Julio, control your woman.”
But Clìmacio’s face was rapt, his breathing quick and shallow. “Let her speak.”
Isabelle’s pulse thrummed with terrified exhilaration as she prized Margareta’s grip from Clìmacio’s strings, one finger at a time. “You’re not his slave anymore. You’re not Margareta’s puppet. You can be the man who undoes all their wickedness and overthrows all their designs. Make peace with your brothers. Forgive and be forgiven.”
Clìmacio’s fascinated expression twisted into a snarl. “And what have I done to be forgiven for?”
From his awkward crouch, Alejandro said, “You put Xaviera in the Hellshard.”
“Lies,” Margareta said, stepping between Isabelle and Clìmacio. “Heed not the traitor who murdered your father or the poison-tongued Célestial witch. She has been sent here to sicken your mind, to snatch victory from your very grasp.”
To Isabelle’s surprise, Jean-Claude stepped forward, brandishing what looked to be a ring of onyx. Grand Leon steepled his fingers but made no move to restrain him.
Jean-Claude said, “Not lies, a testable hypothesis, as a friend of mine would say. Shall we put the key to the lock and see what happens?”
Margareta’s face grew pale at the sight of the ring, but she rounded on Jean-Claude like a bear in a trap. “That only proves that you are the villain here. If there is anyone in the Hellshard, it is you who put them there, not I.”
Jean-Claude turned to the Sacred Hundred. “What say you all? Shall we pull Xaviera from the Hellshard and see whom she identifies as her gaoler?”
The rumbling from the Hundred grew louder, and most of them were on their feet.
“Silence!” Margareta shouted. “You have tested our patience for the last time.”
Julio pulled off his hat. “And you have deceived the Sacred Hundred long enough, Mother.” He faced the Hundred. “I am Príncipe Julio de Aragoth, and that man—” He gestured, open-handed, to Clìmacio— “is my twin brother, stolen away at birth and brought back by my enemies to take my place.”
Clìmacio recoiled, exactly as if he’d seen a ghost. “I had no choice. I thought you were dead!”
The Sacred Hundred yammered with excitement, denial, outrage, and began emptying their roped-off jurors’ box. Even the gallery of witnesses were on their feet now.
Julio squared his shoulders and met Clìmacio’s gaze. “I know. And I forgive you. Can you do the same?”
Margareta’s shock turned to fury. She jabbed a finger at Julio. “Guards, take that imposter! Take them all!”
The guards who’d been stationed at the dais charged, apparently translating “take” as “murder.” Isabelle retreated. Grand Leon stepped forward. His crimson shadow flared like a cape and flowed over the ground to intercept the soldiers, but before it reached the first guard’s shadow, the emissary rocked back, clutching a gash in his throat. Arterial blood sprayed.
Jean-Claude spun round in dismay. “Majesty!” Ambassador du Blain, apparently not one for the sight of blood, slumped over in a dead faint.
Julio looked around wildly and pointed to one of the many mirrors covering the walls. “Assassin!”