Текст книги "Air Awakens"

Автор книги: Elise Kova

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“Vhalla!” Aldrik shouted.

She let out a scream.

Underneath the rock was a face—half of a face—that she had known since she was a girl. A face who had made her laugh, who had taken care of her, who had been a friend, like family. Vhalla fell to her knees over Sareem’s burnt and debris battered body, her shoulders heaving with sobs.

“Sareem, Sareem, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She placed a hand on the cheek that wasn’t crushed and oozing. “I...” She hiccupped, snot dripping from her nose. “I didn’t want this. Oh, Mother, I-I-I’ll never keep anything from you again, Sareem. See, see I came, so wake up now, Sareem. Please, please.” Her stomach hurt from her sobbing and her shoulders ached, as though all the nightmares that she had endured threatened to tear apart her body. Vhalla leaned back on her feet, not caring who or what else she sat on, and stared hopelessly back at Aldrik.

“Aldrik, how do I save him?” she asked, tears staining her soot-covered cheeks.

“Vhalla...” he said faintly, taking a step closer.

“How do I save him?” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

“You can’t do that.” He shook his head. There was a sorrowful kindness under each word.

“I saved you.” She took a shaky breath. “How do I save him?”

“It doesn’t work that way.” He knelt down next to her, putting a hand on her back. “You can’t fix this.”

“Then why have magic?” she screamed at the prince as her tears forced their way out again. Aldrik spread his fingers across her back.

“Because,” he said very softly, his voice strained and tense. Aldrik glanced over his shoulder, careful to move only his eyes and not his whole head. “You need to get down.”

Vhalla hiccupped. As the words registered in her brain as not making any sense his hand was pushing her down forcefully into the bloody carnage of her friend. Aldrik ducked too as a quiet swoosh cut through the air above their heads.

He pushed off her back and spun upward, his hands alive with fire and Vhalla heard a woman’s laugh.

VHALLA TURNED TO look at their attacker. The silver embellishments on the woman’s arms glittered in the firelight. She wore base leather armor overlaid with a strange piece of clothing over her shoulders and chest, like a rectangular pennon with a hole cut in the center for the head. Embroidered upon it was a foreign script that Vhalla had never seen before. At the woman’s waist was a large belt, an empty sword sheath hanging off of it.

“Well, well, this makes things easy,” the woman spoke, her voice barely audible from behind the faceless mask. If the green skin wasn’t enough, the attacker’s accent was proof that she was one of the jugglers. “I never expected the mighty Crown Prince Aldrik to come running all by his lonesome. It’s too noble for the man who torches babes in their beds.”

The woman rounded them slightly. To the couple’s backs were piles of rubble, to their side was an inferno, and before them was a sword-wielding Northerner. Vhalla knew nothing of combat, yet she was able to see that they were not in a good position.

Aldrik was silent. He stood straight and tense, his hands clenched in fists, fire crackling and hissing around them. It trailed up his arms and singed the bottoms of his rolled sleeves.

“Vhalla,” the prince said roughly. The other woman raised her eyebrow and glanced over to her. “Go, get out of here.”

“What about Roan?” she asked weakly.

“Go, that is an order.” Even though flames raged around her, Vhalla suddenly felt cold.

“It’s rude to leave a party early,” the woman chimed in.

“Here I was merely trying to spare you the embarrassment of dying a pathetic death with an audience,” Aldrik lashed out.

The woman growled and lunged.

Aldrik stepped to the side, the Northerner ducked below his flaming punch and twisted, shifting her weight to bring her sword up. Aldrik jumped back, the tip of the blade missing him by a hair’s breath. She pursued with a back-handed slash, targeting his opposite shoulder. Aldrik spun around her side, grabbing the arm holding the weapon. Flames burned brightly, licking up the woman’s skin.

At first, Vhalla thought her immune to the flame. But as she watched the flesh changed color before her eyes, it dawned on her that the green color was actually a fire-resistant paint. She stared in shock as the woman’s mask was thrown off during a vigorous spin to land a sword hit into Aldrik’s side. He cried out, losing his balance and stumbling. Vhalla struggled to find her feet and escape the rubble.

“Vhalla, go!” he grunted.

As the woman raised her sword arm again, Aldrik reached up and grabbed the dark bare skin with his hands. Fire seared across her flesh and she cried out as it began to ripple and bubble under the heat. Her agony rose to a torturous scream unimpeded by any mask, and she dropped the sword. She twisted and fought with her free hand, but Aldrik held fast.

He stood slowly and released his right hand from her arm, which had almost burned away to the bone. Taking advantage of her shocked state, Aldrik pressed his palm to the woman’s face and her body seized. It jerked and contorted as flames licked around her eyes, boiling them in their sockets. Her throat swelled with the internal blaze, and she finally went limp. Aldrik tossed the charred corpse aside and looked to Vhalla.

Vhalla stared on in horror, her hands were over her ears, trying to block out the echo of the Northerner’s last desperate noises before death. She stared at the charred corpse. That was what they were fighting in the North? Certainly her skin had been slightly darker than a Westerner’s, and her hair curlier than a Southerner’s. But she had been human. She had been no more or less than Vhalla, and Aldrik had killed her.

Her eyes swung up to the man who had both saved her life and burnt a person alive. He had killed this woman and countless others. Aldrik took a step forward, and Vhalla took a step back. She swallowed. Why were they fighting these people at all?

Aldrik laughed darkly. “What did you think I was?” he snarled. “Did you think I went to war and read books?” Vhalla took another step back. “You ran head-first into my daily hell. Would it not be more convenient if weapons of death and torture could not talk back?” Vhalla forced herself not to tremble as she looked at him. He glared at her; the orange of the fire reflecting in the black mirrors of his eyes.

With all the bravery she possessed, Vhalla crossed the distance between them; he straightened and looked down at her, imposing. Vhalla swallowed hard and tried to muster her last scrap of confidence. There would be time later to ask him about the real reasons behind the war. For now, they needed to go home.

She grabbed his hand, praying it didn’t burst into flames at her touch. It didn’t.

“Quit being stupid, Aldrik. Let’s go.” His features barely softened, but it was more than enough to know she had made herself clear. Whatever this man was, he wasn’t a monster. Vhalla took a step back, turning to grab Roan and start the gory trek home.

With stunning clarity, she heard the distinct twang of a bowstring piercing the air. Vhalla moved instinctively in front of her prince.

She screamed a noise worse than any she had never made before as the arrow pierced her shoulder.

“Vhalla!” he roared as she fell to her knees.

She gasped for air, she gasped to make a sound. The pain seared through every nerve in her body, across every synapse in her mind. It seized her muscles and forced her to blink dizzying blackness from the edges of her sight. His hands were supporting her but his attention was elsewhere. Vhalla turned her head to try to see what he saw. But when she caught sight of the arrow sticking out of her body she instantly struggled with consciousness.

“My, isn’t this charming?” Vhalla tilted her head over her other shoulder to see the source of the voice. Her vision was becoming tunneled and she willed her eyes to focus.

There were three of them.

“It’s the jugglers,” she murmured.

“Don’t talk,” Aldrik whispered harshly, his thumb caressing her shoulder as he supported her.

“Careful, they’re, they’re missing...” She struggled to count. “They’re missing two still.”

He glanced at her and then back at the people.

“Don’t you think it’s charming?” a man asked.

“It really is,” came a nasally woman’s voice.

“The noble prince, defending the damsel. Who knew the Fire Lord had it in him?” the man snarked.

Vhalla heard the ring of metal on metal as a sword was drawn. These people truly wanted to kill them, Vhalla realized as she felt blood soaking down to her waist. She wasn’t in a position to run anymore; if he carried her, she would only burden him.

“Aldrik...” she whispered. He didn’t move but she knew he’d heard. “Go, go and leave me.” It was her fault he was there in the first place. The last thing she could do in her life was to ensure the heir to the throne did not die on account of her stubbornness. Vhalla closed her eyes and dipped her head.

“No,” he replied in a soft and low voice.

“Your life is worth more than mine. It’s the life I partly gave you, isn’t it?” She smiled faintly as she heard footsteps and the crunch of bodies across the street. Aldrik said nothing. “I should have some say over whether you throw it away or not. So, go.” His fingers gripped into her arms. She was fairly sure he was bruising her.

“You know, we thought it was a lie you were alive at all.” It was the man’s voice again. Aldrik still hadn’t moved. “Our leader brewed the poison that was on the dagger. One prick should’ve killed a large Noru Cat, and I hear you had the whole damn thing in your side.”

Aldrik’s breathing had become heavy. Vhalla was confused about the mention of a dagger.

“Then again, we also hoped that if the poison failed to kill you, the shame of one of your dear sweet brother’s men stabbing you in the back would be enough.”

Aldrik stood, and she swayed without his support. Yes, Vhalla thought weakly, go. She propped herself up with her uninjured arm and turned to sit on rubble so she could face her attackers. Unfortunately, Aldrik hadn’t run. He stood, fire surrounding his fists again.

One of the women laughed. “He’s still injured. Look, that pathetic little spark is likely all he can muster.” This woman was holding a bow, and Vhalla hoped she could keep her eyes open long enough to watch the woman’s face be burnt off. “Come, let us end this now.” She notched an arrow on her bowstring.

The man held his sword with both hands and the other woman followed suit. Aldrik took a few steps toward them, and Vhalla’s stomach twisted in agony. He wasn’t going to run. The three advanced slowly.

“Careful, he may be a beast with clipped claws, but he’s still a beast,” the man warned.

“If he’s still a beast, can we shave him when we’re done and wear his skin as a pelt?” Nasal voice asked.

“I’d rather hang it off my bow and wave it like a flag,” the archer chimed, glancing at her comrades.

That was all it took, and Aldrik seized his opportunity. He charged and grabbed at her bow, immediately setting flame to both the hand and the weapon. The man was upon him quickly, however, and Aldrik was forced to relinquish his hold in order to dodge. He moved his fingers through the air, creating a curtain of flame; the man’s momentum caused him to step into it. The swordswoman dashed around and lunged from the side. Aldrik twisted his body and brought his elbow down hard on the back of her neck, sending her reeling. In a horrible way, he was like a song of death and flame.

“You bastard,” the man groaned as he found his footing again, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Aldrik stepped back, but into the archer’s blow as she snapped the remains of her weapon across the back of his head. Aldrik gave a cry, falling to his knees. Vhalla felt her heart stop.

The man advanced on him with a satisfied grin, prepared to deal his fatal blow. Aldrik stuck out his hand and grabbed the man’s ankle; flames burned up the side of the man’s body and not even the paint could protect his skin. Aldrik rolled out of the way of the crash of the swordswoman’s attack and gained his footing again. Vhalla could see he was already winded, his posture hunched slightly.

The archer charged. Aldrik dodged easily and responded with a punch to her gut, but there was no more flame. The swordswoman spun, Aldrik dropped to a knee and held out his hand before crying out in anguish, his hand on his hip where she had seen a dark spot on his magic months ago.

The man chuckled darkly. Vhalla looked upon the Northerner in horror. Half of his clothes had been burnt off, large chunks of flesh with it. He looked like a corpse returned to life.

“See...” he heaved roughly. “His magic fails him.”

Aldrik glared up at the Northerners. His hair had fallen out of place wildly and it clung to his sweat-drenched face. His features were twisted in pain, but he was still proud and defiant. The crown prince’s hands clutched his hip as he looked up the sword at his throat.

“This is how a prince dies,” the man snickered and drew back his sword.

Vhalla opened her mouth to cry out.

“Wait!” The bow woman said, throwing off her mask. “I have a better idea.” She wore a wicked grin.

“Let’s just kill him and be done with it,” the nasal woman breathed, still catching her breath.

“Death is no fun without pain,” the archer said darkly.

“I will not scream.” Aldrik chuckled. “Whatever you do, I will not scream or beg, so it will be very boring.”

Vhalla studied the prince. His posture was relaxed and his voice calm, there was something almost inviting in its deep tones. As much as she wanted to believe he was bluffing, the tiny smirk told her otherwise. She hurt, and not from the arrow protruding from her. He had come to terms with his own death, and Aldrik was prepared to meet it at this moment. Her breath hitched in her throat.

“I didn’t say I was going to make you scream.” The bow woman turned and looked at Vhalla.

Vhalla straightened as best she could, instinctively scooting away from her assailant, ignoring the stabbing pains in her wounded shoulder.

“I don’t doubt you, prince. I’m sure your pain threshold is very high. But there are many different kinds of pain, aren’t there?” The sadistic woman almost cooed, her emerald eyes gleaming. “I wonder if hers is as high.” With a cold smile the woman walked over to Vhalla.

Vhalla looked at Aldrik helplessly before staring up at the Northerner who was about to decide her fate.

Grabbing the shaft of the arrow sticking out of Vhalla’s shoulder, the woman pulled upward, dragging Vhalla to her feet. She shook with the pain and the effort of keeping in her screams. Vhalla didn’t want to die like this, and she didn’t want to give these people the satisfaction of her anguish. Still gripping the arrow, the woman pulled Vhalla along over to where Aldrik knelt. His eyes wore a tormented mix of fury and sorrow.

Vhalla’s foot caught on a piece of rubble and she tripped. The fall ripped the arrow, fletching and all, clean through her shoulder. Vhalla cried out as she rolled in pain among the debris and human flesh littering the ground. Aldrik attempted to jump to his feet, but the man pressed the sword against his throat.

“Down,” he grunted, like Aldrik was a dog.

“Come girl, we’re not done yet.” The woman grabbed her by the hair and pulled Vhalla over the rest of the way. She was dumped an arm’s length from Aldrik but it seemed like half the world as Vhalla stared at him blankly, shattering at the sorrow of his beautifully dark eyes.

Pulling Vhalla up into a seated position, the woman plucked an arrow from her quiver.

“Tell me, prince, what is it you like about her?” The archer’s voice was rough.

“I like nothing, really; she is little more than a cheap whore I found,” Aldrik forced out with a flat voice.

“Is that so? Very fine clothes for a cheap whore. Do you like her face?” The woman ran the point of the arrow down Vhalla’s cheek, leaving a dripping red line in its wake.

Vhalla winced softly, her lower lip trembling.

“Why soil your weapon with her blood?” Aldrik tried, attempting to glance away casually.

“She has a nice figure. What about her breasts?” Two more cuts were upon her body and Vhalla felt tears on her cheeks.

“Enough,” Aldrik said softly, his eyes were back on her.

“Enough? She’s not just a whore?” the woman sneered. “What about her legs? Want to see them?” The woman lifted the hem of his jacket and Vhalla’s tattered skirts with the arrow, making a deep incision along the way.

“Enough!” Aldrik cried.

Vhalla looked at him and saw the panic in his eyes. The woman had won. The Northerner knew it too as she let out a laugh and released Vhalla, the broken library girl falling to the ground.

Vhalla stared at the world lifelessly. She would be torture for Aldrik to watch her die. They would kill him next. His, Sareem’s, and Roan’s deaths would all be on her hands.

“Don’t kill him,” she whispered.

The woman’s laugh quieted and she leaned over Vhalla. “What was that, you little shit? I didn’t hear it,” she snarled.

“Don’t kill him,” Vhalla repeated. She never took her eyes of Aldrik. “Do what you will to me, but don’t kill him, please.” Vhalla struggled to sit.

The woman laughed again. “You are nothing,” she snarled. “You are less than nothing. You were only something because it was amusing to hurt you.”

“And now it is no longer amusing,” the man said, raising his sword.

“No,” Vhalla whispered.

Aldrik stared at her unmoving. He didn’t try to run or flee—he simply stared.

“This ends now!” The man brought his sword down over Aldrik’s head.

“No!” Vhalla screamed. In less than a second, the only sound that filled her ears was the wind of the man’s sword cutting the air.

VHALLA SHIFTED ON the cracked and uneven stone floor and cried out in pain. Her shoulder felt swollen and hot; simple movements were agonizing. She tried to prop herself up but she fell back to the floor with a dull thud. Dried blood and smoke were crusted around her eyes; trying to rub it off was pointless as her hands were coated as well.

The room was a simple square, and the air was heavy with the stench of excrement and bodies. One wall had a large portal with a great iron door made of interlocking bars fastened with a padlock larger than her fists. She saw the shoulder armor of two palace guards on either side.

“Hello?” Little more than a dry rasp escaped her throat.

The guards turned and looked through the bars. One had a large mole on his left cheek. The other had two front teeth that caused him to look like a rat.

“Oh, she’s awake,” mole man said. “Better go ring the bells.” Rat man scampered off.

“Where? Where am I?” Vhalla asked, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

“What does it look like? A prison cell.” The man picked his nose and flicked it at her.

“Why?” Vhalla’s head hurt and the warm pulsing of her shoulder didn’t help either.

“Oh, clever. I see you’re trying to play the innocent right away.” Mole man shook his head. “The Senate’ll see right through that.”

She sighed and placed her head back on the floor, closing her eyes. This man was frustrating, and not in the charming way that Aldrik managed. Aldrik, Vhalla opened her eyes as the night began to replay in her mind: Roan, Sareem, the woman, the arrow, Aldrik on his knees with a sword to his throat, the man raising his blade for the final blow. Then—nothing, she had no further memories.

“Sir, sir!” Mole man looked back at her with mild annoyance. “The crown prince.” She struggled to sit, Vhalla wanted to stand but she ended up mostly crawling to the bars, gripping them for support. Her whole body felt so exhausted it could barely move. “Prince Aldrik, he, where is he?”

“Why do you want to know? Going to make another attempt on his life?” The man looked at her queerly.

“What?” she exclaimed in shock. “No! I want to know if he is all right!”

“To my knowledge the prince is alive and well.”

Vhalla let out a large sigh and rested her forehead against a bar. It was cool on her flushed skin. Aldrik was alive and safe. She must have passed out, and he overpowered them somehow.

“Thank the Mother,” Vhalla breathed before a choked strangle escaped at the memory of her friends who had not made it. Her moment was interrupted by the clip of two pairs of boots down the hallway.

“Yes, she just woke.” It was rat man from earlier. She tried to listen carefully to hear the other set of footsteps. They fell heavy. It wasn’t her prince. Aldrik would come soon. He’d sort this out and she’d be on her way. Vhalla looked up as the men stopped before her cell. Anyone, she would take anyone over the man who stood before her.

Egmun grinned gleefully down at her, and her blood curdled. He wore his golden senatorial chain over a blue robe.

“Well, I can’t say I am entirely surprised to meet you here.” He picked lint off his sleeve nonchalantly. Vhalla stared at him blankly. “It was only a matter of time.” Losing interest in his clothing, he approached the door of her cage, his words as slow and deliberate as his movements.

“You common folk are attracted to the glamor of noble life like—like a moth to a flame,” he said with a wicked smile. “So sad you often fly too close and simply burn away.”

Vhalla couldn’t keep her face from dropping into a frown as he spoke. She was growing to detest everything about this man, and every time he opened his mouth, he succeeded in reminding her why. He was smart, and she quickly realized that it made him dangerous.

“What do you want with me?” she asked, attempting to force her voice to stay as level as possible, to not betray any fear or panic.

“Oh, it’s nothing I want with you. I honestly just want you to crawl back under the rock you came from and never come out again. But, well, you made that difficult for yourself when you attacked the crown prince.” He put his hands in the air before dropping them. “Now, we will need to see you properly punished for your transgressions.”

“What?” Vhalla’s voice rose sharply. “I didn’t—”

“Denials?” the senator hissed. “You must sing a different song before the trial.”

“But I didn’t do anything.” Vhalla repeated.

“Guards,” Egmun sighed. “I think our prisoner may need her memory jarred.”

Rat and Mole exchanged a look Vhalla had a difficult time reading before they started for the cell door. The moment the door opened and the two armored men entered Vhalla knew it hadn’t been a good look. Vhalla put as much distance between her and the men as the cell would allow, ignoring the screaming pain in her shoulder.

These men were there to protect her. But they stared down at her with the same look of contempt the Northerners had.

“Don’t...” Vhalla whimpered out of instinct.

“Denials still?” the senator hummed, leaning against the wall beyond.

Mole heard a command that Vhalla hadn’t in Egmun’s voice and his fist was in her hair. She cried out in agony, grabbing at his tense wrists as he practically lifted her off the floor. The man threw her against the wall and the back of her head cracked loudly.

She slumped, blinking away stars in a blurry daze. Mole was on her again before she had time to decide which of the four of him was real. His boot connected with her stomach, again and again. She tried to lift her hand to blow them away with magic, but no sorcery crackled beneath her fingertips. There wasn’t even time to panic as Mole stomped upon the appendage, the bones crunching. Vhalla didn’t feel the next strike to her ribs; she could only feel the dirt and gravel covering the floor pressed against her cheek.

“Do you remember now?” Egmun called.

“Why?” she wheezed. Why were they doing this?

Rat picked her up by the front of her dress. The sound of the seams exploding as he pommeled a fist into her face were louder than her screams or cries for help. The garment could only endure two strikes before tearing and Vhalla fell onto the floor in an undignified heap wearing nothing but her underclothes.

Her consciousness was smaller than a pin by the time their beating ended. She existed in such a tiny portion of her mind that the outside world was only tangible through echoes. Yet, somehow, their cruel words still made it to her fracturing psyche.

“That’s sufficient, I should think. Unfortunately we cannot take the Empire’s justice.” Egmun walked to the entrance of the cell. “Remember this. For I will. This is how I will always see you, worthless trash.”

She blinked up at him, unmoving, unflinching. Hatred had always been described in her books like fire, a hot and uncontrollable inferno. This hatred felt like ice. It numbed her empathy and sharpened her resolve to survive at any and all costs if for no other reason than to spite him.

Egmun took a slow breath; as though he could feel the daggers she was mentally flaying him with. “Now get dressed.” He tossed a burlap sack atop her and left the cell.

Vhalla’s limbs barely heeded her demands for movement and sitting was agony. Phantom pains from her fall seeped from fractured bones and torn tissues. The sack she had been bestowed had some slits cut into it for her arms and head and Vhalla crawled into it with as much dignity as she could muster.

She had endured worse. The once library apprentice struggled to her feet. She had survived a fall from the palace spires and warriors from the North. Her limbs trembled with pain and fear as Vhalla reminded herself of those facts and faced the three men.

Mole grabbed her and yanked her forward. Vhalla stumbled and cried, instantly hating herself for it. She hated them and she hated her treacherous body for feeling the pain caused by them. His hand dug into her shoulder, and she felt a drip trail down her back. Rat retrieved shackles and bound her hands and feet together. The last fastenings to her sanity were snapping, and they sounded like a raspy laugh.

“As if I can run.” She smiled madly at Egmun.

This sudden emotional contrast almost seemed to shake his perfect poise. He adjusted his robes and said nothing before starting down the hall. Rat and Mole practically carried her as they held her up with each arm.

It was after a short flight of stairs upward when Egmun left them. They walked the rest of the way in silence. A numbing chill crept from her extremities inward. Sareem was dead. The blood dripping from her skull reminded Vhalla of his shattered face. Roan likely was too. The prince had somehow lived, but Vhalla expected him to blame her—rightfully—for everything he shouldn’t have had to endure. The pendulum of her emotions swung far into guilt. It was her fault. All of this was her fault. She was suddenly laughing again.

Why was losing her whole life so funny?

“Shut up,” Rat hissed, slapping her across the face.

Her craze left her, and she hung limply. Blood dripped down her chin, adding to the trail she left on the stairs they were ascending. They opened a door, and threw her into a brightly lit room. She hit the floor with an ungraceful clank of chains, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light.

She had been thrown into a square cage welded into the wall behind her on all sides. Rat and Mole assumed guard duty to the left and right of the door. There was no other visible entrance into this section of the room, her temporary prison.

To her far left was a different door and empty seating. To the right stared thirteen people, Egmun at their center. The senators had been lined up neatly in two rows. Before them on the floor in the center of the room was a dais made of a golden sun. Across was a raised area with three seats—no, not seats: thrones.

In the smallest throne to the Emperor’s left sat Prince Baldair; it was the first time she’d ever seen him without a smile. In the middle sat the Emperor, his expression unreadable. On his right, was a face she knew well. Vhalla choked back a sob of relief at seeing Aldrik alive. She shut her eyes before she could see whatever was written on his features. She didn’t want him here; she didn’t want him to see her like this. She who had killed her friends and endangered his life didn’t deserve his gaze, even if it held justified anger.

The Emperor raised a large staff and brought it down onto the floor three times. The sound of metal on stone echoed through the silent hall.

“I, Emperor Solaris, on behalf of the Mother, call this special trial to order. Senate Head Elect?”

Egmun stood, and Vhalla kept herself from screaming the worst obscenities she could imagine.

“Vhalla Yarl, we the Senate have charged you with recklessness, endangerment of your fellow citizens, public destruction, impersonating nobility, heresy, murder, and treason in an attempt on the life of the Crown Prince Aldrik.”

Vhalla opened her eyes weakly and dared to find the man whom she was said to have attempted to kill. Aldrik sat unmoving; he may as well have been carved from stone.

“How do you cry?”

Vhalla’s world slowed as she waited for the prince to make a movement. She wanted him to stand, to smile, to tell Egmun he was wrong. But Aldrik did nothing.

Vhalla thought about the idea of pleading guilty. They would kill her and this would all end. All the pain that her body and mind were steeped in would be gone. There would be no more choices, no more princes, and no more senators. If she was lucky, they would make this temporary prison her tomb, striking her down before she returned to the cell with Rat and Mole. Vhalla closed her eyes with a sigh, taking a ragged breath.

“Vhalla Yarl, how do you cry?” Egmun repeated.

No, Vhalla sat straighter, pulling her shoulders back despite the pain of the irons around her wrists. If she was to be judged, then let her be judged by the ones who she had wronged. Aldrik’s eyes glittered with a barely contained inferno. She would endure his judgment, and Roan’s, and someday Sareem’s. Vhalla may have been a sheltered library girl and she may be a yet-realized sorcerer, but she would not allow Egmun—or anyone—to turn her into a coward.

“Not guilty.” Her voice was raw. Vhalla turned to Egmun and his mouth twisted in annoyance. “Senators, I cry not guilty.”