‘The saviour speaks,’ said James behind him, the words curdling in his mouth.
Will ignored him. ‘I didn’t bring him back here to be tortured. There must be another way.’
‘There is no other way,’ said the High Janissary. ‘James will not talk willingly, and Simon threatens us all. The horn was made to find the truth. If I am not to wield it, then it must be someone else.’
‘Let me,’ said Cyprian. ‘I’ll do it, for my brother.’
‘No.’ It was Justice who spoke, the words slower. ‘Will’s right. The Horn of Truth is not an instrument of revenge or cruelty. If this must be done, it should be a neutral party. Not someone who holds a grudge against him in their heart.’
‘No one in this Hall is neutral,’ Cyprian shot back. ‘Every Steward here has lost someone because of him. Have you forgotten Marcus? His life hangs in the balance.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Will.
He was already stepping forward. He didn’t know if he was doing it to protect James, or to protect the Stewards. Take the Horn of Truth and spear James with it: he couldn’t shake the feeling that if this was going to happen, it must be him.
James gave a soft, mocking laugh. ‘The boy hero,’ he said. On the dais, Violet was frowning, her eyes very dark and her hands fists. The High Janissary gestured to the horn.
Will’s heart was pounding. He had never stabbed anyone before. He had never really even hit anyone, unless you counted his failed attempts to escape Simon’s men on the ship. He approached the lacquered box where the horn lay and looked down at it. Longer than a man’s arm, it would be like holding a javelin. Against the black, cushioned velvet inside the box it glowed white, a bright spear to pierce the dark. The Steward who held the box stood impassive.
Will could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he reached in. Cartazon. The horn all seek and never find. He closed his two hands around it. Like a spark, it made him breathless, the thrum of it, the bright pulse moving through him as he took it up. A hero’s weapon, an instrument of purity like a righteous sword.
And then he looked at James.
There was something achingly similar about horn and boy. The impossible beauty, of course; the sense of a lost world to which they both belonged. And the desecration of that beauty: the sawn, stumped end of the horn; and James, with his face like a sigh, chained up and wearing modern clothes.
Easy to see why the Dark King had wanted him. No one could look at him and not want to possess him. Even in chains, James seemed to command the room.
Was he really going to do this? Hold James down and spear him with a horn?
‘Don’t puncture anything important,’ Will heard James say as he came forward, his voice mocking.
James knew Simon. James knew Simon’s plans. James was the key to all of this, and this was their chance to learn what he kept secret. Stab him with the horn, and he’ll be forced to tell the truth.
Subtly goading, James spread his legs and leaned back in his chair, challenging Will with his gaze. Will lifted the horn in the fist of his right hand. He aimed the tip over James’s left shoulder. It pressed slightly into the fabric of his jacket. Under that, he could feel the warmth of James’s waiting body. He put his left hand on James’s shoulder, bracing it.
Then he lifted the horn up and drove it in hard.
James made a sound, completely against his will, and their eyes met. The horn was inside his shoulder. It pinned him in place; it had not passed completely through.
‘Does it hurt?’ said Will.
‘Yes,’ said James through gritted teeth, and the furious look in his eyes was mixed with something else. Panic. Will realised with his heart thundering that James had just been compelled to speak the truth.
‘Where’s Marcus?’ said the High Janissary.
‘He’s—’ said James, obviously resisting. ‘He’s – He’s in—’
‘Push it in another inch,’ said the High Janissary.
Deeper. Will pushed it in, twisting it like a corkscrew. This time the sound that came out of James was raw. There was a change in James too, a compulsion under his skin that he was fighting, hard. Will could almost feel it, the bright horn that couldn’t abide falsehood, pushing everything else out of the way. It spread from the bloody point outward, utterly relentless as Will held the shaft steady.
‘Where’s Marcus?’ said the High Janissary.
It was forced out. ‘Simon has him. You knew that.’
‘Where?’