“Yisari’s right,” Horeth said with an imperious nod, his gaze spearing Jaren. “We’ve all read Naari Arell’s reports, so we know Eidran Ridley volunteered to insinuate himself inside the prison for Tilda’s arrival. We also know his ill-timed accident meant the plan should have been abandoned. What we don’t know is why it wasn’t — and why you, the heir to our kingdom, decided to risk your life by going into a hostile environment completely unprepared. For everworld’s sake, look at your hand! You’ll have that scar forever, and gods know how many others from your time in there.”
Horeth had clearly never seen Jaren without his shirt on, or he’d know that a few new scars were the least of the prince’s concerns. Even so, Kiva had to repress the shame she felt, since she was the one who had carved the Z into Jaren’s hand. She wondered if Naari’s reports had included that particular detail.
All eyes turned to the prince, but he only leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Eidran’s doing better, thanks for asking,” he said pointedly. “His leg was damaged worse than we thought, so it’s taking some time to heal, but he’s staying with his family in Albree and they’re helping with his rehabilitation. I’ll be sure to pass along your regards.”
Silence fell after Jaren’s dry statement, and Kiva’s lips curled up at the edges. This was a side of him she’d never seen before — princely, almost insolent.
“Perhaps we should move on,” murmured the silver-circlet-wearing man, his head bald and skin milky white. “As we can all see, Prince Deverick is safely returned to us. Indeed, we were unaware he was even in Zalindov until after his escape. There’s no point in dwelling on what has passed.”
“Wise words, Feldor, as always,” said the second councilwoman. She too was pale, though her visible skin was dusted with freckles and lined with age, her auburn hair streaked liberally with silver.
“Fine,” Grand Master Horeth said, his features pinched with displeasure. “If we’re not going to address His Highness’s careless actions, then let’s discuss his thoughtless decision in bringing not one, but two escaped criminals back to Vallenia with him — and right to the palace, no less.”
Apprehension filled Kiva’s body, but not because of Horeth’s new line of discussion. It was the stormy look on Jaren’s face that made her cramped muscles unconsciously tense.
“Tread carefully with what you say next, Grand Master,” Jaren warned, his voice cold. He leaned forward, his eyes like shards of ice. “One of those criminals you’re talking about is a young boy whose only crime was to love his mother too much —”
“His mother was a thief —”
“— and the other criminal, as you call her,” Jaren continued over Horeth, a muscle fluttering in his jaw, “was barely seven years old when she arrived at Zalindov. I don’t care what you say — there’s something fundamentally wrong with our laws when children can be sent to a death prison.”
“But she —”
“Let’s also remember that Kiva earned her freedom by triumphing over the Trial by Ordeal. If not for the riot, she would have been set free.”
“We all know you helped her survive the Ord —”
“And ignoring all of that,” Jaren said, refusing to let the Grand Master get a word in edgewise, “she spent every waking moment at Zalindov helping the other prisoners, often at great personal sacrifice. In my mind, that makes her a hero. Try to remember that the next time you think I’ll sit back and smile as you call her a criminal.”
Cheeks red and eyes blazing from having been interrupted so many times, Horeth spat, “Her father was suspected of —”
“I know all about her father.”
With just six words from Jaren, the world fell out from beneath Kiva.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t look into her?” he asked the table, incredulous. “The first thing I did when we arrived at the winter palace was ask Caldon to hunt down her prison records. But of course he was already three steps ahead of me. He’d started investigating her the day they met, all the way back at the first Trial. He briefed me straightaway, sharing everything I needed to know.”
Kiva’s shock transformed into a cold, horrified numbness.
“Then you know —” Horeth tried, but Jaren continued to cut him off.
“What I know is that Faran Meridan’s alleged association with the rebels was exactly that — alleged.” The prince’s voice was as unyielding as his expression. “He was sentenced to Zalindov for suspected treason without proof of any crime on his part. Gods, the man spent his life saving people. And what did he get in return? A swift death, and the burden of leaving his daughter to suffer for a crime he may never have committed, all because she’d resisted his arrest.”