“There is a vacancy at my side,” the King said. “Fill it. Unless you, too, would like to submit to the Chalice.”
Elm stumbled forward. He positioned himself on the right side of the throne and tried not to think of the hundreds of times Hauth’s boots had scored the stones beneath his feet. He glanced over his father’s head at Ravyn, who stood entirely still.
Elm straightened his shoulders and pressed his lips together in a firm line. But his tolerance for stillness was less evolved than Ravyn’s. Even when he imagined himself perfectly still, his boot tapped. When he willed it to stop, his fingers twisted in his sleeve. When he bound them into fists, his head filled with the gnawing sound of his molars grinding together.
The King stared down at Ione. “I see Renelm did not put you in chains.”
Ione’s eyes flickered to Elm. “His methodology is dissimilar to your other son’s, Majesty.”
“Indeed.” The King looked out over the Destriers. “Shackle her.”
A Destrier next to Gorse stepped forward, a chain rattling in his hands. He took Ione’s wrists, first one, then the other, roughly locking the cuffs in place. When he let go, the weight of her iron restraints rounded Ione’s shoulders.
Elm’s stomach constricted.
A guard brought forth a tray, a crystal goblet filled with wine upon it.
Linden took the goblet in one hand. With the other, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a Chalice Card.
“Bring them in,” the King barked, making Elm jump.
The throne room door opened once more, the echoes of rattling chains abounding. Jespyr and three other Destriers stepped forward, bringing two men with them. One was tall with dark, graying hair and piercing blue eyes he refused to lower. The indefatigable Erik Spindle.
The other prisoner was shorter. His hair was thinning and his clothes ragged. There were bruises on his face and he walked with a limp. Tyrn Hawthorn did not look at his daughter, nor the King. His gaze remained low. Elm winced at the sight of him, Tyrn’s defeat—his sorrow and shame—wafting, fetid, through the throne room.
The Destriers planted Erik and Tyrn on either side of Ione and stood in a line behind them. Jespyr looked up at Elm from behind Erik’s back. Her face was drawn, her jaw strained. Still, she shot him a wink—a brief reassurance.
King Rowan’s voice cut through the room. “Elspeth Spindle is charged with high treason for carrying the infection.” The throne groaned, the King’s fingers white as he clung to the armrests. “Furthermore, she is charged with the slaying of Physician Orithe Willow and the attempted murder of my son, High Prince Hauth Rowan. Of these crimes, I have found her irrevocably guilty, and sentence her to death.” He let out a slow, venomous breath. “It is my intention, through this inquest, to learn how much I should attribute these crimes to you, her kin.”
Tyrn let out a low whimper, earning looks of disgust from the Destriers along the wall.
The King continued, his malice thinly veiled. “Tyrn Hawthorn, Erik Spindle, Ione Hawthorne. You have been summoned to Stone, charged with treason for aiding Elspeth Spindle. You committed this treason knowingly, and with full understanding of the law, which states that all infected children—for the safety of our kingdom—be reported to my Physicians.” The King shifted on the throne, his voice lowering. “You shall submit to an inquest, the depths of your crimes measured by myself, my Captain, your Prince, and the Destriers. When your wives and children are discovered, they shall do the same.” He tapped his Scythe three times. “Drink.”
Linden brought the crystal goblet forward. Tyrn Hawthorn resisted the Scythe’s magic, his hands shaking as he tried not to reach for the goblet. When he finally succumbed and drank, two Destriers had to shove his mouth shut to keep the wine from spilling out.
Linden flipped the sea-blue Chalice Card in his fingers, tapping it three times.
The goblet passed to Ione, who took its stem in both hands. She shut her eyes and raised it to her lips, strands of yellow hair falling from behind her ears, covering her face like a veil. She lowered the cup, a drop of wine lingering on her bottom lip. When she opened her eyes, her hazel gaze was sharp—focused.
And aimed directly at Elm.
There was no need for a Nightmare Card—Elm knew what she was thinking. I saved your life. Now it’s your turn to save mine.
Erik stared straight ahead and drank from the goblet, his features stony.
The King tapped his Scythe thrice more and stowed it away in his pocket. “Let us begin.” His green eyes shifted to Tyrn. “Have you always known of your niece’s infection?”
A low, ugly sob escaped Tyrn’s lips. “N-n-n…” He choked on the word, his tongue mangling on the lie. “N-n-n-n-n-n…”
The King nodded at a Destrier, who came forward and backhanded Tyrn across the face.
Tyrn groaned, blood sliding out the corners of his mouth. Still, he tried to best the Chalice and lie. “N-n-n-n-n…”
The Destrier slapped him again. When the truth seemed to strangle him entirely, Tyrn took a swelling breath, defeated. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The King’s gaze turned hateful when it landed on Erik. Of all the betrayals he’d endured thus far, it was clear he felt this one the keenest. His former Captain of the Destriers—hiding an infected daughter. “Did you know of her magic, Erik? This ability she has regarding Providence Cards?”
Erik stood like a soldier, shoulders square, legs firm. He did not try to lie. “No, sire.”
The King’s eyes jerked down the line. “And you, Miss Hawthorn? Did you know of her magic?”
Ione stared up at the throne. “No.”
“No, Your Majesty,” Linden echoed, sounding too much like Hauth.
“Asshole,” Elm muttered, loud enough to earn him a sharp look from Ravyn and a familiar murderous glare from his father.
The King returned his attention to Erik Spindle. “Hauth carried a Scythe and a Black Horse nearly everywhere he went. And Orithe Willow was no feeble-bodied fool. Did you train your daughter in combat?”
“No, sire.”
“Then how—” A line of white spit formed along the King’s bottom lip. “How was a girl of her stature able to best them?”
“Whatever skills Elspeth possessed,” Erik said, “I was never witness to them. I saw little of her.” He turned to the side, his blue eyes burning into Tyrn. “She lived with her uncle.”
The King’s wrath returned to Tyrn. “I understand your wife and sons were conveniently absent from both Spindle and Hawthorn House when my Destriers came to collect them. Where are they?”
Tyrn’s shoulders began to shake. “I don’t know, Your Grace.”
The King leaned back into his throne. “You don’t know,” he repeated. “Perhaps I do not need them. After all, your daughter is here, within my clutches.” He peered down at Ione. “You are terribly brazen, Miss Hawthorn, to continue to use the Maiden Card I gifted you.”
Ione said nothing.
The King folded his hands over his lap. “Where are your mother and brothers—your aunt and cousins?”
Ione kept her eyes forward, unflinching. “I don’t know, sire.”