The Twinblades of house Harroway dragged Holt through Sidastra. Ash prowled behind, growling low. More crossbowmen and spearmen had met them in the west quarter to act as escorts and keep Ash in check.
Much of the city passed in a daze, both because Holt’s head still rang from Eadwald’s empowered fist and from the dizzying link between the Wyrm Cloaks in the woods and men under Harroway’s command.
Eadwald had drunk dragon blood.
It confirmed Brode’s fears that someone high up in the Feorlen military had supplied the cultists. But to adopt their vile tactics in turn? This anti- rider cabal had delved to a sickening low.
They dragged him all the way to the palace.
“The dragon stays outside,” Eadwulf instructed the guards. “Take him round the back to the other one,” said Eadwald. Ash bellowed.
“Be good,” Holt told him.
“I won’t leave you.”
The Twinblades were already hauling Holt off again.
“Stick with Pyra,” Holt said. “Keep yourself safe.”
“They’ll be sorry if they try pointing those sharp little trees at her,” Ash said.
“Talia will sort things out,” Holt said. “Don’t worry.” “We were just trying to help… tell them that.”
Holt said nothing. Poor Ash didn’t quite understand how this worked.
Ash stamped through one of the hedgerows and then Holt lost sight of him as he passed through the palace gates. He entered a cool stone hall with tall columns on either side. The place was packed with well-dressed nobles, ealdors perhaps or their envoys at court, stewards, coteries like Nibo, and countless soldiers, many standing in the wings while others sat or stood in the galleries. At the far end towered a tiered series of high-backed chairs, leading up to the throne.
Osric sat upon the throne, looming over everyone.
The Twinblades walked Holt out onto the floor as though it were a stage and he the leading player.
“Kneel before your king,” the Twinblades said together.
Holt got down on both knees as a murmuring rose from the onlookers.
He looked at Osric, wondering when this would start, wondering why he had allowed Harroway and his thugs to treat him like this.
“Little one,” Pyra spoke to him. “There is more danger here than we realized. Talia is coming but her allies in the palace are few – she will unmask her uncle but be ready to fight.”
Her uncle? The traitor? Fight?
His mind reeled from the news, but he wrestled himself back into a state of calm, mastering his breath. His ear still smarted from where Eadwald had struck him but otherwise he was unharmed. Fearing the fight would come soon, he checked to make sure he could still pull on magic from Ash’s core. He had never tried this far apart.
His bond beat as firm as ever, but the core appeared distant. Its light just out of reach. That might be a problem. Without magic, he would have to rely on his strength and skill. Strength he had, but he would be the first to admit he lacked skill with a sword, and he imagined the Twinblades were named so for good reason.
Behind the throne, a large portion of the wall was ornate stained glass.
He focused and sent a mental image of it across the bond to Ash.
“If you need to break in…”
A middle-aged man crossed the floor to meet Holt. Dressed for battle, his plate suit fitted over a round belly, complete with the same blue hawk tabard that Eadwulf and Eadwald wore. The tabard of house Harroway. The man’s eyebrows and mustache were so thick that it looked like three hairy caterpillars clung to his face.
The Twinblades inclined their heads to him.
So, Holt thought. This is Ealdor Harroway.
Considering how long they had pictured him as the mastermind of events, Holt was disappointed. For one of the most powerful men in Feorlen – and currently the Master of War – he wasn’t imposing. He had nothing on the otherworldliness of Silas Silverstrike nor the stature of Osric Agravain.
Without rising from his chair, Osric made a gesture for the hall to quieten.
Nothing further happened. Where was Talia? He found he didn’t want to wait. They would expect him to be silent and cowed as one who had breached rank so severely should be when caught. He wouldn’t give them that.
“Am I to know the meaning of this?” Holt asked, his voice ringing through the throne room.
“The court has been summoned to discuss the impending attack upon this city,” Osric said.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The court broke out in fierce whispering at that.
Osric rapped his fingers on the arm of his throne three times. “We can begin early if that is your wish?”
As though waiting for this cue, the doors to the hall were shut and heavy bolts slammed into place.
“Begin,” Osric commanded.
Lord Harroway cleared his throat and, to Holt’s astonishment, wiped his glistening brow. “Your majesty, are you sure now is the best time for this? The swarm will be upon us soon after all and a dragon rider – however the boy has become one – would be invalu—”
“Is the hair in your ears as thick as your brow?” Osric said. “I said begin.”
Harroway swallowed his words. “Yes, your majesty.” His mustache twitched and he wiped his face again. “I call upon the Steward of Names to bring forth the census records.”
A surprisingly young, pockmarked man bustled out, nearly tripping over his robes in his haste. He carried the largest book Holt had ever seen.
“Ealdors of Feorlen,” Harroway continued, “eminent members of Sidastra, before you kneels a young man who claims himself to be a rider. He is a fraud.”
A great deal of muttering followed these words. People stood up from their seats to get a better look at him.
“I am bonded to a dragon,” Holt said.
Another blow to the back of his head, this one barely hurt. At least the buff from the dragon’s blood had worn off Eadwald.
“His name is Ash,” Holt said. “And he’s right outside. You can all come to meet him.”
This time, Holt was ready for the strike. He bent back to dodge the blow and, rather than hitting him, the brother’s momentum carried him forward to stumble. Holt righted himself, focusing on his breathing, not giving them the satisfaction of seeing him beg nor even bristle against the injustice.
“I am a dragon rider.”
He was also playing for time. Reaching out to Ash he asked, “Where is Talia?”
Harroway took the book from the young Steward and opened it at the marked page. “Your name is Holt Cook. You were born at the Crag just over sixteen summers ago. Your father was a Cook.”
Holt’s insides turned to ice. It was all he could do to fight back fresh tears. The wound was still too fresh.
“Your grandfather was a Cook,” Harroway continued. “Thus, you have acquired the powers of the noble Order through theft and fraud, preventing a trueborn son or daughter of the deserved ealdors from taking their rightful place in defense of our country.”
“Do I get a chance to speak?”
“You fully admitted your name and rank to the king himself,” Harroway said. “Do you deny it?”
“No,” Holt said.
“You admitted to his majesty that you did not swear an oath to the Order?”
“Not yet, but—”
“Then you are—” Harroway raised his voice even louder. “—hereby charged with breach of role and for instigating chaos during an incursion.”
The audience began shouting then. What they shouted at him and to each other was incoherent noise. Holt ignored Harroway and stared dumbfounded at Osric.
Punishment for the latter charge was death.
“Given the unique circumstances,” Harroway called, “the usual sentencing cannot be dispensed. You are neither fully under the jurisdiction of the king nor the Order. You will be held prisoner until such time as members of the Order arrive to advise upon the matter. But henceforth, Holt Cook, you are stripped of name and role, and are banished from Feorlen.”
The impact of this didn’t fully register. Holt wondered whether he was in shock or whether he simply did not care. Let Osric and Harroway have their show. Once Talia ousted them it would not matter.
Yet now the baying of the nobles became focused and clear. They cheered the decision, jeered at him, called him a chaos bringer and scourge friend. They didn’t know what he’d been doing out on the quarantine isle. And they did not want to know.
Let them strip him of his name and send him away. He had lost everything else.
Booming cut over the crowd. Before the guards could react, a door to the far right of the throne broke open. At the head of the group pouring in, her sword drawn, fire blazing on the steel and in her eyes, was Talia. Behind her came knights and other soldiers of the family household Osric had not yet had the time to replace. Compared to the number of troops and Harroway’s men in the throne room they were outnumbered, but a dragon rider in full fury counted for a lot.
“This sham ends here,” she cried, and Holt thought he heard a trace of Pyra in her speech. She was angrier than he’d ever seen her.
“Not now,” Osric said.
Talia’s arm shook as she pointed her blade up to him. “Get down off that throne, uncle. You’re not fit to sit on it.”
For the first time in the proceedings, Osric sat up straight and took notice.
“I am unfit?” he called, with all the authority of a man who’d never lost a battle. “Why? Because I wouldn’t entertain your fanciful notions about a trusted ealdor of the realm? Settle, niece.”
“You are unfit,” Talia carried on, her voice shaking with rage. “You are unfit because you are a traitor. And not just to your family and the kingdom but to all of us – all of the living too if I’m right.”
Dead silence met her words. Holt tried desperately to catch Talia’s eye, but she didn’t take her gaze off her uncle.
At length, Osric rallied. “The former princess is clearly stricken with grief for her brother. Forgive her outbursts.”
“Don’t you dare,” Talia screamed. “Don’t you dare mention them – murderer!”
“This is most irregular,” Harroway declared. “Princess, please consider who you’re talking to.”
Talia rounded on the fat ealdor and, for a split second, Holt thought she might leap across the room and gut him. Then she returned to Osric.
“Tell your lapdog to be quiet or I’ll cut out his tongue. Get down from the throne, uncle. I won’t ask you again.”
“I believe she means it, Ealdor Harroway,” Osric said. “Fine then, let’s have it out. Tell the court of your theories and let them decide. I tried to warn you.”
Talia did not lower her weapon, but she did turn to address the hall. “The crimes of my uncle are long. I believe he poisoned my brother,
that he consorts with Wyrm Cloaks, that he is in league with the traitorous rider Silas Silverstrike and so, worst of all, the very scourge which threaten this land.”
“Nonsense!” someone barked from the stands. “Base lunacy!”
“Really, Princess,” Harroway said. “What wild tales are these?”
“But you, Ealdor Harroway,” Talia said, walking dangerously toward him. “You are part of this, aren’t you? I admit I cannot see what you have to gain from it. Yet we can cut to the heart of it all right now. Why, Ealdor Harroway, as Master of War, did you order the western garrisons not to march to Sidastra in our time of need?”
That quieted the court.
“Not march?” Harroway boomed. “Of course, I did!”
“Then where are they?” Talia spoke to the galleries again. “Why is it that almost a quarter of our forces have not come to join the city’s defense?”
“They have been waylaid,” Harroway spluttered. “Attacked or slowed on the road. Or so our last intelligence reports—”
“Don’t lie,” Talia said. “The Knight Commander of Fort Kennet himself told me of your troubling orders. Tell the truth or it shall be revealed by one of the commanders once the swarm is defeated.”
“Prince…Lord Ride… Talia,” Harroway blustered. “I would never… why would I do such a thing?”
Talia twitched. She lowered her sword by a fraction
“Believe me,” Harroway said. “Why would I seek to weaken my own home?”
And Holt believed him. It was too good a performance otherwise.
Harroway had not sent those orders.
Some of the fire in Talia’s eyes burned out. “You… you didn’t know?” Harroway shook his head.
She rounded again on her uncle.
“There is no proof to these wild claims,” Osric said. “I fear my niece is suffering from the same delusions her brother succumbed to.”
“My brother was not mad!”
“You are testing the patience of this court,” Osric said. “As a dragon rider your input and service will be valued in the coming days, but you parade your magic and your temper in this throne room as though you have a right to it. You sacrificed that right years ago. You swore away your family and your title. As far as this court is concerned you have no right to speak unless I grant it. I take it away.”
Holt thought him to be remarkably calm himself under the circumstances. If Talia really did lose it, he’d be dead within seconds, no matter how many guards he had. Yet he goaded and pushed her as though he had all the power.
Talia did the last thing Holt expected. She started to laugh.
“Oh, uncle, you think this will go away just by silencing me? You think you can convince everyone because there is no proof?” She produced, as though from thin air, a small sphere of purple glass.
A ghost orb! Leofric did leave her something after all. Talia held it high and the court drew a collective breath. For the first time, Osric stiffened. “What is that?”
“This?” Talia said, her voice high as she struggled to keep herself under control. “This ghost orb contains the last memories left to me by my father. Your brother, who you betrayed.”
Harroway bustled over to her. “Tali—Honored Rider, are you certain?” “I am. You were there as well, were you not, Ealdor?”
Harroway blustered incoherently, his jowls quivering as he sought words.
“We all know the events of last year’s war, don’t we?” Talia said to the court at large. “What happened at the Battle of the Toll Pass. My uncle won that battle, and so it is his version we hear. That he hastened to help my father, arrived too late to prevent the Risalians taking the fortress but descended with brotherly fury into the valley, vanquishing their tired hosts to avenge our king.”
Osric flicked a hand in some command and the guards at the base of the tiered chairs readied themselves. Holt felt the Twinblades shift beside him. They looked to Harroway, but the Master of War stayed them. The soldiers who had entered with Talia gripped their own hilts, lifted shields and tightened ranks.
“The truth is my uncle conspired with the Risalians before he betrayed them in turn. In one move he stole both crown and victory for himself.”
“Seize her,” Osric cried. Too few guards advanced to make a difference. “Let them see!” Talia screamed and she smashed the ghost orb upon the
floor.
Up from the fragments of glass rose more smoke than should have fit inside it. It spun itself out into a room’s worth of people, their voices echoing within the hall.
Everyone was gripped by the memory weaving before them, but Holt kept an eye on the soldiers and the Twinblades. If anyone started a fight, he would spring up in an instant.
The smokey scene flattened then rose anew to show a raging battle and many banners upon a distant ridge. Mutterings around the hall rose into shocked gasps. The banners meant little to Holt although he guessed the one with the two axes on it belonged to Osric.
Harroway spoke up as the scene played out. “We understood it that the king had not sent up the signal.” He pointed at Osric. “What was the meaning of meeting with the Risalians?”
Osric said nothing. He had become unnaturally still.
Below him, upon the tiered seats, the Stewards and other nobles of high office began to clamber down. The soldiers wearing the Harroway colors began to close in toward their ealdor. Those guarding the throne moved away to join Talia’s men.
Holt let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps no fight would come after all. The smoke faded. King Godric Agravain’s last words died with it. “Come down, uncle,” Talia said. “It’s over.”
