As the king cleared the circle, the other figures turned, all together. Slowly, each move to the beat.
Thump, thump, tha-da-dump.
The king stopped opposite Nik, on the other side of the podium. The drum halted, silence falling like a blanket of ice, slick and deadly.
Then a rustle of fabric as the king removed his hood and the twelve around him did the same.
Men. Women. All beautiful. All young of face, though the eyes boring into him struck him as far older than their features would indicate.
The High Council of the Blessed—so of course their faces looked young, ageless. They had each won their spots through the Proving, demonstrating the strength of their magic. He’d watched the recordings of past exhibitions in school, along withall the other children. Wondered at their power. At how it had ever come to be.
But no Kyrja. Where was Kyrja? His throat went tight, even as resignation filled his soul. She was his only hope of justice—and of course, that’s why they’d cut her out. The proceedings wouldn’t be legal without her presence, but he’d be dead and not there to cry out for justice.
Another flame to light under her though. That was a misstep on her father’s part.
“Nikanor Tristansson,” the king intoned, his voice pitched lower than when Nik had heard it before. “You stand accused of association with a terror-maker. How do you plead?”
Toassociation? Howcouldhe plead?
The door wrenched open again—apparently more shocking to everyone else than to him. They all spun, those whose backs were now to it, even the king.
Kyrja stormed in, fury in every line as she slammed the door shut behind her. “It seems both the king and the High Council have forgotten that you still require the Heir to stand beside you at these proceedings, Fodur. My apologies for being late to the trial that I was informed would take place four hours from now.”
One of the gray-clad Council members nearest the door held out an arm to keep her from entering the circle. “You may not join the proceedings without the proper attire, Princess.”
Nik was rather glad he wasn’t the recipient of the look she sliced the woman’s way. He was a bit surprised the Blessed didn’t fall to the ground, cut to ribbons.
“Attire, you say? Well then.” Kyrja waved a hand over her gown—a silvery-purple today—and as he watched, frost covered the fabric, grew, thickened, until the dress was a robe as white and sparkling as the one her father wore.
Given the indrawn breaths he heard, it wasn’t a trick they usually played.
Kyrja tapped a finger to the gray-sleeved arm. “I suggest you move this, Ulna, before I freeze it solid and snap it off. I’m in no mood for your drama.”
The king’s shoulders stiffened. “You would befoul the Council chambers with threats?”
In the rubble that first day, when her father spoke, the princess had all but cowered. Now she turned the same ice-sharp gaze on the king, which earned another round of muted gasps from the members who could see it. “I would ‘befoul’ the chambers with something they have clearly not seen in many years—actual justice, aligned with truth. If it requires threats to make room for that, then so be it.” She stomped to the right of her father and cast that fearsome gaze over the circle.
Nik barely kept from smiling. This was the Kyrja he’d tried to draw out, day after day in his cell. One who was willing to fight for what was right, shake free of the shackles her father clearly tried to keep on her. One willing to make a few waves—and not wait centuries for her father to die before doing so.
Her voice rang with authority. “According to the Fjordic Articles, if the reigning monarch has an heir over the age of majority, designated as one and twenty in our land, then it is said official Heir who must call to order any trial held by the High Council, and said Heir who must stand witness to the decisions of the Council and king, otherwise any rulings are invalid. This role my brother performed no fewer than seventy-four times since he came of age, so it is clearly not a rule so ancient as to have been forgotten. But perhaps all the Council has not kept up with my Blessing Day celebrations, when we marked both my age and the years since I was Awakened.” She narrowed her eyes at a few of them, gaze halting on a man at Nik’s left. “Stellan—you were at my last celebration, a year ago now. How many snowballs were thrown? I believe you had thehonor of lobbing the last of them at my head, and if I recall, you shouted the number as forcefully as you sent your missile.”
Stellan visibly swallowed. “Four and thirty, Highness. I believe today marks five and thirty.”
Today?Todaywas her birthday? Nik’s throat went tight. A princess’s thirty-fifth birthday Blessing Day should have been marked with a ball. A celebration so grand they’d have heard of it even in Harroby, when the next news crystals arrived. All the women would ooh and aah over the gowns, the men over the magical demonstrations.
Instead, she was here. Defending him, pitting herself against both her father and the High Council.
Kyrja tapped a finger to her chin as if in thought. “Quite right. Now, mathematics was never my forte, I confess, but I do believe thirty-five is older than twenty-one.” She spun back to her father. “Unless you’ve reordered the cardinal numbers too? Fodur?”
Surely everyone in the room saw the disdain in the tilt of the king’s head as clearly as Nik did. “The princess has had innumerable burdens thrust on her untested shoulders in the last month. The Council and king agreed it was asking too much, to expect her to shoulder this as well.”
The princess didn’t seem to like being spoken about in third person—Nik could understand that. But after the hours she’d put into learning first from him and then from the library, when he sent her in search of books, she was clearly furious at them for trying to cut her out of these proceedings.
She lifted her chin and stared her father straight in the eyes. “Such care for my shoulders! I thank you all for your concern. But I assure you, you are not asking anything. I will serve my people with a glad heart. Starting with this one.” She spun on her heel, faced Nik fully for the first time.
Her anger didn’t fade, nor her intensity dim. But when her eyes met his, he saw the warmth beneath the ice. The heart for what a royal should desire—Justice. Truth. Service. “Whatever words have been spoken until now must be struck from the record. Scribe?”
From behind, a sullen voice said, “So stricken.”
