“I believe in what I see.” The king sliced Nik’s finger with the stone blade, and this one made him wince—it was far duller than the metal. “And what I’ve seen is a rise in evil, greed, and disruption among the thanes.”
“Among us?” Nik jerked his hand away, though the blood had already welled, already spilled into the bowl—his previous drop having dispersed enough that he could barely even tell the water wasn’t pure.
The king kept his gaze on the bowl. After a moment, a cruel tilt to his lips said the impossible, even before he declared, “As I suspected. The true Blade gave me a hint, the second unmistakable confirmation. The Curse.”
“What?” Kyrja had been looking at Nik, silent encouragement in her gaze, but at that, she turned her attention to the bowl.
He was lying, he must be. And she would see it. Call it out. Just like she’d called out the injustice of this faux trial. As the Heir, she had to verify everything here in this room. She would refuse, and while Nik didn’t see how that would save him, it would at least mean he wouldn’t go to his death with a Curse proclaimed over him.
His palm itched. He rubbed it absently with the uncut fingers from his right hand, then halted. Looked down when heat seared his fingers.
His left palm was glowing, a bright ring rising to the surface. Nik stumbled back, as if he could escape his own hand, crashing into someone who stopped his senseless retreat. A Vektor, giventhe clang of the ceremonial spear and the rough hands that shoved him back to his position.
The king was still smirking. “Valkyrja, do you verify the Cursed mark on the felon’s palm?”
Nik lifted his eyes, met her gaze. Her face had washed pale, but it wasn’t horror in her eyes, like he expected. Like he knew filled his own. It was…apology? “I verify a mark on the accused’s palm.” The words were a whisper. “Much like the one on my own, but with flames within the rings instead of snowflakes.”
A rebellion, that rephrasing. But one that couldn’t possibly matter.
King Isidor seemed to grow before his eyes, shoulders edging back and chin lifting. “When the first emergence of the Curse was discovered, my father had to plumb the depths of our history to determine a punishment both fitting and commensurate to the crime against the Blessing. What he found, so shall we do. Nikanor Tristansson, you are hereby sentenced to Helviti’s mouth. May the flame be your judge and the lava your executor, if it finds you worthy of death. We wash our hands of you.”
“Our hands are clean,” the High Council said in unison.
Their voices sent a shudder through him, though it wasn’t cold, despite the snowflakes that burst into the air along with their words. If anything, he felt hot. Feverish. Sweat broke out on his forehead, the small of his back, and the stink of his dirty clothes assaulted his nose.
Maybe itwasa Curse, this flame spiraling through him. What else could it be?
But why? He had been an ardent student of the Words. He had sought the Giver in everything. He had advocated for peace and justice, had shared the truth with the future queen and…
Could the king possibly be right? Could Nik’s very desire for change be the sin for which he was being condemned by the Giver himself?
Hands grabbed, jostled, shoved him into motion, but he kept staring at his palm, too dazed to pay any attention to where they led him. The glow had faded, but it left behind a mark just like Kyrja had described. A white circle, white flames around it, another circle hemming them in. Flames that were feasting their way through him. Burning, burning, burning.
“Oh good. I arrived in time for the festivities.”
Whoever held him jerked him to a halt, the jolt of it jarring Nik’s gaze from his hand and upward. King Isidor must have been leading the way, because he was a step ahead of Nik. They were in a wide corridor that was clearly part of the palace, Kyrja on Nik’s one side and the guard on the other.
Before them stood a young woman so beautiful it hit like a punch to the chest. Her skin was a soft brown, darker than any Fjordic’s, that conjured images of warm beaches and abundant sunshine. Her hair was lighter than his own though, a middling brown with streaks of gold, hanging in curls and braids to her waist and blowing in a breeze that didn’t seem to make its way to him, though it would have been welcome against his scalding skin. Her eyes were a dark blue, a shade darker than the gauzy gown she wore, and which also fluttered gently in an imperceptible breeze.
The Vektor on his right jerked Nik down to a knee. Perhaps he would have protested, but Kyrja curtsied low as well, and even King Isidor bowed at the waist.
“Princess Perla.” The king’s voice dripped ice. “We did not expect you yourself to ever grace us with your presence.”
Nik had forgotten the emissary’s arrival that quickly. So then, not young.Old. Older than Isidor—and it explained the wind too. She had power over the air, as well as water.
Her dark brows were raised, her lips pursed. “You left us little choice, Isidor. You have sent home every hand-selected diplomat we’ve stationed here. When you found even my cousin lacking, the great-grandchild of my own dear Aunt Jade and Uncle Storm, whose mother came from the very courts of Queen Electra, what recourse did you leave us?”
“Your…cousin.” Though the king’s voice hadn’t changed, Nik could imagine regret in it. Or perhaps acknowledgment, at least, of a misstep.
The Daryatlean inclined her head, her gaze wandering over the lot of them. Then settling on Nik. “This is the son of the man you say bombed your palace?”
“The terror-maker’s accomplice. Yes. He has just been sentenced and is about to be executed.”
She didn’t even look as though she’d heard him. Princess Perla floated closer—or so it appeared—without once taking her gaze from Nik. A flutter of her fingers, and the guard hauled him to his feet. “Why has his Awakening been halted halfway through?”
His what? Halfway?
The king spun to face them. “You are mistaken, Your Highness. He is not Awakened. He has been tested and found to be Cursed, but this is not something you would understand.”
