“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” Perla spun back to face him, curtsying low. “Please, forgive my loss of control. I have never been so near a volcano before, to know how to regulate the winds and gases rising in the cone. Is everyone all right? I subdued them again as soon as I could.”
She sounded sincere, concerned even as she glided closer to the edge. It probably wouldn’t appease Fodur, but he’d have no choice but to accept her apology.
Or ignore it altogether, ignore her, which amounted to the same thing. “Nikanor Tristansson, step forward.”
Kyrja followed from three steps behind as he obeyed. She expected a trudge, the slowest obedience possible, but Nik surprised her. He closed the distance in moments, passing through the line of Blessed without seeming to see them. Even leaned toward the edge, as if the heat rising were a balmy breeze instead of a murderous waft.
Fodur’s face cleared again. “You have been banished to Helviti’s mouth. The flame will be your judge. The lava your executor. Will you walk freely forward?”
Kyrja slid to Perla’s side in the line of Blessed, so she had at least a partial view of Nik’s face.
He smiled. Not a smirk, not a sneer. An actual, genuine smile that made her stomach go tight in a way it never had before. Made her want to reach out, even now, and take his hand in hers again. See if the tingle would come when her blood wasn’t touching his.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the pull—it wasn’treal, it must some sort of chemistry from the mixing of their blood, that was all—forcing herself to stay where she was. Forced all the what-ifs from her mind and remembered what he taught her.
Giver, protect him.
Simple words, but calm settled over her heart, cooling the flames of fear.
Nik raised his hand to his mouth, kissed his fingers, then touched them to his forehead. His heart. His left shoulder. His right. Then, even as Fodur opened his mouth to say something more, he ran toward the rocky outcropping and leapt straight into the volcano’s mouth.
A scream battled for a place in her throat, but Kyrja swallowed it down. She couldn’t, however, convince her feet to remain still. She, too, shoved past her father, moving toward the cliff’s edge.
May the flame be your judge.
Wind came from behind her, cool and cleansing, pushing away the wall of heat as Kyrja halted a foot away from the edge. She didn’t know how solid it was, how stable, and she had no desire to tumble into the lake of molten rock below.
It glowed hotter than mere fire, though tongues of flame shot upward from the boiling surface. So bright she had to shield her eyes, avert her face for a moment’s respite before she could look again.
He was surely gone already. Burned up before he even hit the pool of lava—or if not, the moment he did. She didn’t even know what she was looking for.
Salvation. Perla’s word breezed through her mind. But how would even fire magic save someone from this?
How did the mer withstand the depths of the sea? How did water magic keep the currents at bay? How did sky magic hold a wingless human in flight?
There—directly below, more or less, just a bit out from the concave wall, a dark smudge. The waves of heat distorted her vision too much for her to make out, at first, what it was, but another gust of Perla’s wind helped it to resolve.
Nik. It was Nik! Standing on the surface of the lava, a crackling crust of black beneath his feet. As she watched, he took a few steps to her right, his eyes on something beneath her that she couldn’t see.
The lava your executor.
Kyrja sucked in a scalding breath and spun around. “He lives.”
The High Council had all been moving toward her father, but at that they stopped, each familiar face turning toward her, disbelief underscoring their usual passive expressions.
Fodur had his back to her. Apparently his only surviving child rushing toward a volcano’s edge wasn’t enough to alarm him.But now he turned, eyes reflecting the glow of the lava. “You are surely mistaken.”
“That seems to be your favorite refrain.” Perla sauntered forward, peered over the edge. “Your daughter is correct. I see the accused walking amidst the fire, unsinged.”
“Not. Possible.” Father strode forward too, took one look, and spun to glower at Kyrja and Perla. “Which of you did it? Which of you circumvented my law?”
Kyrja lifted her chin. “What circumvention? The only command you gave, Fodur, was for Nikanor Tristansson to be delivered to Helviti’s mouth. You said the flames would be his judge. The lava his executor.” She pointed to the boil. “The flames have judged. The lava has chosen. They have refused to carry out your will. They have judged him innocent.”
“They have judged him guilty! You do not know what you do, Valkyrja! Instead of a quick death, you have condemned that man to eternal torment. You have made of him a daemon.”
All the words she’d read in the last month swirled, coalesced. “It is the Heir’s sworn responsibility and duty not only to state and verify the accusations and ruling of the king and Two Councils, but to verify when the sentence has been carried out and determine any follow-up that is required.” She took a step toward her father, moved her gaze over the Blessed ranged around him, defiance on each of their faces.
They were about to learn what defiance really was. “I verify the sentence was carried out. Completed. The word of the king fulfilled and the law upheld. The accused has survived his sentence, which lands him under my jurisdiction. And I declare his punishment over and his debt to society paid.”
