Page 78 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
Inhaling sharply, I steady myself. This display of emotion is out of line. I must control my passions, not let them control me.
This is exactly why I should have avoided entanglements within the Sky Order. The proper path would have been a wife in Emberton—some merchant’s daughter perhaps—waiting dutifully when I return from the front lines, managing our household with quiet efficiency.
The thought sours in my mind as quickly as it forms. Such a life would be a prison of propriety. I would have withered inside those confines, and what woman deserves a husband who comes to her bed sporadically and without true passion?
No. It’s nonsense. Cowardice. To be Rhealyn’s and for her to be mine, bravery is the only answer.
I straighten my uniform, brushing away the stone dust from my knuckles. What matters now is us, not my stupid jealousy. Rhealyn deserves better than my accusations. The woman I love returned from oblivion itself. Whatever happened in that missing year, I’ll face it with her, with no prejudice and with a steadfast heart. Just as long as she picks me, wants me.
I move toward the tower doors, my mind knotted with obligation and remorse. The moment I pull the heavy oak door open, Cragmere’s rat-like face appears, the judge hovering behind him like a vulture awaiting carrion.
“High Prime, I demand entry. The prisoner—” Cragmere begins, bald head peppered with sweat.
I block the doorway with my body, looking down at the smaller man. “The prisoner is no longer your concern, Inspector.”
Cragmere’s face flushes scarlet. “This is outrageous! I’ve spent months building this case. You can’t simply?—”
“Wait here.” I exit and close the door in his face, the solid thud bringing a small measure of satisfaction. Let him stew in his frustration. “Don’t let him in,” I instruct the Claws who flank the door.
The courtyard remains filled with spectators, their hungry eyes searching for drama. Phoebe pushes through the crowd, her face drawn with worry.
“Is she all right? They didn’t even give her an advocate.” Her voice trembles slightly.
Before I can answer, Silas’s sardonic tone cuts through the murmurs. “Is this what passes for justice now? How convenient to have friends in high places.”
“You would know,” Adelaide bites back.
I turn slowly toward him, letting my gaze sweep the assembled riders. “Everyone, return to your duties immediately.”
No one moves.
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear.” I straighten to my full height. “Anyone remaining in this courtyard in the next minute will spend a fortnight cleaning horse waste from the stables and repairing the western battlements. By hand, no elemental powers allowed.”
The crowd scatters like sparks chased off by the bellows’ breath, muttering as they go. Only Phoebe lingers a moment longer, her eyes questioning. I give her a slight nod—an unspoken promisethat Rhealyn is fine.
As the courtyard empties, I exhale slowly. Now I must deal with Cragmere. I return to the tower doors, where Cragmere stands fuming, his face mottled with indignation. The judge acts like his nervous shadow.
“The Commander will see you now,” I announce, my voice calm and neutral despite the satisfaction I feel at his obvious frustration.
Cragmere straightens his jacket with jerking motions. “About time. This irregular interruption of justice will not stand.”
I push open the heavy oak door, allowing him to enter first. He rushes ahead, and the moment he crosses the threshold into Commander Voltguard’s office, his head swivels like that of a hunting hawk.
“Where is she? Where’s the prisoner?” His voice rises with each word. “We have a trial to conduct! The platform stands ready, the judge eager to impart judgement.”
Commander Voltguard rises from behind her desk, her silver-streaked hair gleaming in the light from the window. “Chief Inspector, this trial is canceled by order of the King.”
“Impossible!” Cragmere sputters. “His Majesty himself granted me authority to bring that murderous girl to justice! I have the royal seal upon my writ!”
The Commander’s expression remains impassive as stone. She gestures toward the Boltgram in the corner, its metal fittings gleaming. “Like I said, King Craven has just ordered the trial canceled. His word supersedes any prior arrangement.”
I watch Cragmere’s face, noting how his eyes narrow with suspicion. This isn’t precisely what the King commanded—his actual words were to bring Rhealyn to Castle Stonefall, no mention of the trial being cancelled. It might still be held in Emberton, for all we know. Yet the Commander has artfully redirected Cragmere’s focus.
The Commander’s cunning impresses me. By framing the situation as a simple cancellation rather than what could be a transfer of jurisdiction, she’s stripped Cragmere of any grounds to pursue Rhealyn further. For all he knows, the trial no longer exists.
“I demand to see this order myself,” Cragmere insists, his hand extended as if expecting a parchment.
“This Boltgram machine is for military communications only,” Commander Voltguard replies coolly. “You lack the clearance to view its messages.”
