Page 95 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“Um… what about my trial?” I ask, trying not to show how little I understand of what’s happening. “Inspector Cragmere seemed quite eager to see me executed for Cindergrasp’s murder.”
The King’s face twists with annoyance. He looks at me like I’ve just asked why water is wet or why dragons have scales.
“Trial?” He waves his hand dismissively through the air, the gesture of someone swatting away an insignificant fly. “There won’t be any trial. I’ll make it go away. Cragmere is an inconvenience I’ll handle.”
His casual disregard for justice—even when it benefits me—makes my skin crawl. I want to scream that I killed Cindergrasp because he deserved it, because he murdered my mother, because he was a monster. I want my actions to mean something, not be erased by royal decree. I want to tell him that his Cleansing Authority is full of people who abuse their power and hurt children and their families.
But I hold my tongue.
The wolves watch me with hungry eyes, and I sense that behind the King’s bored expression lies something far more dangerous than his weak appearance suggests, something sinister that involves powerful people who live under mountains and hide Weaver powers that are supposed to be forbidden.
“How generous of Your Majesty,” I manage through gritted teeth.
Overwhelmed by all the unanswered questions, I make a conscious decision. With the King staring at me, his expression wavering between smug and expectant, I reach out with my mind, extending my consciousness toward him, a careful tendril of thought seeking purchase. For years I’ve shunned this power, the invasion it represents. Though since my return, it seems to awaken and act on its own. This time, however, it’s entirely on purpose. Ineedto know what I’m up against.
The moment I touch Craven’s mind, I tense.
Dragon’s breath!
Instead of coherent thoughts or even the emotional undercurrents I expected, I encounter a roiling, screaming jumble. It’s like a thousand voices shouting at once, fragments of thoughts splintering and reforming without pattern. Images flash too quickly to grasp: people making requests, pretty women simpering, a Claw polishing his boots, a young girl running from him.
The cacophony rises, a deafening mental noise that makes me physically wince. Is this what madness sounds like? No wonder his eyes dart about like trapped birds.
I yank my consciousness back, the mental equivalent of burning my hand on hot metal. My stomach churns, and my throat burns with bile as I struggle not to sway visibly.
“Something wrong?” King Craven demands, his thin lips curling. For a heartbeat, I wonder if he felt my intrusion.
“No,” I manage, swallowing hard. “Just... processing Your Majesty’s generosity.”
Whatever lives in King Craven’s mind isn’t anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s fractured, chaotic, and completely unreadable. Is someone else already in there? Has he been tampered with by another Weaver? By Tahranis? I have no idea.
The wolves growl softly.
I force my breathing to steady, to push away the chaos I just witnessed in the King’s mind. Whatever scheme this is, I need to survive long enough to unravel it, and going against what he wants isn’t the way to do that.
“I’ll report back to you as you wish, Your Majesty.” The words make me as sick as his mind, but I manage to sound convincing. “Weekly reports on Commander Voltguard and High Prime Stormsong and anyone else who… seems suspicious.”
The King nods and leans back, fingers drumming on the armrest of his throne. One of the wolves huffs, settling at his feet.
“Good, good.” He nods, the crown wobbling precariously. “Do you know when?”
Oh, Goddess.What does he mean?
“I… do not, Your Majesty.” What else can I say?
He huffs. “I hate being in the dark. Oh, why has this come to ruin my life?” He puts on a suffering expression that would make anyone think his life is full of woes. “At least, I don’t have to wonder anymore.”
A nagging question remains. “Your Majesty, what exactly am I supposed to tell Commander Voltguard about my trial?She expects me to be formally charged.” I gesture vaguely at the door. “Out there, half of Embernia thinks I’m a murderess.”
His face contorts with annoyance again. “Why do you concern yourself with such insignificant matters? The Commander will do whatever I tell her to do. Now go.” He points toward the door, suddenly bored with my presence. “Send her in immediately. She’ll hear my decision.”
I nod, not bow—I can’t bring myself to scrape before this madman—and back away several steps before turning.
My mind races, pain throbbing in my temples. Whatever conspiracy links the King to Tahranis, I’ll figure it out, and if the King thinks I’ll betray the Sky Order or Embernia, he’s sorely mistaken. I’ll play his spy, but the only person I’m loyal to is myself. And perhaps, if I’m being honest, a certain High Prime whose heart I just broke to protect him.
34
Rhea
