Page 75 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
Cragmere’s face contorts. “Impossible! The trial?—”
“By order of King Craven,” Vaylen interrupts, the words falling like stones.
The crowd erupts in whispers. Cragmere’s mouth opensand closes, his composure fracturing. I see the desperation in his eyes, his vengeance slipping away.
At a loss, I turn away, toward Vaylen, toward whatever comes next.
26
Rhea
Vaylen takes my arm, not roughly but firmly. A message to Cragmere and everyone watching. I’m completely in Sky Order custody now.
“This way,” he says, leading me toward Commander Voltguard.
Cragmere’s anger follows us. “This is an outrage! A perversion of justice!”
I bite back a retort about his personal definition of justice. No point antagonizing him further when I’m being led away from his clutches.
Voltguard gives us a curt nod before turning on her heel and heading back inside the tower. Vaylen hesitates at the entrance, and I realize he’s not sure if he should follow.
“You too, High Prime,” Voltguard calls over her shoulder, not breaking stride.
Relief flickers across Vaylen’s face, so subtle I doubt anyone else would catch it. His shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, the tightness around his eyes softens. He’s as terrified as I am about what’s happening, but he can’t show it.
Two Claws pull the heavy doors closed behind us with an ominous thud.
—I am right here with you, little one,Zephyros rumbles in my mind.If they try anything, I will tear this tower apart stone by stone.
—Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,I respond, though the thought of Zephyros demolishing Fort Ashmire is oddly comforting at the moment.
Inside the Commander’s office, I expect King Craven himself, but there is no royal figure waiting, only a Bolt officer standing at attention before some contraption perched atop a wooden cabinet. The officer is young, red-headed, sharp-jawed, his dark-blue uniform too stiff on his narrow frame, as if he’s still growing into it.
The machine draws my eye immediately. A brass case housing a complex arrangement of tiny gears and springs, connected to a roll of thin parchment that spools through metal guides. A slender stylus—trembling with barely contained energy—hovers over the paper. Small crystal vials of black ink line the back of the device, connected by copper tubes to the writing mechanism.
“What in Heratrix’s name is that?” I ask, stepping closer despite myself.
The stylus suddenly jerks to life, tapping against the parchment with a sound like insect legs skittering across stone. Blue-tinged sparks dance around the metal parts as the message forms.
“Boltgram,” the Commander says. “Direct line to Castle Stonefall.”
So King Craven isn’t here in person, but his words are traveling across leagues to reach us. Somehow, that feels more ominous than if he were standing before me. Why didn’t he come?
Perhaps he’s afraid of what might happen here after a verdict is reached. King Craven Stonefall is a coward as paranoid as the seven hells. Of course he wouldn’t come if he suspected trouble. In fact, it struck me as strange when Cragmere claimed the King would attend my trial. The man never ventures this close to the front lines, not when Screechclaws could attack at any moment.
The stylus continues its frantic dance across the parchment, the sound grating on my already frayed nerves. I cross my arms, hiding trembling hands. I refuse to show fear in front of Voltguard and her perfect posture.
“So His Majesty decided to stay safe behind his castle walls after all,” I mutter, earning a sharp look from Vaylen. “What? We’re all thinking it.”
The Bolt officer shifts uncomfortably but keeps his eyes forward. Even mentioning royal cowardice feels like treason, butwyrm’s rot, I’ve already been accused of murder. What’s a little treason to add to my list of crimes?
I take a step toward the Boltgram, curious what messages have already passed between Voltguard and the King.
I peer at the strip, my eyes narrowing at the unintelligible pattern of dots and dashes snaking across the parchment. Of course it’s encoded. I learned about that at the Academy. Only trained Bolts can translate these cryptic messages. Stupid of me to think I could just read the King’s words directly.
The Bolt officer waits with practiced patience until the stylus stops its frantic tapping, then tears the strip free with a practiced motion. His eyes scan the markings, face betraying nothing as he decodes the royal message in his head.
“Well?” Commander Voltguard demands, her fingers drumming against her desk. “What does His Majesty command?”
