FORTY-THREE
Though it is customary that Highness be followed by the familial nameof a non-blood member of the Khaimlic royal house, rare exceptions canbe made to address one with a given name, when either feud or otherincident creates desired distance from one’s own heritage.
Khaimlic History and the Centuries of War with Cyngalon,
E. van der Vos
FORTY-THREE
The Great Hall parted as they entered, the heralds trailing off into silence.
Silence that spread as Osian strode up the central aisle to the royal table, climbed the dais and set Gelens’ head squarely before Aldreda.
‘Lord Gelens is dead.’ He did not have to raise his voice for it to carry. ‘As you can see, it was the work of the sorcerer.’
The head was barely recognisable: a mess of flesh and roots Osian had pried from the remnants. There was enough of a patch of greying hair, and the metal of an earring.
Aldreda, risen, sent Edeva silently to Freda and away. ‘Osian, what in the—’
‘The killer is someone in this room.’
Murmurs. Confusion, and fear.
He turned and allowed the weight of the words to settle. His sword was bare in his hand, and he did his best not to glance at Meilyr, who had drifted purposefully to the side of the royal table to survey as many people as possible.
Captain Radnor rose heavily from his seat near the dais, haggard and hounded. He leaned on the table, staring at what was left of Gelens. ‘The answer is plain, then. Arrest the prince consort. He did this.’
A predicted accusation, but one that still burned Osian’s blood. ‘He is not responsible. Both of us were attacked, and my consort would have died had we not—’
‘It has to be him,’ another said. ‘It has to be! We all saw it, the timing, the way Lord Leighton pawed over him. He came after the captain’s son, and those crownsworn. It’s all him!’
Shouts of agreement. Calls for action.
‘If not him,’ someone said, ‘then who? One of them, certainly – single out every person with Denelands blood, immediately!’
‘We will not fall into the follies of our forebears,’ Osian said. ‘It is only a matter of time before we find the one responsible, so I am giving them this chance. Announce yourself, and face fair trial. I will grant leniency and mercy.’
‘Mercy!’ Captain Radnor spat the word. ‘They killed my son – they want us all dead!’
‘And have you never wanted your enemy dead, Captain? Whoever this is, we have driven them to it. The bloodshed must end now, but we must also bear responsibility for the horrors—’
The captain’s plate smashed as he cracked his fist into it. ‘My son… Responsibility? You are blinded, but we all see it. It’s him’ – he pointed at Meilyr with a shaking, food-dirtied and bloodied hand – ‘your Denelander consort.’
Further concurrence.
‘Enough, Captain. I know the course of his blood, and his heritage has never birthed one of the Old Blood.’ A lie, but one Osian delivered perfectly. ‘He is being used as a scapegoat, and each moment we argue—’
‘Then interrogate everyone of Denelander blood!’ Another stood, searching for agreement from their peers. ‘Send for an Ectheid, torture them, it doesn’t matter!’
Nearby, Lady Faina flinched, as did many others.
Demelza rose. ‘We cannot fall to such barbarity.’ Her voice soothed something in some as she forced back her exhaustion. ‘Prince Osian is right. We cannot succumb to hatred when faced with the wrongs of Khaim’s past.’
Assent, and dissent.
‘The wrongs of our past?’ someone said. ‘Their sorcery was evil, heretical! It led to the Sundering! Evil deserves to be put down, and all we ever did was protect our own!’
‘Enough,’ Aldreda ordered. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’