CHAPTER 65

We arrive in a burst of light and Lysander’s hand on my shoulder immediately signals for me to stand up straight. I do my best. Look confident, look powerful, look like you won this thing already, and do it all while blinking away the green afterimages left behind by the teleportation magic.

I beam into the invisible throne room. That’s where Lysander said he would transport us, always milling with supplicants and where Valkas could reliably be found at any time of day. It takes me a while to realize something’s wrong, and by then the elf’s hand has slipped from my shoulder. A clap fills the cavernous hall, sounding from somewhere in front of us and others follow with deliberate slowness.

“Very spectacular. Boy, what an entrance.”

It’s a voice I recognize, though it takes me a moment to place it. Valkas’s bodyguard, Muscle, in my mind, appears as shake the spots of green light.

“Lagos,” Lysander says pleasantly, though I can tell the annoyance in his tone. “The throne room is strangely empty today. Did we not have any supplicants? Oh, did Valkas finally put them all to the sword, as he keeps saying he will?”

“No, your elf-y highness, he did not. He just moved it all outside, where it’s nice and sunny. He said he had a feeling you’d teleport in here, and he wanted to make sure you had the room.”

He steps forward, hands behind his back, dressed in a simple red tunic and black pants, a sidesword strapped to his waste. He seems pleased with this turn of events, like someone who just made a brilliant move in a board game.

“And you stayed behind to point me out in the right direction, did you?” Lysander says. “How nice. What a great use of your time as a bodyguard. Incidentally, I hope the gore wasn’t too hard to wash off the armor. Those shades do make a mess.”

Lagos flares his nostrils.

“You better be careful now,” he whispers. “You overplayed your hand with that trick. Word has spread that you’re harboring Champions, and none of the guilds are too happy about that.”

“Add that to the pile of my transgressions. Hope you have room left at the bottom; you’re going to need it.”

The bodyguard grunts, then his eyes swivel down to meet mine.

“This is your new boyfriend, then? Why’s he covered in leaves? Been rolling around in the dirt with him?”

“This is—” Lysander begins.

“Malco of Reach, excellency,” I say, with a curt bow. “And may I say, your dead body was incredibly useful in the practice yard. Thank you for leaving it behind after your visit.”

Before Lysander can contain his snort, he’s forced to step between me and Lagos when the man makes to lunge forward, eyes flaming.

“Think about what you’re doing,” the elf hisses.

Lagos gives me a long, murderous look, and then turns to Lysander.

“I’d just be speeding things up, elf,” he says with a nasty smile. “Follow. Valkas is expecting you.”

And then he turns and walks out through a side door. I look to Lysander and he nods, smirking still. Before we leave, I steal a glance at the throne room, and find the official Black Sword decorator has been at it as well. Black on red banners span the entire hall on both sides, growing closer together as they near the throne, and a painted glass window shines down its red light on the seat. The big chair itself I cannot imagine as anything other than a leftover from Obrein’s days, all skulls and spikes, announcing to the whole wide world that a Dark Lord sits in it. The decorator must have been dispirited the day he got access to it, because apart from a red arch for a frame he didn’t make any bold alterations. Everything else is stone and empty space, stretching up into a cavernous abode.

Lysander calls my name from the corridor, and I hurry after him. Lagos is already far ahead, and we have to rush to keep up with his overlong strides.

We pass a number of closed doors and stairwells heading up and down. The corridor shoots straight like an arrow, illuminated by the same flickering magic torches that gave light to the dungeon. I feel a sudden tightness in my chest, a nervousness coursing through my blood. I keep staring at shadows, daring them to prove themselves more than that, and more than once I jump when a door is unexpectedly open, yawning into an office, a guard’s station, or another corridor, running in a different direction.

Keep it together, I tell myself, trying to force my building sweat into complacency, my beating heart into slowing down like I’m calming Firebrand. You prepared for this. Lysander says there’s no danger in the trial. A formality more than anything. Hold.

It’s no use. I find myself reflexively flexing my hand around the pommel of the dagger Amelia gave me as if I’m waiting for danger to strike out and must be prepared. I cast Hunch as a part of the same reflex, but the momentary advantage it will give me if trouble comes doesn’t dissipate my worries. It’s like my dungeon mind has taken control of my body without need for my interference, brought into action by the stone corridor, the tight quarters.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Lagos finally pushes a door open at the end of the corridor and sunlight streams in, blinding me for a moment. When we emerge, I see what appears to be a gathering. People are standing, clad in formal attire under the glare of the midday sun, bearing the expressions of those who have been waiting long and whose patience will have to hold out a while longer. A flicker of attention comes our way as we emerge onto the large courtyard, but otherwise everyone’s focus remains steadfast on the dull entertainment.

“Don’t go far,” Lagos tells Lysander before pushing his way into the crowd.

Some of the waiting turn to hiss some word of reproach or threat, but upon seeing who it is who’s pushing them cast their eyes down and try hard to go unnoticed.

“Damn him,” Lysander mutters. “Brought everyone out here just to deny us an entrance. He’s got them baking out here.

I follow his gaze, and everyone else’s, to the end of the courtyard, where a little man is kneeling in front of a makeshift throne protected by an awning, the only cover in sight. Under it, his mouth slightly open and eyes glazed over, is Valkas.

“…attacked me, m’lord, just because I didn’t give them the discount they asked for,” the little man is saying. “Ruinous it would have been, m’lord, I couldn’t help it. So the ruffians bullied me and torched my shop, near killed my wife in the fire, m’lord. We’ve come to beg your mercy, m’lord, and justice. All for a magic item.”

Silence. The man waits nervously, kneeling on the grass with eyes turned down. Everyone waits patiently for Valkas’ judgement, who has the look about him of someone who has just woken from a long sleep.

“Let me get this straight,” he says eventually. “You’re saying someone torched your shop because you didn’t cut the price on a magic item.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“What magic item?”

“I—pardon, m’lord?”

“The item,” Valkas repeats, leaning forward. “What did it do?”

“Uh, well, it was a pair of boots, you see, tailored by a famed, and now sadly deceased enchanter who some say inhabited the outer edges of the Spine. They made a man quicker on his feet.”

“I see.” Valkas leans back, two fingers in front of his mouth, seeming to consider the problem. “Can you identify the people who did that?”

“Easily, m’lord. They’re in attendance here today.”

“What luck. Point them out to me.”

Trembling, the little man does so, indicating a trio of sneering Godtouched gathered on one side of the throne behind Teryon, the captain of the guard who twice visited Hollow House.

“Step forward, Zala.”

One of the Godtoched detaches herself from the group to stand in front of the throne, side to side with the kneeling man. Zala, dressed in reds and golds, with ruby rings flashing on one out of every two fingers, doesn’t kneel. Her sardonic smile remains constant, like she was invited to the stage by a performer.

“Zala.”

“Val.”

“You are accused of burning down a shop after being denied a discount on a pair of very interesting boots. What do you have to say for yourself and your merry band?” Valkas asks, all seriousness.

Zala scratches her chin, looking at some point above Valkas’ head. Then she shrugs.

“It was in the ass end of nowhere, Val. We didn’t think we’d get in trouble.”

Two mutters course through the audience. Shock among the Untouched, gathered to the left of the throne, amusement in the ranks of the Godtouched, to the right.

“She’s admitting it?” I ask Lysander.

The elf just shakes his head with the air of someone who’s seen this scene play out quite a few times.

“What happened to the item in question?” Valkas asks.

“We let him keep it.”

The guildleader returns to silence, brow furrowed, apparently deep in thought.

“What’s he thinking about?” I whisper. “He accused her. She admitted it. What does the law say?”

Lysander doesn’t answer, but a grimace creeps up the corner of his mouth. Suddenly I’m reminded of Gedden’s words in the forest after he introduced me to Mossgreen: guild laws are based on a gentlemen’s agreement. I get the feeling something is very wrong when Valkas nods to himself and faces the two in front of him.

“Zala. You and yours have behaved very badly. I conclude you’re guilty of the crime you are accused of. However,” Valkas continues as a hopeful cascade of mutters rises on the left side of the audience. “By your actions you have also brought my attention to the existence of this magic item.”

Silence.

“I think you owe mister… This good shopkeep an apology. A sincere one.”

With a sigh, Zala turns to the little man still kneeling in front of the throne. He’s incapable of facing her, staring instead at her feet.

“Shopkeep,” Zala intones. “We are truly sorry for burning down your shop. Please accept our apologies.”

Dumbstruck, the man can’t do more than open and shut his mouth. He starts saying something, but Valkas claps his hands together happily.

“Good, good! That matter is solved.”

“S—solved?” asks the little man, shaking all over. “M’lord, my shop, my home, my wife is… Is this it?”

“No,” Valkas says curtly. “No, it isn’t. I’m interested in the reason why you had this magic item in your possession, shopkeep. As you must know, all such artifacts must be appraised by guild officials. I don’t recall these Boots of Swiftness in the official inventory.” He sounds like he’s trying out the name.

The man mutters something incomprehensible.

“Speak up!”

“There’s been… rumors, that items have been… have gone missing, m’lord, after being presented.”

Valkas smiles.

“It’s weak magic, m’lord,” the man continues, barreling into the silence in his panic. “I thought it would be below your notice.”

“Zala, can you vouch for this?” Valkas asks without taking his eyes off the little man.

“They seemed pretty strong, Val.”

“Pretty strong. Shopkeep, with respect to your recent difficulties, I forgive your accusation of items disappearing while in the guild’s care. The guild is happy with the resolution of this thorny issue. Now, I believe that a suitable gift is in order, to atone for your transgressions. The boots, say.”

“M’lord!” the little man prostrates himself, arms spread out on the floor towards Valkas. “I beg you! It’s all we have, my wife and I…”

“Is your wife here with you?”

The man nods, pointing an uncertain finger to a large, unflinching woman, the tears coursing down her face the only crack in her stoic expression.

“Shopkeep, we understand your home is far away. ‘In the ass-end of nowhere’, we’ve heard it described. While you go and fetch the boots, your wife will be held in the dungeons, as collateral. Teryon,” Valkas nods to his captain of the guard, who in turn, after a slight hesitation, nods to an Untouched guard.

Above the man’s screaming protests, his wife is lead away by the arm. Other guards are dispatched to collect the little man, whose fear has turned to anger, and whose screams fill the air as he’s carried off. No mind is paid to him, as if Valkas has forgotten about his existence already.

He glances over the crowd, a weary look on his eyes, but before ha can call on the next supplicant Lagos darts to his side to whisper in his ear. Valkas’ expression suddenly comes alive.

“Lysander!” he yells. “Finally, you arrive! Where are you? Get your sweet self too the front, man!”

The elf turns to me, his smile glassy, his eyes worried. He nods, and we advance.