by K.N. Lee
Rowen ignored him. She was tired of hearing about luck. Her feet were sore and her toes were frostbitten, but she kept her head held high and her eyes ahead. Weary and full of anxiety, Rowen was led through the prison gates, and out onto the road. A black horse and tumbril awaited her, to transport her to the Withraen courthouse. Without a word, Morse lifted her from the ground and set her inside the wooden tumbril.
She glared at him as he sat across from her with his sword drawn and resting in his lap.
He gazed at her thoughtfully and folded his arms across his breastplate. His gaze rested on her bosom, and a leer came to his face. “Shame,” he said under his breath.
Rowen turned away in her seat with a huff. Her cheeks burned as she fixed her eyes on the world outside. The snow-crusted ground and white trees broke way for a frozen river that ran along the road. The mountainous area opened to flat meadows and fields of onions and winter vegetables.
It would probably be the last time she’d see the countryside again. It was sobering to realize that these may very well be her last hours.
Only a prophet can change their fate. Rowen had her chance, and squabbled it away for the love of a man, the approval of her stepfather, and the security of her mother.
Were her motives so misguided?
The tumbril rolled down the mountain path toward the city, and Rowen prepared herself for the fight of her life, for her life.
ARRIVING TO THE courthouse was worse than Rowen expected. The quiet of the bumpy ride abruptly ended the moment the tumbril slowed to a stop in the square. The sky was overcast, the air thick with fog.
An angry mob waited for her, their voices rising to a deafening roar the moment she was spotted.
“There she is!”
“The prince killer!”
“Burn the half-blood scum!”
Those words shocked Rowen. She hesitated to move a muscle. Rowen looked to Morse, fearful that they would tear her limb-for-limb if they got their hands on her.
Morse noticed her pleaful look and chuckled. “Off we go, prince killer,” he said, lifting her from the back of the tumbril by her armpits. He set her on the path from the stone road to the large building before her.
Hiding her fear for what lay ahead, Rowen sucked in a breath and quickened her stride. That didn’t stop the angry citizens of Withrae from throwing things at her. Rotten food and rocks were pelleted at her head and she had to duck to avoid having anything hit her face.
She wanted to cry. They had it all wrong. But, Rowen forced the tears to stay back, and reached the safety of the main entrance all while people shouted obscenities at her and condemned her for killing their prince.
The names they called her would never be forgotten.
Though, her time to remember them was very short.
The courtroom fell silent as Rowen stepped inside. Though the protesters outside of the courthouse continued to yell, there was order inside. Nonetheless, she could tell by the looks on the audience’s faces that they felt as strongly as those outside.
Their scornful scowls awaited.
They hated her.
Her heartbeat filled her ears, and the palms of her hands grew wet with sweat. This was it. Her last chance to prove herself innocent.
The king and queen weren’t there, which wasn’t surprising. They left these matters to the city judge. Princess Noemie hadn’t shown up either. However, Prince Rickard, dressed in his formal attire, sat near the judge, his eyes watching her as she entered. His last words to her still left her confused, and seeing him there to watch her be sentenced to death was unnerving. Maybe he truly cared for her in his own way and would speak in her defense.
Rowen could only hope.
Swallowing, Rowen’s eyes left Prince Rickard to behold Nemith, the Withraen judge. In his Dragon form, he took up most of the center of the room with his large body of black and gold. Large golden eyes watched her, unblinking, and cold. His head reached just inches from the top of the room which had a vaulted ceiling painted the same red as the rows of seats that went up and down the floor. No seat was empty on that day.
It seemed all of Withraen Castle court was present, watching, judging. They were stuffed in the seats, prepared for an entertaining ruling. If only there was one person there that was on her side. She knew little of how these proceedings went. One thing was known, not many prisoners were found innocent. Without legal counsel, Rowen knew her odds of getting out of this. She had yet to think of a strategy that might actually work.
All she had, was the truth.
She prayed that it was enough.
Rowen fought tears when she saw her mother raise her hand to draw her attention.
Mother. Rowen whimpered.
She had come. Rowen should have expected it. Her desire to have someone on her side fleeted. She hated to have her mother witness her sentencing. To think that she would never feel the comfort of her mother’s embrace again broke her heart.
Rowen nodded to her and sucked in a cleansing breath.
She refused to cry in front of the court.
Morse led her to a wooden box with short sides so that everyone could see her, and a single door at the back. It stood in the center of the court, right before the Dragon. He turned the lock and stepped away, folding his arms across his chest and resuming a blank look.
Rowen leaned against the railing with both hands and stared at Brea with glossy eyes as they led her into the courtroom.
Brea avoided her gaze and kept her eyes down at the floor before her chair as she sat down.
“State your name.”
“Lady Brea Rosewood.”
“Lady Brea Rosewood, what happened the day of Prince Lawson’s murder? You were with Lady Rowen for a greater part of it, correct?”
She nodded, and glanced at Rowen.
“Did Lady Rowen ever leave your side?”
“Yes,” Brea said. She shifted in her seat.
“Tell me about that.”
“She left Princess Noemie’s dressing for a bit. I believe she was sent on an errand. But, we never talked about the princess’ errands. Rowen was usually the lady that she chose for such things.”
“Any other times?”
Rowen noticed how Brea hesitated to answer. She dared to hope that her best friend in the castle would not condemn her with lies or things she did not understand.
Brea’s voice came out soft, and airy. “Yes.”
“How many?”
Sighing, Brea closed her eyes. “Twice more that day.”
“We are listening.”
“We went with Macana into the city. Rowen left my side for a moment and visited the herb shop.”
Nemith’s gaze went to Rowen’s. “Let the records show that Lady Rowen visited the herb shop, where the poison was surely purchased.”
“How so? I didn’t purchase anything! I only went inside to look while Macana purchased something. Why isn’t she here?”
Nemith lowered his face to the box where Rowen stood. A low growl rumbled from his throat, signaling that this was not the trial she thought it was. She couldn’t defend herself. The sentencing was already complete in the minds of the court and the judge.
“You will not talk out of turn again. Understood?”
Rowen tensed, and looked Nemith in the eyes.
Surprisingly, her fear had fleeted. They’d already made up their minds about her.
“I will speak the truth, if anyone wants to hear it,” Rowen said through clenched teeth. Her heart pounded, and her hands shook with rage. “Prince Lawson loved me. We were going to be wed. I would have never dreamed of killing him. And, all you have are false claims and the testimonies of women that don’t have a clue of what they are talking about.”
Nemith snorted, a cloud of smoke puffing from his nostrils.
“I’ve made my decision,” he said.
All eyes went to Rowen.
Before he could speak another word, Rowen lifted her bound hands and managed to get one fing
ertip placed onto his face. She narrowed her eyes, the whispers in her head chanting in a language she did not understand.
“I am innocent, and you know it. See?” Rowen asked, closing her eyes as she allowed her memories to be unlocked and shared with the Dragon judge.
All went silent and the world stilled as she showed him how much she cared for Lawson, and how she had been with the princess and Macana the entire day. Their time in Lawson’s room flashed before her and the tears fell. There was nothing she could do to hold them back as the memories took over her entire mind and left her defenseless against her emotions.
The moment was brief, for Morse yanked her backward by her hair and pinned her to the ground.
The sounds of the courthouse returned to her at full force, leaving her disoriented as she stared at the ceiling trying to regain her senses.
“Witch!”
“Sorceress!”
Those words drifted into her ears and turned her blood cold.
The truth was out, and there was nothing she could do to take it back. Rowen struggled to sit up, but Morse’s strong hands pinned her by the neck.
“Stay put,” he growled.
Rowen tried to get a look at Nemith, desperate to hear the words that he believed her, that the truth was so clear that there was no doubt that she couldn’t have killed Prince Lawson.
Instead, the shouts from the crowd filled the room, leaving nothing but cries of anger and demands that she be executed immediately.
“It’s what we get for letting half-blooded humans into our borders. The filth of magic clings to you,” Morse said. “And, you will pay for it.”
“Let me go,” Rowen said, as calmly as she could.
His grip on her neck tightened, cutting off her ability to take in a full breath.
“LET ME GO!”
With a roar, Rowen kicked him between the legs. He sucked in a grunt of pain and she shoved him off of her and a few feet across the wooden floor.
Flushed, Rowen scrambled to her feet.
The crowd hushed briefly, stunned by her show of strength.
She looked pass the crowd to Nemith.
“Tell me, judge. Will you condemn me for something you know I didn’t do?”
Her eyes met Rickard’s, who beheld her with a look of quiet awe. Back to Nemith’s face, she waited, her chest heaving with the exertion of using her strength on Morse, and her breaths struggling to calm.
Nemith outstretched his wings and pointed one talon to the door.
“The gallows,” he said in a voice that was tight with rage. “Take her. Now!”
So, Rowen thought, her shoulders slumping. She’d given it her all, and even exposed herself as a magic user.
This is it.
Chapter 14
IT WAS RAINING when the Wandering Star finally approached Withrae. Elian stoically studied the sky, following the puffs and billows of the heavy grey clouds, blinking away the water as it fell into his eyes.
He could tell by the shifting light that this rain fell only offshore. Withrae itself would be dry. Depending on which way the wind changed in a few hours, the rain might move inland. He shrugged. Arriving half-wet, half-dry, and entirely itchy was not his favorite way to come into port, but he had done it before and would doubtless do it again.
Around him, the crew went about their tasks briskly. Elian restrained himself from smirking. Perhaps the rain was a blessing in disguise as it made them quicker and quieter, all the more eager to get into port and out of the wet.
He looked over to Siddhe where she crouched on the far end of the bowsprit. Cocoa-colored flesh, tight corest, and even tighter leather pants all worked to make her look like a goddess amongst men.
The wind whipped her hair until it thrashed like a wild creature caught on a hook. The salt water crashed and sprayed around her as the boat bucked and jumped on the waves. Through it all, she remained in perfect balance, though there was a restless energy that put a beautiful tension into the lines of her body.
She had no fear of falling into the ocean. Why would she fear going home? He knew it was what she most longed for, and he knew that as long as he lived, it was what she could never do.
“Bloody hell!” Gavin yelled from just behind him. “It’s windier than a pack of farting monkeys up here!”
Elian closed his eyes and prayed for patience. Brilliant scribe. Remarkable memory transcriber. Utter and complete pain in his arse. The scale between practicality and murder teetered more precariously every day.
“Gor! Is that Siddhe? Isn’t that a trick, eh? ‘Look, mam, no ropes!’”
Was it too much to hope for a rogue wave to sweep him away?
“What’s that long, pointy beam thing she’s perched on called, anyway?”
The scales tipped precipitously toward murder.
THEY BROKE THROUGH the wall of fog and drizzle an hour later. The wind in the harbor was sharp, cold, and strangely acrid. Elian blinked to make sure the clouds were not playing a trick on him. No, that was definitely smoke rising from the dockside quarter of Withrae. Not just one fire, either, and not just in that quarter.
It was too late to come about and sail off. They were surrounded by chaotic boat traffic in the harbor. Besides, Cota had told him to come to Withrae, and he wasn’t going to leave until he found the next part of the puzzle.
Siddhe slid back down the bowsprit to join him on the prow.
“Rioting,” she said, the gills on her neck fading as the sea water on her flesh dried.
He nodded to accept the verdict of her keen eyesight and hearing. She was better than any spyglass because she understood what she saw and could think.
“No rumor of it when we left last time?” he asked.
Siddhe shook her head. “No more than the usual blood muttering.”
“Full-blood, half-blood, so foolish. What’s a human, then? No blood? All blood is red on the tip of a blade.”
Siddhe looked at him curiously, and he realized he had let his bitterness slip out. He locked it away once more. It was nothing but ancient history.
“I am different from you,” she said, her expression carefully blank.
“Aye, but we’re the same where it counts.” He heard her inhale softly. “You don’t need your blood to match to roll in the hay.”
She turned on her heel and went to supervise the final tying off of the ropes and the rolling down of the gangplank.
Chapter 15
“IT’S THE CROWN prince,” Gavin announced breathlessly as he jogged up to Elian and Siddhe.
The captain frowned. He hadn’t even noticed Gavin leaving the ship behind them as they cautiously made their way through the burning dockside quarter.
“He’s dead.”
“No point in a riot,” Siddhe remarked. “Won’t bring him back.”
“He was murdered.”
Siddhe shrugged to imply her point was still valid. Gavin looked crestfallen for a moment, then rallied.
“They’re executing his killer today,” he continued. “But, get this – Prince Lawson’s killer is a girl!”
Elian stilled. “What did you say?”
Gavin nodded. “A girl. Apparently, she was his lover or something. Or claimed to be.”
“But, why riot?” Siddhe persisted.
“Because she’s not just a girl, she’s a half-blood dragon. The full-blood dragons are clamoring for her head, and the half-bloods and humans see it as another example of the king’s oppression of their rights.”
“How exactly did you learn all this?” Elian asked, more to buy time for his mind to process all the ramifications of this information than because of any real interest in the kingdom’s politics.
“I, erm, ran into a girl I, uh, used to know. She was a barmaid at the Four Goblets in Lidenhold. A friend of mine. Just a friend. A good friend.”
Elian thought that any good friend of the lad’s would have put him out of his misery long before then, but there was no accounting for people or taste.
A half-blood girl.
Thoughts and questions darted like a school of little silver fish through his mind, too quick and impossible to capture. The only thing he was certain of was an impulse to go see this girl, even if it was only to watch her die.
“Been a while since we’ve been to a good execution,” Siddhe said.
He felt her gaze studying him as she unerringly guessed his thoughts. Gavin looked a bit green at the notion, but followed them as they trailed the crowds toward the gallows.
It would have been easy to push ahead through the throngs of people. But, the smooth skin of two humans and a mermaid were conspicuous enough in the sea of glowing complexions and shiny scales in the Withraen people.
Elian paid no heed to the royal stands or bright pennants flapping in the wind. It was all shine and show for the sake of pride, and the gods knew, he’d had stomached enough of ‘noble pride’ in his life.
“Oy, wotch it!”
Clamping down on his instinct to tense, he saw Siddhe do the same as a tall, burly woman pushed past them in the crowd. The visible scales on her skin meant she was a full-blood dragon, but not refined like the nobility, who had ridiculous rules about scales and skin.
What did scales or skin matter in the dark when your body moved in rhythm with the one you loved? Oh, wait, it mattered because stupidity didn’t discriminate across blood.
He noticed Siddhe stiffen then instantly relax, even though her fingertips twitched reflexively. Still, he knew she was wise enough not to cause a scene in the midst of a crowd where even the half-blood dragon common maidens were sturdy enough to knock Gavin to the ground.
Like water finding its level, the crowd slowed and stopped, filling in all around the gallows, with a small rivulet of space opening up for the tumbril to move through. He could make out the waving feathers from the guards’ helmets as he tracked the tumbril’s progress, but the condemned girl was too short to be seen, even raised from the ground on the cart.
“Looks like half the kingdom’s here,” Gavin whispered excitedly.
