trembling. He wished desperately for his rapier and dagger.
I won’t let him take me in for questioning again , Thomas swore to himself. I’ll kill him first.
The thirty feet to the dais seemed unreasonably long. Their footsteps, measured and careful, seemed too small to cover the distance. Thomas wished that his clothes were cleaner, and that he didn’t have a pair of wet braies stuffed inside his jacket. He hoped his hair wasn’t a mess and that he wasn’t tracking mud across the floor.
Henry, much to Thomas’s annoyance, looked sublimely unconcerned.
Up close, the king had a fair bit of grey in his hair. He looked much more severe than he had running into the water on the beach.
Of course he does. He’s dressed. Everyone looks more serious when they’re dressed.
Can I think of anything that isn’t stupid?
I hope my hands aren’t shaking.
Thomas and Henry reached the throne and bowed again. “Your Majesty,” said Henry as he straightened. “Good to see you again. And Inquisitor Alphonse,” Henry nodded at him. “I’m surprised to see you alive.”
“The High Father smiled upon me,” said Father Alphonse. His voice was hoarse, as if he had screamed so much he’d destroyed it. Thomas wondered what, exactly, John had done to the man before letting him go. Father Alphonse shifted his weight against the walking stick he leaned on, and groaned at the effort. His gaunt face was lined and twisted with pain.
“He must have,” said Henry. “Last I heard my brother was going to flay your feet and leave you for the weasels.”
“That will be enough, Lord Henry,” said the king. “Thomas Flarety?”
Thomas swallowed hard. “Yes, your Majesty.”
King Harold Plastine had brown eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, in a round face. He was not much taller than Thomas himself, but much wider, both in the shoulders and the stomach. “Your teachers say you are one of their brightest—possibly the brightest. They say you managed to catch up in your classes and maintain your grades despite being gone… was it two months?”
“Around two, yes, your majesty,” said Thomas. Why is he being nice to me?
“And studying both philosophy and law,” said the man in grey. He was distinctly average: neither tall nor short, a plain face and brown hair. His eyes were also brown, and they bored into Thomas’s eyes like a pair of drills. “Very impressive.”
“I thank you,” said Thomas, wondering who the man was. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to address you, sir.”
“How foolish of me,” said the king. “Lord Henry Antonius, Thomas Flarety, may I present Sir Walter Deehan.”
Henry nodded politely at the man. Thomas bowed, though not as low as he had to the king. “Sir Walter.”
“And Father Leopold,” said the king. “The Archbishop’s representative to the king.”
Father Leopold had a sneer on his face as he waited for Thomas to bow. Thomas met the man’s eyes and stayed upright. I will not bow to him; I will not show fear to him, Thomas thought, no matter what happens. Thomas watched Father Leopold realize it and saw the man’s lips go into a hard, angry line.
“And I believe you know Father Alphonse,” finished the king, after the pause had gone on long enough to be awkward.
“Yes, your majesty,” said Thomas, still staring down Father Leopold .
“Are we through with the pleasantries?” demanded Father Leopold. “This boy stands accused of witchcraft.”
“Without evidence,” said Sir Walter.
Before Thomas or Father Leopold could protest the king raised a hand for silence. “We have heard some rather strange tales of what happened in the north, Thomas.”
“From Lords Cormac, Ethan and Anthony?” asked Henry. “The ones who didn’t actually see anything?”
“They talked to those who did,” said Father Alphonse. “And they heard tales of witchcraft. Of men throwing fog and fire.” He smiled at Thomas. “And lightning.”
“Those who serve the Banished cannot be
I won’t let him take me in for questioning again , Thomas swore to himself. I’ll kill him first.
The thirty feet to the dais seemed unreasonably long. Their footsteps, measured and careful, seemed too small to cover the distance. Thomas wished that his clothes were cleaner, and that he didn’t have a pair of wet braies stuffed inside his jacket. He hoped his hair wasn’t a mess and that he wasn’t tracking mud across the floor.
Henry, much to Thomas’s annoyance, looked sublimely unconcerned.
Up close, the king had a fair bit of grey in his hair. He looked much more severe than he had running into the water on the beach.
Of course he does. He’s dressed. Everyone looks more serious when they’re dressed.
Can I think of anything that isn’t stupid?
I hope my hands aren’t shaking.
Thomas and Henry reached the throne and bowed again. “Your Majesty,” said Henry as he straightened. “Good to see you again. And Inquisitor Alphonse,” Henry nodded at him. “I’m surprised to see you alive.”
“The High Father smiled upon me,” said Father Alphonse. His voice was hoarse, as if he had screamed so much he’d destroyed it. Thomas wondered what, exactly, John had done to the man before letting him go. Father Alphonse shifted his weight against the walking stick he leaned on, and groaned at the effort. His gaunt face was lined and twisted with pain.
“He must have,” said Henry. “Last I heard my brother was going to flay your feet and leave you for the weasels.”
“That will be enough, Lord Henry,” said the king. “Thomas Flarety?”
Thomas swallowed hard. “Yes, your Majesty.”
King Harold Plastine had brown eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, in a round face. He was not much taller than Thomas himself, but much wider, both in the shoulders and the stomach. “Your teachers say you are one of their brightest—possibly the brightest. They say you managed to catch up in your classes and maintain your grades despite being gone… was it two months?”
“Around two, yes, your majesty,” said Thomas. Why is he being nice to me?
“And studying both philosophy and law,” said the man in grey. He was distinctly average: neither tall nor short, a plain face and brown hair. His eyes were also brown, and they bored into Thomas’s eyes like a pair of drills. “Very impressive.”
“I thank you,” said Thomas, wondering who the man was. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to address you, sir.”
“How foolish of me,” said the king. “Lord Henry Antonius, Thomas Flarety, may I present Sir Walter Deehan.”
Henry nodded politely at the man. Thomas bowed, though not as low as he had to the king. “Sir Walter.”
“And Father Leopold,” said the king. “The Archbishop’s representative to the king.”
Father Leopold had a sneer on his face as he waited for Thomas to bow. Thomas met the man’s eyes and stayed upright. I will not bow to him; I will not show fear to him, Thomas thought, no matter what happens. Thomas watched Father Leopold realize it and saw the man’s lips go into a hard, angry line.
“And I believe you know Father Alphonse,” finished the king, after the pause had gone on long enough to be awkward.
“Yes, your majesty,” said Thomas, still staring down Father Leopold .
“Are we through with the pleasantries?” demanded Father Leopold. “This boy stands accused of witchcraft.”
“Without evidence,” said Sir Walter.
Before Thomas or Father Leopold could protest the king raised a hand for silence. “We have heard some rather strange tales of what happened in the north, Thomas.”
“From Lords Cormac, Ethan and Anthony?” asked Henry. “The ones who didn’t actually see anything?”
“They talked to those who did,” said Father Alphonse. “And they heard tales of witchcraft. Of men throwing fog and fire.” He smiled at Thomas. “And lightning.”
“Those who serve the Banished cannot be
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