Thread of Darkness

Ch. 12: felt like goodbye

Camille had seen some tense political meetings over the years.

There had been the disastrous meeting in Zarob, when Arthur Delafort had thrown a raw fish across the room. The awkward Harvest Moon ball, when Brigid had laughed at a visiting dignitary and called him a "bovine-brained nitwit." And then there had been this week when Ryne shot an arrow at his cousin's head.

But this meeting, she thought, really took the cake.

Raised voices jostled for space, like too many books crammed into a shelf. One councilman stood, shaking a spidery fist. Camille traced a groove in her armrest. The Chamber of Justice looked different from here, she thought; sitting beside Ryne, she could see the flecks of gold in the inky blue walls. Even the smell of burning incense was stronger, drifting from a sunken pit at the center of the room.

The shouting increased.

Camille sighed.

Her fingers snagged on a word. She glanced down at the wood, squinting to decipher the letters. Penny is awesome, it read. Ryne sucks.

Camille smiled.

"This is ridiculous." A council member with a mustache shook his head. Lord Spurian, Camille recalled; he had opposed Ryne's motion to provide every village with a healer last month, arguing that it was too expensive for the royal treasury to fund. "We cannot allow the prisoner to stay here. She poses a security threat. If Lord Eris wants to take her off our hands, then so be it."

A second man frowned. "She'll pose a threat to him, too."

"He's equipped to handle it."

"The girl is a weapon." Another man — this time with a wicked scar across one eyebrow, Camille noted — frowned. "Eris could sell her to anyone."

"Don't be absurd." Spurian snorted. "Eris is a Delafort; he'd never give her to the Nightweavers."

"What about the Zarobians?" another man piped up. "They'd pay good money for her safe return."

Scar stabbed a finger. "So would those dirty Salvatorians."

"The answer is obvious, gentleman." A man with golden rings clasped his hands. "We can't give her to Eris, and we can't keep her here. We must eliminate her."

Scar rubbed his jaw. "And risk upsetting the Nightweavers? We'll have a rebellion on our hands."

"Then give her to Eris," Spurian said, waving a hand. "Let him take the blame for her death."

"How do you know he'll kill her?"

Camille looked up sharply. This last comment came from Dex Beauchamp, Tristan's older brother; his golden eyes were narrowed, his dark hair a sharp slash along his jaw. He looked pissed off. Not, Camille thought, that she blamed him; the Beauchamp family came from those dirty Salvatorians. A fact that most council members seemed to conveniently forget, most of the time.

"I'm just saying," Dex continued. "You don't know that he'd kill her. You don't know anything at all; Eris Delafort is a loose cannon. He can't be predicted."

Spurian sighed. "We're going in circles."

Several council members let out jeers. Voices babbled over one another, a whirlpool of barbs and attacks.

"If you'd see reason–"

"Lord Eris never promised—"

"Logic would suggest—"

"Enough."

Ryne's voice echoed through the chamber. He was dressed in a patterned grey waistcoat and shirt, the white sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The council members fell silent, turning in his direction.