Page 56 of Aubade Rising

The next morning arrives and my anger has cooled to a bitter chill. I pound on the doors of the Concord chamber, demanding entrance. Dervla, Eskar and the King sit round the reflection pool, deep in conversation, the pool churning between them.

“Kitto needs to burn!” I don’t bother with niceties or politeness. I’m fuelled by icy rage at the devastation of my laboratory, as we stood on the precipice of changing Trevesiga for the better, for everyone.

Dervla flinches at my violent statement but stands and gestures for me to take the seat next to her. “Sage, join us. We were just getting started.” The King’s face is back to his well-polished mask of neutrality, while Eskar’s is tense.

Dervla continues, “I’m hoping you can shed light on the pyrotechnic display on the islet last night. The King requires an explanation.”

I look to Eskar but he stays silent. “It was the Kevren Gwir.” Dervla’s eyes widen at my statement looking to Eskar for confirmation but I continue before he can interrupt.

“It was retribution for escaping. Kitto, their leader,” I turn to the King to check he’s keeping up, “is obsessed with bombs. She’s working on the same research as me, but with a different objective in mind.

” I straighten my shoulders, refusing to give into the nerves swirling in my stomach.

“My research was focused on imbuing magic into inanimate objects, allowing access to all. Democratising it.”

“Was?” Dervla moves to the edge of her seat.

“We succeeded last night. I was coming back to tell you but the explosion happened on our way back from my laboratory on the islet. By the time we got back, I couldn’t find either of you.

” The King and Dervla share a look but don’t interrupt.

“Cedar, my brother, is missing. Kitto left a bag of serpentine at his house. She wanted me to know she was behind his kidnapping. Haelyn bought it to the laboratory but we didn’t realise the crystals in the bag were charged with magic.

They exploded. If we’d been there at the time, we’d be dead. ”

Dervla falls silent and looks at me curiously. She and the King straighten and glance at each other as if my new information answers a question that’s been bothering them for some time.

“I think we’ve found our traitor then, Your Highness,” she says gravely, condemning Haelyn completely.

“Haelyn, my Archivist?” The King’s condemnation sounds uneasy, as if he’s struggling to align Haelyn as a rebel supporter.

“No, she wouldn’t.” I refuse to believe she would harm anyone.

They’re missing the point: Kitto is the enemy.

Haelyn had no idea what the serpentine could do.

But then I think of her reaction yesterday, how quickly she understood my research, and the smallest seed of doubt creeps in.

If Haelyn is working with the rebels, then she’s caught up in something far bigger than she realises.

She would never hurt us or put herself in danger either.

“She’s from Tanwen,” Dervla mutters.

“But she was with us when the explosion happened! She wouldn’t put herself in harm’s way.”

“Maybe Kitto didn’t tell her what would happen. It would be a convenient way to tie up a loose end…” Dervla reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently before I can snatch it away.

Eskar’s stubbornly watching the reflection pool simmer.

“Captain Devath, bring her in for questioning. I trust you can get to the bottom of it quickly,” the King decrees, oblivious to Eskar’s trembling, clenched fists.

“No! You can’t torture her. Question her yourself. You can tell if she’s lying.” I can’t bear for my friend to suffer the same fate I did.

The King fixes me with a frigid stare, pinning me in place. “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?” I keep my gaze on him, steadfastly ignoring Dervla, whose face has paled.

“Fine. Bring her in now. We’ll discuss your research later. I haven’t forgotten.” I tremble a little at his tone. It brokers no argument.

Before Eskar or Dervla can move, I leave and run straight for the library.

Haelyn’s assessing the damage to a manuscript, a microscope monocle attached to her forehead, emphasising the lines of concentration.

She’s absorbed in her work, cataloguing each tiny tear and smudge so they can be repaired and preserved.

I watch quietly for a moment, struggling to reconcile my friend with the rebel group who have hurt so many.

“Haelyn, I need to ask you something.”

“Sage, how are you feeling after yesterday?” The microscope lens slips off her forehead, magnifying her already big brown eyes, making her look like a bug frozen in the face of a predator.

“The King and the Almanac think you’re the traitor, that you’ve been working with the Kevren Gwir.” My voice cracks as I evaluate her reaction. Despite advocating for her in the Concord chamber, that small flicker of doubt persists.

“No!” She stands abruptly, chair scraping the stone floor, making me wince. Covering her mouth, she sways, “I don’t understand… I wouldn’t…”

“I’m to bring you in for questioning. They’ve known about a traitor in the palace for some time and with your links to Tanwen and delivering the primed serpentine…” the implication sits heavy in the air.

She shakes, her breathing comes in quick, shallow pants, “They’ve got it all wrong. It wasn’t me. Don’t let Captain Devath take me.” Her hands clutch my arms, nails scratching deep.

“Not Eskar, the King.” I mean this to calm her, but it sends her further into hysteria.

“It’s not me, it’s not me!” In her desperation, her breathing gets faster, each word sounds like a physical slice to her throat. Eventually it cracks; she can’t speak, her lungs are working overtime, tears tracking down her face.

Her face reddens and swells with the effort of breathing properly; she scratches at her throat, eyes unfocused and fuzzy.

I can’t stand seeing my friend so distraught.I shout for help and Eskar appears. Haelyn shrinks at his approach, clawing backwards and twisting desperately to get away from him. Her muscles disobey her, weak from a lack of oxygen; she’s too far gone for me to calm her.

Eskar kneels before her and whispers his apologies as he cups her face with his hands, then there’s silence.

She slumps unconscious, her breathing eases and the redness drains from her face.

The tear tracks remain, two rivers drying on her cheeks and down to her throat.

He lifts her tiny frame and goes to carry her out of the room.

I stop him. “What will the King do to her now?”

“He’ll confirm the truth. His attitude can tell when people are lying.” His attitude? Dread curdles in my stomach, good company for the heavy weight of grief I carry.