Page 27 of Quicksilver

“What's this? Support for the traitor?” Belikon laughed coldly. “Sit down, Malwae. Rest your old bones. We'll be done here soon enough, and you can return to your scrying.”

“Alas, I wish I could, Highness,” Malwae croaked. “But the sword calls to me. I feel it. The last vestiges of the weapon’s power echo with prophecy. I’m half deaf with the blasted thing ringing in my ears.”

“A prophecy?”

“The sword still retains some power?”

Questions rose up around us. Too many to count. The Fae sitting on the benches seemed perturbed by the crone’s declaration.

“In order to hear the prophecy in full, I must hold the sword, Highness,” Malwae said. She held out her hand expectantly.

“The Oracle Sees!” a young female cried a few rows back. “A blessing! It’s a blessing!”

Belikon assessed the crowd, his murky eyes narrowing. Turning to Malwae, he said, “An audience in private, I think. An Oracle’s prophecies are for a king alone to decipher. But don’t worry, you may hold the sword once my work here is done.”

Malwae’s hand shot out and closed around Belikon’s wrist. In an instant, her cloudy eyes burned brilliant white, light spilling out of them and illuminating the dais. “The gods must be obeyed!” Her voice was a rasp a moment ago, but now it was all thunder and judgment. Her words boomed over the great hall. “The gods must be obeyed, lest House De Barra fall!”

Belikon’s mouth fell open, but before he could speak, Malwae grabbed the sword and closed her bony hand around its edge. A river of blood—bright blue—spilled down the steel.

A stunned silence fell over the crowd. Only the male in black, Kingfisher, broke it. He roared, scrambling, still trying to get loose.

“This Kingfisher does not die by your hand. Not today,” Malwae droned. “The Kingfisher shall not die by your hand.”

“What the hell is happening?” I whispered.

“Wait.” Everlayne clutched hold of my hand. “Just…wait.”

“What should a king who loves his people do then?” Belikon bit out. “Allow mad criminals to walk amongst them?”

The light leaking from Malwae’s eyes dimmed and then flared bright anew. “Return to him that which you have taken from him,” she intoned.

“The sword is mine—”

“The pendant,” Malwae interrupted. “It must be returned.”

“That pendant contains powerful magic. It doesn’t belong around the neck of a treacherous dog. It belongs to me. I'll be cold in the ground before I give it back to this...this...”

“The gods must be obeyed lest House De Barra fall!” Malwae cried. “The gods must be obeyed lest the Winter Palace fall!”

The king fought to master his obvious rage. “And who am I to argue with the gods?” He grinned at Malwae—a quick flash of brilliant white teeth, sharp as daggers—and then turned ruefully back to the crowd. The Fae in the gallery were up out of their seats, arguing with one another over Kingfisher's fate. “Peace.Peace, my friends. Malwae has reminded me that issues such as these must be handled correctly. The Bane will be granted his sanity for a time.”

“Lock him away!” a woman screamed, her voice tinged with hysteria.

“Keep him in the dungeons!”

“Set him free!”

“SEND HIM BACK TO THE FRONT!” a deep voice boomed. “Make him fight! Make him finish what he started!” From wall to wall, floor to towering ceiling, the thunderous voice commanded silence from the other Fae, who all ceased their shouting.

I'd been staring at the male still pinned to the floor, watching him thrash. I tore my gaze from him, looking over my shoulder, trying to locate the owner of the ringing demand. Everlayne did the same; I could see her pulse fluttering frantically in the hollow of her throat.

Belikon smiled thinly as he, too, searched for the source of this disruption amongst his subjects. “It would be ill-advised, unleashing a dangerous threat upon a war camp. Come forward and defend your suggestion, speaker. Explain yourself.”

A shockwave of tension rippled through the cavern. Malwae and Everlayne shared a cautious look, but both held their tongues as the Fae parted and the huge male who visited my room earlier came into view.

Seven feet tall and heavily tattooed, Renfis emerged from the crowd, making himself known. His sandy brown hair fell past his shoulders. Since I'd seen him last, he'd landed himself a black eye and a split lip. He had also developed a slight limp when he walked, which led me to believe the past few hours had not been fun for him. Whispers followed on his heels as he made his way toward Belikon and the restrained Kingfisher.

“General Renfis?” Belikon cast around, frowning as if confused. “You're supposed to be at the front. Didn't I chargeyou with winning my war? And here you are, entering my palace? And armed to the teeth no less? I have to say, this is very confusing.”