Page 49 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)
Accusation
The boy who came stalking up the aisle was young in age, but rage gave him the authority of a warrior.
He was dressed in the uniform of the guards, and the scent of the rascovnic he had used to open the doors was still strong. As he walked, he threw off the cap and jacket, so that the obsidian sword at his waist was visible.
Two gaganas flew with the boy, and a chimaera followed him: every one of its three faces was livid with purpose. Gasps followed them up the aisle.
“People of Dousha!” he cried. “A murderer stands before you. Claude Argen is three times guilty. Guilty of the murder of his father, the old king; guilty of framing his brother, the true king; and guilty, now, of the murder of his niece, Anya Argen, Princess of Dousha.”
The two gaganas took off and flew to land on her body.
Claude Argen’s breathing grew quick. He flicked his hand at the guards.
“Guards! Who is this boy? Arrest him!”
The soldiers surged forward, and the tension broke. A rumble of confusion and anger ran through the mourners.
But Christopher Forrester was unafraid; the day had entered his blood, and he felt a kind of fierce joy. “Stop! I have proof that the princess was poisoned. I will not leave until you hear it.”
“Guards!” cried Claude. “What are you waiting for? Get the boy!”
Two of the tallest soldiers drew their swords.
“No!” a single voice called out. “Let him speak!” It was Rillian Gerund, the chancellor, getting to shaky feet. His voice was louder than it had ever been in his life. “You will let the boy speak!”
“Claude Argen,” said Christopher. “The evidence is on your skin; your clothes; your hair. You are covered in your own poison.”
“You are absurd! Get him out of here! Will nobody rid the room of this boy?”
“Anya splashed your hands and hair with it, your medallion, your shoes and jacket and skin, before she drank the poison, in the dark. No more than flickers of liquid. But it sticks.”
“Why?” Rillian Gerund said. “What are you saying?”
“Anya Argen knew that her uncle intended to poison her. She knew that she would never be safe while he lived free. And she could not live without justice for her father. She was told that she would never get into the castle, would never again stand in front of you all alive. So she chose to do it in death.”
The anger in his voice was brutal: the oldest and wisest heard it and shivered.
“It was the only proof she could offer that she knew would be believed: her dead body, laid out in front of you all, and Claude Argen’s stained hands.”
Claude’s voice was a bark. “This is despicable—to come and spin mad tales on this day of all days. Will nobody take him away, by the Immortal!”
“Wait! I said that I have proof. I wouldn’t expect you to believe me. But I expect you to believe them. ”
And Christopher Forrester put the sphinx tooth in his mouth and whistled: a high, unearthly sound. The Poison Flock, their feathers alight and glowing blood-red, came sweeping into the room.
The firebirds would not follow any stranger into the castle walls—except, of course, a boy who came sphinx-toothed, speaking their language; a boy to whom all living creatures came as allies.
Christopher Forrester, the future guardian of the waybetween, whistled again, and the Poison Flock circled faster around the heads of the crowd, a carousel of feathers and flames.
“They detect poison. So—if you have handled no poison, they will ignore you, as they’ll ignore every other man and woman in this room. But—”
Christopher did not need to finish his sentence.
The firebirds swept toward Claude, and there they stopped, snapping at his hair, shoes, cloak, pecking at the chain he wore around his neck.
There was one moment of deadly hush, and then the room shook with cries, yells, roars: “Treachery!” “Villainy!” “Murderer!”
Dr. Ferrara was on her feet. “Lock the doors!”
In the chaos nobody was looking, now, at the marble table on which lay Anya’s body. Only the two gaganas, the young and old, had never once taken their eyes from her face.
Now the older bird’s gaze swept the room. Gallia clacked her beak at Koo: it was time. Koo pecked the girl’s cheek, a gesture of unadulterated love, high up on the bone, near her closed eye. A droplet of blood welled upon the pale skin.
“Mine,” said Koo. “Mine.”
Claude Argen’s voice rose above the others. The birds still flocked about him with their high screams, but his cry was louder. “The birds lie! This is ludicrous! I’ve heard enough. Arrest him! Kill the creatures!”
The soldiers moved upon the crowd, surging toward Christopher. There was the ring of blades pulled from scabbards.
Christopher drew his sword, ready to fight. The chimaera bared all its teeth.
In the crowd people screamed, pushed aside by soldiers.
And then a voice.
“Royal guards. I command you to stand down.”
The voice that rang out was so clear, so cut from rage, that nobody who heard it ever forgot it.
The dead girl rose to her feet and curtsied low: to the room, to the birds, to the world itself.
“Claude Argen. Duke of the Blue Mountains, Lord of Dane Waters, Prince of Dousha. You are a liar. You killed me, like you killed my grandfather. But I refused to die.”