Leander and the king were not on first name terms. To be called such in present company was disquieting, to say the least, especially when there was a myriad of options for nomenclature when being addressed.
“That is concerning, Your Majesty,” he replied, weighing every word before he said them. “How may I alleviate your troubles?”
The moment of the king staring down at him without speaking dragged for longer than was comfortable. There was the rustle of material behind him as courtiers moved, but he did not look around, knowing it would be a terrible faux pas to turn his back on the king of Vyrica.
“It seems you stand accused of a crime most flagrant and abominable. How do you plead?”
There was silence. The rustling of skirts behind him stopped and they could have heard a pin dropped. For his part, Leander opened his mouth before closing it, for he was worried that sarcasm would lace his response.
He had been here before.
A distant, yet still agonisingly familiar, memory.
“Well, Leander?”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. It is impossible for me to enter a plea if I don’t know what I am accused of. Or even who my accuser is,” Leander ground out, each word still carefully measured, each syllable enunciated and his voice carrying through the large room.
Behind the king, Prince Lucien’s forehead creased into a frown and he shook his head imperceptibly. Leander knew from that simple movement that he would do well to guard his tongue while speaking to the king tonight.
He could have worked that out for himself: the king’s tone was silk, his expression thunder.
“Aesthesia, boy. You executed an illegal use of Aesthesia. Lord Haldon, step forth. He is your accuser.”
Leander’s gaze didn’t even flicker.
Turning his head, he watched as Wester Haldon detached himself from his hiding spot within the crowd and made himself known to Leander.
Haldon’s expression was not smug. There was no smirk on his lips as he looked at Leander. In all actuality, Leander had never seen a more sober expression than the one covering the lord’s face. That made it worse, in a way.
“Your Majesty?—”
“I am not in the mood for your silver tongue tonight, Leander,” the king interrupted him. “I want to hear your plea and nothing else from your lips the next time you open them.”
There was nothing for it. Reasoning for his use of Aesthesia would not defend the fact that he had done it. Providing evidence of the lord’s illicit arms dealing wouldnot protect Leander. He had committed, as Lucien had phrased it earlier that day, espionage against the king’s own advisor. It was a crime punishable by death. Oh, how satisfied Serai would be to finally get what she had wanted all along.
He was already condemned. He could not lie his way out of this one.
“Guilty.”
The room erupted. There were shouts, exclamations of shock. There were mutters and whispers. There was movement.
All the while, Leander’s eyes never left the king’s face, which had not even twitched at his proclamation.
“Your Majesty, I demand swift and immediate action be taken against this admitted criminal.” It was not Haldon who spoke who spoke over the din of the crowd, but another. Someone Leander had only met in passing, but he was very good at names and faces and remembered him to be Lord Gothenfield: another of the king’s advisors. “Let it be known that no one is above the law. Not even the divine.”
What Gothenfield said was toeing the line of blasphemy and Leander’s eyes flickered. He wondered if his mother was watching. Or Taskevi.
He expected no help from them, but he still wondered.
“You speak well, Lord Gothenfield,” the king responded. He spoke softly, but it was enough to quieten down the cacophony of lords and ladies in the hall. “What would you suggest?”
Leander did not dare look around to look at Gothenfield. Nor did he seek comfort in searching out a friendlyface in the crowd, though he desperately wanted to. The peaceful time spent in the tearooms this morning was barely hours ago, but now he could scarcely remember it. What had just been a moment of utter joy in the presence of the man he loved had been replaced with a feeling of blinding fear in his utter isolation.
Son of Saeren’s patron or not, he was a fallen, disgraced demigod who had enough black marks against his name. His word, hells, his worth, meant nothing to these people. They were frightened of him.
He could feel that.
And, justifiably so, in turn he was frightened of them.
