“A severe crime deserves a severe punishment, Your Majesty.” Therewasa smug quality to Gothenfield’s tone, which Leander bristled at. He instantly didn’t like the man, and not because of what he was proposing should happen to Leander. “While execution may seem too extreme... it would send an appropriate message across the nation, and beyond, that you will not be cowed by even the most powerful.”
Leander swallowed, imagining what manner of death would be suitable for a disgraced demigod.
“Thank you, Lord Gothenfield. I am loathe, however, to use Leander as a… how did you so succinctly put it? Amessage. This is not a situation that meshes clearly with international political scheming.”
“But, Your Majes?—”
“Lord Talius. You have been uncharacteristically quiet. Have you nothing to say in the defence or condemnation of your son?”
More footsteps as presumably his father steppedforward. “No, Your Majesty. As with all things, I trust in, and defer to, your wisdom when it comes to this unpleasant matter.”
“And Lord Haldon, you are the victim of this dreadful attempt on your cerebral liberties. How would you see Lord Leander punished?”
Haldon stepped forward, face forward, he avoided making eye contact with Leander. “I, too, defer to you, my king. I propose that no swift action is taken tonight, not when emotions run high in the heat of the moment. With time and a trial to ascertain the, ah,truthof the matter, an appropriate punishment will be clear in your mind.”
Leander’s hands were now fists at his side. A trial would not exist for the purpose of him to speak for himself, to mitigate what he did. It would be for the pure and simple purpose of deeply humiliating him one final time, before his end.
“Very well,” King Caisa said. He tapped his fingers against the arm of his throne while he regarded Leander for a few moments. The seconds dragged into minutes. Everyone waited in quiet anticipation. “Leander Talius will be remanded into the custody of the crown while I consider this case. I will deliberate tonight and announce my decision in the morning.”
“Father, surely Leander can return to his home with Lord Talius. He is no flight risk, and his father can keep him secure.”
The king did not immediately answer the Vyrican prince as he considered, or pretended to consider, his son’s suggestion. “I think not, Lucien. Flight risk though hemight not be, I wish no harm to befall him tonight. He would be safer under the protection of my soldiers.”
Leander and Lucien shared a knowing glance. Protection had nothing to do with it, and Leander’s night was not going to be a pleasant one, regardless of how the king dressed it up with pretty words. Leander wasn’t under any delusions: he was in for a rough night.
Lucien was, in that moment, risen in Leander’s regard, as the only person willing, or brave enough, to speak up for him. Wishing he could thank Lucien for at least trying, he bowed his head towards the king, Leander did not resist as two guards approached and each took an arm. He was turned and marched down the remaining gap between the gathered nobles towards the doors.
His eyes darted left and right, seeking one face in particular.
When he found it, almost too late to look into it for any length of time as he tried to slow his pace, what he saw sent a cold chill down his spine. There he saw Jarryn’s expression, one of cold fury as his gaze followed Leander’s most recent, and possibly final, dishonour.
Chapter Thirty
The room—the cell—was completely bare, except for a bucket and a pile of packed straw which served as a bed. The cold, stone walls encased the space, with a single wooden door which opened periodically for a slave to bring in food. The cell was dark, with no windows, but it was not quite pitch black. There was a glimmer of light, though Leander was not quite sure where the source was, and it was barely enough light to really see by.
The cell was silent. The rushing noise of his own blood in his ears his only companion in the dark, his only awareness that time was even passing.
As it was, the demigod’s senses were reduced drastically in this room. It was not quite the sensation of oblivion, but it was not far off such a soul-destroying experience.
For a full three days, though to Leander it felt like a lifetime, he had been left alone in this nigh-dark, nigh-soundless room. Leander knew its purpose: to weaken him, bothphysically and mentally. Isolation was difficult enough, but reality seemed to warp when there was no visible proof of anything tangible.
Abandoned in this dark, dark hole for longer than was reasonable, Leander was left with nothing but his own thoughts. Once again, he was the accused. However this time, at least, he was furious. He had done nothing wrong—certainly he had not done something so flagrant as to earn this punishment.
It was outrageous.
He was the accused, he was the incriminated.
He was the damned.
And he had no way of arguing his case, for no one was coming. No one was going to listen to what he had to say in his own defence.
“Oh, Leo, no matter where you are, there will always be someone listening. There will always be someone watching. You, of all people, should know that.”
Leander started, opening his eyes and squinting into the gloomy darkness for the source of the voice.
“Over here, Leander.”
There, in the corner of the cell, was Leander’s long-time ally and friend.
