“No.” Val shook his head as his eyes slowly cleared and tried to think. “I would never use poison—”
Dornar sneered. “Are you trying to make us believe that you, of all people, would not use poison?”
Val dragged a tired hand down his face. He was half-strangled, bruised, and still coming down from the rage of battle. Nothing was making sense. He knew,knew, that there was a trap somewhere in Dornar’s words, but he couldn’t see it. “I would never do something so dishonorable,” he replied slowly.
“Well,” Dornar replied, truly smug, “how can we believe that, when everyone knows that your sister poisoned the previous Lord High Chancellor?”
Gods.
There was a gasp from the crowd as Ramiel nodded bleakly. “Truth.”
“Your sister is a murderer with a love of poison,” Dornar said snidely. “Perhaps she helped you?”
“No,” Val spat, incensed. “She’s not a murderer. And we certainly didn’t poison the king. I haven’t even seen her since this morning—”
“Did she murder Grendel with a poison-tipped blade?” interrupted Dornar loudly.
“No,” Val said, categorically.
Ramiel shook his head, his eyes narrowing. “Not true.” There was a gasp from the crowd as they turned to stare at Nim. Gods.
Tristan pushed his way through the Clibanarii to Val and glared at Dornar. “This whole ridiculous conversation is being manipulated. Dornar is giving only a small fraction of the truth. Grendel was a vicious sadist who was killed in self-defense. Or have you conveniently forgotten the innocent men locked in a house and set on fire, my Lord Dornar?”
“Enough!” Ramiel glanced at the king lying dead on the ground, his eyes cold and hard as he drew himself to his full height. “None of that is on trial here.”
Val stepped forward, so very grateful for the solid presence of Tristan at his back, and looked Ramiel in the eye. “I swear to you, on all that I love, on my sister’s life if that would help, that I did not poison the king. And nor did she.”
Ramiel nodded slowly, his face softening. “Truth.”
“Actually, I think I can tell you what happened.” Haniel stepped forward and gestured to one of the Clibanarii. “Please fetch both swords.”
The two swords were quickly passed to Haniel, the heavy longsword with its distinctive curved blade that Val had borrowed, and the elegant, double-edged, jeweled greatsword belonging to the king.
Haniel held them both up to the light, hoisting them by their hilts so that the blades stretched out in front of him. “Look.” He tipped his head toward the king’s sword. “The very tip of this one has broken off. Perhaps when the sword clipped Lanval’s gauntlet?”
He passed the swords back to the soldier and stepped over to the king. “And see here.” He rolled the king’s head gently to one side, exposing a bloody cheek. “When that tiny piece of the sword snapped off, it flew back to cut the king’s cheek. If he had poison on his sword, intended for Lanval, then it seems likely that the tip of his sword would be the most toxic. I suspect that, in the end, he killed himself.”
Val felt the air catch in his lungs. The extra lining in the gauntlet had saved his life. That slim strip of metal had turned the sword, snapping off the tip. If he’d been wearing leather gauntlets, he would have died.
There was a moment of complete silence following this pronouncement, and then a huge uproar as the crowd realized the true depth of what was being said.
The king had dishonored himself. And now he was dead.
But Val didn’t care about the king’s lack of honor. He had known since that first terrible night that Ballanor had none. The most important thing was that he was dead. Truly dead. At his own hand. And he could never hurt anyone again.
He would never touch Alanna again.
Val staggered, almost light-headed with relief and exhaustion, but Tristan was there, gripping his arm solidly, and he found his feet.
He lifted his eyes and found Nim and Alanna had been allowed to come forward with the rest of the Hawks. They were still held in a tight ring a few feet from where the king lay dead, but close enough that they had all heard Haniel.
He caught their eyes. They were both pale and wide-eyed, but holding each other’s hands, their smiles growing as they leaned on each other, half stunned by the immensity of the reprieve they’d all been given.
Tristan grunted beside him and then raised his voice toward the Nephilim. “I think we should ask the Lord High Chancellor where the poison came from. After all, he was the king’s second.”
Dornar folded his arms across his chest. “I am not responsible for the king’s actions.”
Val frowned. The words were so clever and manipulative, sounding like a denial without actually saying the words. “Answer the question, Dornar. Did you help Ballanor in this?”
