“Bring in the prisoner,” the councilor said, raising his voice to be heard by the guards stationed outside the door.
“Not in the family room,” Queen Cara protested.
“I apologize, Your Majesty. Is there another place we can question him without compromising the privacy of Prince Aden?”
“Is this truly necessary?” Queen Cara asked.
“I could transmit the information he has given us,” the councilor responded, “but this is a time in which we cannot trust anyone, and I would never presume that you would blindly trust me. This is a matter which concerns you directly, your whole family even, and it is of the utmost importance that you hear any information directly from the source.”
Queen Cara gave a single nod, but Aden could imagine that her lips were pressed into a thin line of displeasure.
“Wait.” King Frederich turned to his daughter. “Meena, it really is getting late—”
“I’m staying,” she responded, cutting him off. “This is my kingdom and my family.” She looked toward Aden, her honest eyes likely filled with sympathy.
He resented her pity, but he would not ask her to leave. He remembered how it had felt when he had been the youngest, to be excluded from the meetings and activities that Ian and Onric were allowed to participate in. Besides, his father could only shelter her from the reality of the situation for so long.
King Frederich did not affirm her, but he sighed deeply as he turned back to the councilor, waiting for him to proceed.
The councilor gave a curt nod to the guard who had entered the room at his earlier command. A few moments later, Lord Munney, the previous councilor to Iseldis, was brought into the room.
Aden expected to feel something when he saw his attacker for the first time since he had been cursed—shock, horror, anger—but he felt nothing. Munney had disguised himself during the attack, so it was not as though Aden had known what was happening in the moment.
He could tell that the man’s shoulders were bowed and his face turned down. But his eyes must have been scanning the people in the room, looking for him, as Aden heard a sneering hiss in his direction.
That sinister sound, barely audible as it was, made Aden’s hair stand on end and the claws in his hands curl out of their protective padding.
But Munney had reached the center of the room and turned his back to Aden, facing the king and queen with his head bowed. Munney’s hands had been bound in front of him, and Aden could make out the rough outline of what appeared to be a wooden bar tied across his mouth. Since the use of magic was directly invoked through the power of song, they had probably gagged him as a defensive measure.
“I have extensively questioned former council member Abadia Munney on our journey here from Chendas,” the lead councilor was saying. “He will answer my questions now fully and honestly, and you are free to interrogate him after that.”
King Frederich nodded.
As everyone’s attention remained fixed on the bound man they had once trusted, Aden felt like a strange outsider. This small room, so used to the intimate laughter of his gathered family, now held all the austerity of a throne room. Even if it could once again be filled with laughter, Aden felt that he was no longer part of the family circle.
The confident voice of the councilor brought him back to the present. “What was your intent with the violent attack you made during the ball four nights ago?” Unhindered by emotion, the councilor asked his first question without rising from his chair.
The guard stepped forward to remove the gag from Munney’s face so he could speak. Aden cringed at the small popping sound as the man stretched his facial muscles.
“My intent was to kill the crown prince,” Munney said, keeping his face downturned. His answer was practiced and expected, but the spite in his voice decried his humble posture.
Ian, who was fully facing the prisoner, inhaled heavily. Aden could imagine the tension in his face. Ian’s hands were gripping the wooden armrests of his chair, as though he was attempting to keep himself from strangling the man who tried to murder him. Aden could not blame him. The claws in his own hands slid easily in and out of their casings.
“With what power did you execute your attack?” the councilor continued.
“With the power of the Majis.”
“How have you come into possession of this power? Are you a Majis?”
“Yes.” Though Munney’s answer was a single word, it was laced with pride.
“How have you come into possession of this power?” the councilor repeated.
“My ancestors went into hiding during the exile and have passed down my heritage, father to son, for generations. We have long awaited the time to take back what is our own.”
“How did the murder of Ian Omaris Sirilian fit in with that plan?” The councilor asked these questions with a practiced efficiency. He already knew the answer to each one, and he was ensuring that Munney gave a full account of his actions to the king and queen. Aden had to admit that this method was far more effective than he had anticipated.
“Ian stands to inherit a throne that does not belong to him. I may have failed in my attempt four days ago...” Munney lifted his head to stare straight at Ian. “But when my people return from their exile, they will take back what is theirs.”
