I thought I knew what she meant. “How isyoursong?”
It persists for now.She touched my hand.But I have only a few hours left . . . Make good use of them.
A gentle gust of wind blew from the ground beneath her, stirring ashes into the air. They fell lazily back to the earth around her, and the Ward receded into the soil.
I pressed my palm into the dirt to say goodbye, and up through my hand came a new voice—one so low it got into my bones:And still you know nothing of true dark . . .
I began to tremble, feeling suddenly small, insignificant, helpless—Lady put a hand on my back. “Something wrong, Jack?”
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t fine, but it would do no good to tell her that now. Something was still unsettled, something other than Brach and his revolution. And someone or something had just tried to tell me as much, speaking into my mind from beneath the most ancient soil of the Strata. I remembered then, from my books, that there was one more stratum, lower still—the Primordial. Some said it was hardly a stratum at all, being nothing but dark . . .
“The Iron Horse is lost, then,” said Kincaid, breaking me from my thoughts. “The ward will weaken, and Brach’s recovery teams will find the song. The man will have his revolution.”
“Maybe not.” I turned to Lakshmi. “How long until my trial?”
The raptorial checked her watch. “We have an hour. If we’re late, you’ll be convicted in absentia. They won’t reconvene.”
Chuey put away his macuahuitl. “Legal tricks. That what you’re thinking, Jack? Stall ’em out like they wanted to do to you?”
“I think that’s the only play left,” I said.
Cassius sheathed his sword. “If it is helpful, I will confess to my crime at your trial.”
“Vestige confession won’t hold much weight there,” Lakshmi told us, “and the penalty for your crime is dismissal.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said, standing. “I think the idea is to cast enough doubt on Brach to buy ourselves some time. And maybe if we do, the Strata Chancery will intervene, help us restore the ward for the good of the Strata.”
“There is no agreement on what is good for the Strata,” said Church. “That is why we go to trial.”
“Then let’s hurry,” I said. “The ward is almost gone.”
Thunder rolled over us in long waves as we hurried back toward the Steps. Something was out there on the ancient plain. Made me think there might be more than one good reason to ask the Strata chancellors for help renewing the ward. We reached the Steps and climbed, tunneling up toward my trial.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: two: why, then, ’tis time to do’t.—Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?
—William Shakespeare,The Tragedy of Macbeth,quoted by Amelia Dyer at her Convocation trial
He enteredthe Medieval Stratum and made our way to the Palace of Westminster, forever the home of Parliament. Beyond it lay Westminster Abbey, hulking in the twilight. But in front of us the walls of Westminster Hall rose tall and majestic. Flint and stone dressings framed thirty-foot windows divided by plate traceries. Bright light from within lit the stained glass in vibrant hues that spread across the yard behind us.
Lakshmi had explained that, by tradition, all trials were held at Westminster Hall on the Medieval Stratum, because this was the era in which it was built.
The doors opened and a tall, slender man appeared. His shadow bore the thin scarlet rim of a raptorial. He dressed us down with his eyes, then nodded to Lakshmi. She stepped forward, and the two exchanged hushed words. A moment later, the man motioned us to follow.
Just inside, an elderly woman played a bright russet light on a terra-cotta lantern and peered into our shadows. She nodded, and six raptorials appeared to escort us up the steps to the vestibule of St. Stephen’s porch. Vaulted stone arched high above us. On our right, multicolored light shone through dozens of stained glass windows. On our left stood the massive opening to Westminster Hall, from which we heard a crowd of murmuring voices.
Church asked our raptorial escorts to give us a moment to confer privately. They withdrew a few paces, and Church pulled us into a small circle. “Preposterous as it is, the central accusation is still that you killed Henry.”
“Yes, but we’ve got to make this about Brach,” I said, “about howhiskilling Henry was a crucial part of his plan to take his revolution topside.” “We have precious little evidence to prove Brach’s culpability,” said
Church.
Cassius was our only evidence tying Brach to Henry’s murder. But if he confessed, he’d be dismissed. I couldn’t let that happen. Besides which, it just felt like I was missing something.
“More than that,” Church went on, “if you accuse Brach without evidence and lose the trial, punishments for any of your other Precedent indiscretions will seem like child’s play.”
The raptorials signaled our time was up and led us around a short wall of fluted stone to the long view of Westminster Hall. I had to stop and take a breath, trying to fathom what I’d gotten myself into.
