Because she was about to need as much self composure as she could muster.
Mordred stepped forward and cleared his throat as the hall quieted.
“By the invocation of the Trial of Purity, this court convenes to—” His voice carried, but it wasn’t loud. In truth, Mordred was never loud; yet, his voice reached every corner, every pressed-back servant, every bored courtier who’d come for spectacle.
“This court convenes to weigh a charge brought forward by Sir Galahad, Knight of the Round Table, against the prisoner known as Guinevere of Annwyn, Daughter of Merlin.”
A murmur went through the room, and it was the type of murmur that moved through silk sleeves, embroidered collars, and landed in the ears of people who would remember it and repeat it later in smaller, darker rooms. Such was how gossip spread.
I kept my face neutral, or as neutral as I was able to keep it. But the truth was that I was beyond irritated. Galahad didn’t know his place. And my decision to keep him titled and allow him to keep his seat at the Round Table was now coming back to bite me in the ass.
Mordred produced a scroll, which he unrolled without ceremony. “Sir Galahad has submitted the following account to the record of this court.” He paused a brief, precise pause. “That in the course of his custodial examination of the prisoner, he observed persistent and unnatural resistance to purification rites. That the prisoner exhibited signs of spiritual corruption including, but not limited to: unnatural physical endurance, emotional suppression inconsistent with feminine temperament, and the manifestation of destructive magical force that breached a binding placed by me, Lord Mordred Vesperian, Royal Archmage of Logres.”
Another murmur, but louder this time.
I watched Guinevere’s face across the length of the hall, and she’d gone to stone. Her eyes were fixed on a point somewhere above Mordred’s shoulder, and her hands were folded in front of her, fingers laced. The lacing was tight and growing tighter by the second. That was the only tell that she was uncomfortable.
“Sir Galahad further submits,” Mordred continued, his tone unchanged, “that during a nocturnal session of spiritual examination, the prisoner became violent. That she unleashedthe aforementioned magical force without warning, without provocation—”
I watched something move across Guinevere’s face then, something akin to a flinch. It was there and gone in under a second.
“—and that this violence was consistent with demonic possession rather than native magical ability, in that it lacked form, discipline, or intent beyond destruction.”
Mordred rolled the scroll slightly, and I heard the parchment creak in the silence.
“On the basis of these observations, Sir Galahad invoked the Trial of Purity before six witnesses of good standing, requesting that this court submit the prisoner to divine examination and render judgment accordingly.”
Mordred let that sit. Then he set the scroll down on the table beside him with a soft, final sound and turned to face the hall with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Before this court proceeds,” he said, “it is my obligation as Royal Archmage to note, for the formal record, that the account submitted by Sir Galahad contains certain... inconsistencies.”
That quieted the murmur completely, and my attention sharpened.
Mordred’s eyes moved across the room with the same unhurried pace as always, but there was something behind them now. Something deliberate.
“The binding, which I placed upon the prisoner myself, was not, as Sir Galahad’s account implies, broken by a wild and uncontrolled eruption of demonic force.” He said the words as if he was completely bored. “It was breached, and that is an important distinction to note. A wild eruption would shatter a binding indiscriminately. What occurred was a targeted fracture at a specific point of structural vulnerability. That is not the behavior of a creature operating without form or intent.” Hepaused. “That is the behavior of a practitioner under extreme duress.”
The room was very quiet, but I said nothing, even if I was pleased that Mordred had made the distinction. Whatever small wins we could gain against the ridiculousness of this trial, I was all for them.
Mordred inclined his head toward the prisoner, a gesture so slight it was almost not there at all.
“The prisoner will now submit to personal examination by this office. The examination will determine the presence or absence of demonic influence, assess the nature and origin of her magical ability, and render a formal finding to be entered into the court record.” He looked at the hall again. “The examination is not punitive. Rather, it is procedural, and it will be conducted with appropriate rigor and appropriate restraint.”
That last sentence was for Galahad, who was standing to the left of Mordred with his hands folded, his eyes down, and his expression so perfectly composed it looked painted on. I thought about the bruises I’d seen on her. And I thought about Mordred’s careful, quiet correction that he’d just slipped into the record like a knife between ribs.
Mordred turned to the prisoner directly.
“Guinevere of Annwyn,” he said. “Step forward.”
But before Guinevere could so much as take a step, Galahad moved. He came from where he’d been standing just before the assembled knights, and he moved fast. He crossed the floor in eight strides, grabbed her by the arm, and wrenched her sideways and away from both Mordred and the guards before any of them could even process what was happening.
She made a sound, one that was short, surprised, and afraid.
He dragged her forward into the open space before the front of the room, into the sight of everyone, and he turned to face the room with his eyes blazing.
“In the name of the Gods who see all wickedness,” he yelled, and his voice didn’t shake. No, it was trained, which meant he’d been practicing. “I declare this creature an instrument of darkness, a witch and a consort of fallen powers, and I demand her life be given to the Flame of Judgment.”
The room went very quiet as he drew his dagger.
