Page 117 of Burn of the Everflame

On the other side of the room, Alixe was talking with Nidara, who I’d appointed as the Ignios Regent over the passionate objections of the desert’s noblemen. Luther paced in a wide circle, trying to keep me in sight while simultaneously avoiding his father, who was chasing him in a zealous effort to speak. My brother stood awkwardly by himself. He was carefully watching Doriel, who had pulled the head of House Benette aside to a quiet corner, both their faces animated with intense discussion.

That left me deeply unsettled. I looked again for Luther, hoping I could signal him to intervene. His father had finally caught up, and Luther was listening to him speak with a troubled frown. After a moment, his gaze snapped to Garath, Remis’s brother and one of my loudest detractors, who was seated at the council table beside Marthe Hanoverre, my other bitter foe.

Both were smiling.

That unsettled me most of all.

“There you are!” Eleanor’s bright voice pulled my attention back to the short, stocky man whose hand she clutched. “I’m so pleased you agreed to take the seat.”

The man gave a clipped grunt and tried to yank his hand back, though he only succeeded in pulling Eleanor closer. She looked back and forth between us and beamed. “I suppose you two need no introduction.”

I stared blankly at him. Something about his face was vaguely familiar, but with my Sophos magic trapped by the cuffs, whatever memories he inhabited were too hazy to place.

If his scowl was any indication, he had no problem placing me. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

My eyes shot to Eleanor in an urgent help me stare. “I’m certain we’ve met, but your name . . .”

“Perhaps you remember my cousin—Perthe Benette.”

The world flashed icy and dark, that name a falling axe. Suddenly, I was back on Coeurîle, sitting by a grave, alone and cold and hungry and losing myself to madness.

“Yes, of course,” I said hoarsely. “Perthe was very special to me.”

“So it’s true? He’s dead?”

On my wrist, one of the cuffs shuddered and cracked.

I managed a nod. “I’m sorry for your loss. He served his realm with honor.”

His stare hardened. “He served you. I warned him you’d get him killed, but he insisted we both owed you a life debt.”

The memory of our first meeting finally came into view: A burning building. An unconscious man. A desperate Perthe, begging me not to leave either of them behind to die.

“You were at the armory,” I murmured.

Eleanor’s mortified stare ricocheted between us. “Oh—I thought . . . I heard you saved Norwick the night of the rebel attack. I, um . . . I assumed you’d both remember.”

“I don’t recall much from that night,” he said. “I woke up in so much pain, I begged them to kill me just to end it. After the fifth hour of listening to me scream, I’m surprised they didn’t.”

Eleanor gave a nervous laugh. “Well, we’re both so glad they didn’t. Look at you now, healed and strong. Thank the Blessed Kindred for sending Her Majesty to rescue you.”

Neither Norwick nor I answered as we held each other’s stare.

“Perhaps it was fate,” Eleanor offered. “The Blessed Kindred must have known this day would come.”

“You mean the day I’d have to sit at a table with the same people who tried to kill me and treat them as equals?” He jerked his head toward my mother. “All because Her Majesty decided to let the rebels go free?”

“The man responsible for the armory attack is in the north,” I said. “And if I find him⁠—”

The words sputtered to a stop.

I had found Vance, and I’d spared him the death he deserved. I could not promise justice to Norwick when I was the reason that justice had been denied.

So I did the thing I so rarely chose to do: I told him the truth.

“You’re right. I did let the rebels go.”

He balked. Eleanor cringed.