The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,165

Simon and Ruslan were, how terribly they’d treated Kiran, and how desperate he’d been to escape them both.

I gladly told her all about Simon’s intent to take down Sechaveh, pointed out a blood mage ruling the Ninavel would’ve made for a nasty neighbor, and emphasized how hard we’d all tried to stop him. Damn her eyes, Varellian’s face stayed hard and cold as an icefield in winter. She seemed most interested in Simon’s border charm. She made me recite every detail of both times I’d seen it used, twice over. Her disappointment when I couldn’t tell her more was clear.

When she’d squeezed that topic dry, she turned her attention to the subject of Kiran. She asked me question after question about his uses of magic, and the fight I’d seen between Kiran and Ruslan. When I told her how Mikail had given me the Taint charm, her lips pressed into a bloodless line, and several of the others exchanged meaningful looks. No question they didn’t like it. Maybe they wished Ruslan had won the fight, so they wouldn’t have to concern themselves with Kiran. Anger throbbed in my gut, but I kept it from my voice.

I didn’t have to fake exhaustion by the time she finally stopped. My mouth was parched and my legs trembled. Varellian glanced at the other councilors.

“Are there any other questions for the witness?”

A white-haired man in red and gray leaned forward. “Do you believe Kiran ai Ruslanov is a threat to Alathia?”

I snorted. “No.” The very thought seemed ludicrous. Kiran only wanted to be safe.

Mikail’s voice spoke in my memory: He’s more like Ruslan than you realize. Once again I saw Kiran standing in the meadow with his face twisted in defiant anger, energy flaring wild all around him, and recalled the naked yearning in his eyes when he’d talked of magic.

Before my traitorous mouth could add anything else, the man spoke again. “What of Ruslan Khaveirin? Is he a threat to this country?”

“Hell, yes.” The cheated fury on Ruslan’s face when the border snapped shut flashed into my head. “If I were you, I’d watch your backs,” I told the Council. And then hastily added, “If you kill Kiran...trust me, he’ll stop at nothing to destroy you for it.” A truth I was dead certain of, remembering that bizarre tenderness of Ruslan’s in the cave. Thanks to Tavian, I could guess Ruslan’s mind. Nobody got to hurt Kiran but Ruslan, the sick bastard.

The white-haired guy sat back again, a glimmer of satisfaction in his gray eyes. “I have no further questions.”

Another councilor in red and gray stood, this one a spindly, sour-faced man with a shock of auburn hair. He peered down his long nose at me like I was a roach he’d prefer to crush. “This isn’t the first time you’ve broken our laws with blatant disregard for the harm you cause our citizenry. How long have you smuggled deadly magical weaponry into our cities?”

“Weaponry? For Khalmet’s sake, I’ve only brought charms and wards!” I gladly let startled outrage take my tongue before I could blurt out the true answer to his question.

“Tell me the peaceful use for a charm like the one found on you at the time of your arrest, that splinters bone to razor-edged fragments.”

I matched his glare. “A man travels in the wild, he needs protection. Charms do the trick easier than crossbows or hackbuts, with a lot less weight to carry.”

He smiled unpleasantly. “Protection—a weapon, in other words. But again, I ask: how long?”

I struggled against the insidious pressure within, and lost.

“Four years.”

A murmur passed through the galleries above, like wind through pines. The sour-faced man turned to address the other councilors. “Years, he says! I tell you, if we remain lax in our response to lawbreakers, we’ll never halt this illegal trade! We must make an example of him to deter others. A public execution by fire at the gate would—”

The original bald-headed councilor rapped a fist on the table. “Enough, Niskenntal,” he said, his voice sharp. “Save your rhetoric for our deliberations. Have you any further questions for the witness?”

“I have all I need.” Niskenntal sat, not without throwing a final contemptuous glance my way.

Cold sweat soaked my sides. Execution by fire...gods. I opened my mouth to protest, but Varellian spread her fingers and magic closed my throat.

“The testimony is concluded,” she said, and nodded to Lena.

Lena drew me away, toward a wooden bench at the outer edge of the floor. I stumbled and nearly fell,