Lee’s trials

Counsil

*Lee*

The council chamber has not changed since I was twelve, which almost feels personally offensive.

It is still round, still carved from the heartwood of the oldest tree in Eirawen, still full of high-backed chairs designed to make everyone sitting in them appear several inches more righteous than they are. Pale green light seeps through the walls. A living branch curves above the central table, heavy with white blossoms despite the late hour.

Six councilors wait around it, along with Fileas.

They stop talking when I enter.

The doors close behind me.

I am wearing the same travel coat I arrived in. There is mud dried along the hem and a smear of something dark on one cuff from carrying my grandfather upstairs. Fileas has changed into ceremonial black, his silver-threaded braids flawless, his cuffs fresh and white.

I hate him a little for that.

"Prince Lyrian," says Councilor Vaelis.

She is old enough to have taught my grandfather, though her face has the smooth, untroubled look elves get when they have had several centuries to perfect being disappointed in younger people. A circlet of bronze leaves rests over her dark hair.

"Councilor," I say.

"Your grandfather?"

"Alive."

A breath moves through the room. Not relief. Calculation.

Fileas stands at the table's far end, hands folded before him. "Lady Edris has confirmed that the King requires extended rest."

"She has confirmed that he is ill," I say. "She has not confirmed anything beyond that."

"For clarity, the healer informed us that His Majesty cannot perform official duties."

"Did she say that, or did you?"

Fileas's gaze remains steady. "You were invited to hear the discussion. I suggest you do so."

There are six seats around the table. One belongs to Fealor. One to Fileas as the King's younger son. The remaining four belong to the oldest houses, the sort of families who have spent generations marrying each other and then pretending it was tradition rather than a lack of imagination.

A seventh chair sits empty beside Fileas.

My father's.

It has been empty for five years.

Nobody has removed it. That would be too honest. Instead, they keep it polished and vacant, a monument to uncertainty.

I take the chair opposite Fileas.

It is colder than I expect.

Councilor Haron clears his throat. He is a thin man with a golden beard and the worried eyes of someone who has spent his life expecting roofs to collapse.

"The city is aware the King was unwell at the west bough," he says. "The market quarter is already full of rumors. Some claim he was attacked. Others claim the roots rejected him."

"Roots do not reject people," I say.

Every face turns toward me.

I had not meant to speak. The words are simply there.

Haron blinks. "Of course."

"They get sick. They get injured. They can be poisoned. But they do not decide someone is unworthy and drop them down a staircase."

Fileas taps one finger against the table. A tiny, controlled sound. "No one has suggested that they do."

"Someone in the market has."

"The market also claims you arrived with a dragon."

"Thalia's backpack is large."

No one laughs.

Right. Grim council night. Terrible time for jokes.

Fileas looks down at a sheet of parchment before him. "The King is unable to govern. The city requires a regent. The law is clear."

"The law is not clear," I say. "My father is the heir."

A silence opens.

I feel the compass pressing against the inside of my coat pocket. I have wrapped it in a handkerchief. It still seems to pull west, as if the whole world has tilted.

Councilor Vaelis folds her hands. "Prince Pericles has been missing for five years."

"Missing," I say. "Not declared dead."

"He was lost beyond the western boundary," says Haron. "There was no confirmed sighting. No message. No body."

"No body," I repeat.

Fileas's eyes sharpen. "Do you have information regarding my brother?"

The careful way he says brother makes my skin crawl.

I think of the compass needle trembling in my palm. I think of being fifteen years old, my father handing it to me outside a stall selling candied pears. His hand had rested briefly on the back of my neck. He had smelled of rain and leather and the sharp mint leaves he chewed when he was thinking.

All paths become easier once you admit where you stand.

I look around the council table.

Fileas is watching me. Vaelis is waiting. Haron has gone pale under his worry.

If I show them the compass, they will take it. They will want Edris to examine it, then the archivists, then every magically trained scholar in the city. Fileas will be first to volunteer his help. By dawn, the only thing I have had from my father in five years will be locked behind a warded door.

And if the needle is wrong, I will have made myself look desperate in front of the people who will decide whether my family survives this.

"I have questions," I say.

Fileas's mouth barely moves. He is pleased with himself. He thinks he has won something.

"Then ask them," he says.

"Why was I not told Grandfather had been ill for months?"

Councilor Vaelis glances toward Fileas. So does everyone else.

He answers with maddening calm. "Father requested privacy."

"He asked you to keep it from me?"

"He asked that his grandson be allowed to complete his studies without the distraction of court alarm."

"That sounds unlike him."

"It sounds exactly like him," Fileas says, and there is something raw beneath the formality now. "He has spent your whole life trying to give you what he could not give Pericles or me. Distance from this place. Choices."

I grip the edge of the table.

He is not entirely wrong, which makes it worse.

Fealor did let me leave. He encouraged Yggdrasil. He wrote me letters full of complaints about my grades and questions about whether I was eating enough. He never asked me to return except for ceremonial days, family dinners, the occasional council event where I was expected to smile beside him and be proof that the royal line had not vanished with my father.

"He should have told me," I say.

"Yes," Fileas replies.

The softness in his voice makes me look at him.

For a second, he looks tired. Not polished or cruel. Just tired. He has been here while I was away. He has sat in this chamber through every meeting. He has answered every question about my father. He may have watched Fealor weaken and known that no matter what he did, people would question his motives.

Then the expression is gone.

"Grief is not a governing structure," he says. "We need a regent before morning."

Thalia would say that is one way to make a room hate you.

Councilor Vaelis lifts a hand. "The statute provides for a temporary regency during a sovereign's incapacity. The senior available royal may assume the position with council approval."

"My father is available," I say.

"No," Fileas says.

The word is quiet.

The room seems to pull around it.