Chapter 40: Temper

The morning after the ball, the von Rhenia family, the two princes, and Clara were led into a side room at the garrison by a Church soldier in white-and-gold armor. Emma, who’d taken the recent developments with remarkable resilience, had stayed behind to work with the rest of the von Rhenia servants to buy supplies and organize things for the family’s extended stay, since their departure had originally been scheduled for today. Of course, plans had changed.

There was a wide, thick pane of dark glass in front of them, covering almost the entire wall. The rest of the room was sparsely decorated, with the only things of note being a few wooden benches arranged in rows facing the glass.

Ciarán immediately went for the front bench. He sat, then wedged his hands between his knees and pressed them together. There were dark circles under his pale eyes, and his hair hadn’t been properly combed despite Clara’s attempts to get his permission to do so. His stare was fixed on the dark glass.

Iris sat on the second bench, and Clara stood next to her beside it. The girl had been quiet the entire way from the hotel to the garrison. She wore a simple gray dress, with no ribbons or jewelry to note. Every few moments, her lower lip would tremble, and she’d press it flat with her teeth.

Duke von Rhenia and Duchess Adelheid sat in the back row. The duke’s expression was utterly still—he could almost have passed for a marble statue in Elysia city, if not for the slight hollowing around his eyes. The duchess, too, was unflappable, with not a trace of either her graceful gentleness or any emotional disturbance in her steady crimson gaze.

Lochlann and Conrad didn’t sit; each stood against the wall on opposite sides of the room. Their bearings were almost mirrors of each other—both had their arms crossed and their brows furrowed, but Conrad’s stare burned with a cold fury that seemed barely leashed, while Lochlann’s was more of a restrained worry. It was odd to see, since Clara had already pegged Lochlann as very impulsive.

Save for the rain drizzling outside, there was silence. Eventually, the guard who’d escorted them in stepped towards the glass and raised his gauntleted hand. A topaz set into a ring on his index finger pulsed with light.

“Vitrum, ostende quod celat. Voces transire sine.”

The dark glass shimmered, and a ripple spread through it like that of a pond disturbed by a stone. The pane slowly cleared, revealing the interrogation room on the other side. It was a plain chamber, smaller than the one they sat in, with only a table, two chairs, and the same damp stone walls. On the left chair was Rowena, her wrists shackled to the table. Warren sat opposite to her, and Tobias waited near the door.

When Warren spoke, his voice came through the glass as clearly as if Clara had been standing right next to him.

“Dame Rowena. I trust you’ve been informed of the situation. I am Warren Righton of Albion, appointed by the Ecumenical Council as the representative of the Holy Inquisition in Westwick.”

The knight nodded slowly. She looked diminished without her uniform or armor, wearing only a plain shirt. There were still red specks on her fingernails, and her bloodshot eyes were unfocused.

“The enchantment is one-way,” the Church soldier explained quietly from beside the glass. “You may observe and converse freely, without disturbing those inside.”

That’s very convenient. And certainly one way to recreate a modern police station inside a fantasy setting.

Warren placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. “Before we begin, I want to be clear about the process. You’ll be asked a series of questions about last night, and I expect you to answer them honestly. Should you be indicted, you will be tried under the Blessing of Truth, and any discrepancy between your answers today and your answers then will result in legal consequences. Do you understand?”

Rowena swallowed hard. “I am no liar. A knight has her honor.”

“Very well. Walk me through your evening yesterday.”

“I was at the banquet.” Her brows furrowed deeply, forming crinkles on her scarred forehead. “I was drinking.”

“How much did you drink? Who were you with?”

“The usual. It was a good stout. I was with Ricardo, two professors, and some maids. The servants of the little lady. Oh, and there was a priest, too.”

That was ‘the usual’? I feel bad for her liver…

“What happened after that?”

Rowena tried to raise her right hand, making the shackles crinkle.

“I—I… I challenged Ricardo to a wrestling match. He refused. Said he wasn’t in the condition for it. That we could do it tomorrow.”

“How did you take that response?” Warren’s tone had a professional neutrality.

“I accepted it. I had no desire to fight him when he wasn’t at his full strength.”

“A noble sentiment.”

Rowena looked to the side. Clara could almost believe she was staring at them through the glass, if not for what the guard said.

“Nothing to do with being noble. A good match takes a strong opponent, is all.”

There was a slight tug at Warren’s lips. “And what did you do after he refused?”

“I was drunker than I expected. So I went back to my room. The priest helped me.”

“The ‘priest’ being Father Leofric?”

Rowena shrugged. “He didn’t say his name. But I think that’s what Sir Ricardo called him.”

“And when you got to your room?”

“I fell asleep. I was tired. And very drunk.”

Warren’s right index finger moved up and down on the table. “Did you see Major Ricardo again that night?”

She closed her eyes, and the shackles crinkled again. “I… I remember his voice. Yes, he was in my room. Shouting.”

“Shouting? About what?”

Rowena’s mouth opened, but she didn’t speak. Somehow, she furrowed her brows even more intensely.

No surprise she’s having trouble recalling, given her state last night.

“I don’t remember much. Something about our match. And he said something about Ciarán.”

“What about His Highness?”

Rowena clenched her fists. “About his parentage. Him being… a bastard. Insults.”

A strangled whimper escaped Ciarán’s mouth.

“Lies,” said Conrad. “I don’t believe a word that came out of her mouth. This is nothing but a slander on Ricardo’s honor. I’m not surprised to see this from a knight of the royal household.”

For once, Clara agreed with the sentiment. Calling someone a bastard didn’t sound like Ricardo. Is Rowena lying, so she can say she killed him to defend the prince’s honor?

“Lady Rowena. Did you attack Major Ricardo?” asked Warren.

“Yes. I did.” Her voice was low.

Ciarán shot up to his feet. “She’s wrong! She doesn’t even remember! She was drunk! How can she say yes when she doesn’t remember?”

“Your Highness,” the duchess started, reaching for the boy.

But he pulled away violently. “Don’t touch me!” He turned to Clara. “You! Maid! You have to stop this!”

Iris glared at him. “Clara serves House von Rhenia. She would never help Ricardo’s killer.”

“But Rowena didn’t—”

Duke von Rhenia spoke without raising his voice. “Prince Ciarán. Sit down.”

“I won’t! She wouldn’t—Rowena would never—”

“Sit. Down.” The duke’s voice didn’t change in volume, but he added a deep weight to its tone.

Ciarán’s mouth snapped shut. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and he sank back onto the bench, burying his face in his arms. Lochlann took a single step toward his brother, hesitated, then stopped, falling back to the wall.

On the other side of the glass, Warren continued. “Can you describe what you remember of the attack itself?”

Rowena shook her head slowly. “Not much. I remember—rage. Feeling like fire. He insulted Ciarán, and he taunted me. I tried to grab him, to shove him, but I couldn’t. Then I… I drew my short sword. There was blood. A lot of it.”

Was this the truth? Was she taking the blame for someone else, like Vainglory had? A part of Clara wanted to believe in Rowena, because then Ricardo’s death would have nothing to do with helping her. But another part looked at Ciarán, crying with his shoulders trembling, and prayed there was something more to this.

“And you’ll confirm as much if you are put under the Blessing of Truth during a trial?”

Looks like Warren also doesn’t want another Reginald situation. It’s a bit uncomfortable to watch someone get questioned without having the right to a lawyer, but at least he’s not being unfair.

“Yes. I don’t remember everything perfectly, but I’m sure that I stabbed him. It was dishonorable. I am ready for my judgement.”

Another pained moan from the front bench, even louder this time.

The rest of Rowena’s interrogation was mostly uneventful, which was unsurprising, considering her poor memory of the night’s events. Afterward, Duke von Rhenia went to speak to Warren to align on the details for the trial. Lochlann requested some privacy for himself and Ciarán, so Duchess Adelheid, Iris, Conrad, and Clara were taken to a small sitting room at the garrison while they waited.

The duchess sat next to Iris on the leather sofa. The woman’s hands were folded in her lap, and her eyes were closed. Iris, despite her occasional tearfulness, had a determined impassivity that reminded Clara of the duke.

“We should have anticipated this.” Conrad paced near the far wall. “A temperamental knight attached to the royal household’s bastard, staying on the same floor as the family, with no supervision after drinking herself into oblivion.”

“We had no choice, Conrad. Dame Rowena had to stay on the same floor as Prince Ciarán. His Majesty ordered us to take care of him,” said the duchess.

“What does that matter? The king is hardly in a position to order us to parade his unwanted son on a sightseeing tour. We should have sent the boy prince back. Ricardo was our best knight. He was…” Conrad’s voice cracked, and he pressed his fist against the wall.

“Conrad.”

Iris looked up at her brother. She rubbed her eyes dry, and something hard settled behind them. The girl looked icier than Clara had ever seen her.

“I am as hurt as you are. Ricardo has served our family since I was a small child. But it wouldn’t do for us to dwell on whether we could have anticipated it. What matters is what happens next.” Her brow twisted. “Ricardo’s killer has confessed. When that confession is repeated under the Blessing of Truth, House von Rhenia must demand that she faces the full weight of the law. Execution.”

“Darling.” The duchess reached for her daughter’s hand. There was no reproach in her tone, only a quiet caution.

“It’s as Papa always says, Mama. House von Rhenia remembers its own. And Ricardo was one of our very best. We must now give our best for him,” said Iris.

Iris…

Clara’s memory went back to her own past. To how she’d cried for justice when her parents were taken from her. That same raw and human desire for revenge was now burning behind Iris’s eyes, magnified by her sense of duty as a member of House von Rhenia. Clara knew from experience that there were no platitudes that could calm the tide raging inside Iris.

Conrad unclenched his fist from the wall. “Then we are in complete agreement, dear sister. First the Crown Prince publicly humiliates you, and now this… Execution is not enough. We must reconsider our allegiances in Parliament, as well. Let the royal house taste the pain they inflicted upon House von Rhenia.”

The walk back to Claves was cold and windy. Clara made the journey alone, struggling to balance the thin umbrella that barely protected her from the rain. Inside her uniform was a letter from Duke von Rhenia informing the academy that Iris would be absent tomorrow for Dame Rowena’s trial. Clara dropped it at the main office, then walked to the servant quarters and laid down in her bed for the first time in what felt like forever.

Emma’s bed was empty. The girl was either running around the city to make preparations for the family, or back at the Plaza attending to Iris. Clara would have to go back, too, but she really needed a moment to herself before that.

She pressed her forehead deeply into her pillow.

She kept seeing Ricardo’s face. His smile as he handed her the stout. The warmth in his voice when he’d wished her ‘many happy returns’ on her birthday, just over a month ago.

He’d been kind to her throughout, despite all the reasons for suspicion. Even on the morning before her trial, when by all accounts they had all believed she’d conspired to poison a lady to death. Or when he’d been told of Clara’s… problems, and the threats she’d received.

Soon, there was a wetness on the pillowcase. She didn’t try to stop the tears from coming.

Had it really been Rowena? Or was what happened to Ricardo connected to his investigation into Clara’s past? Why hadn’t Ricardo drawn his rapier? What about Rowena’s claim that Ricardo had insulted Ciarán—that couldn’t be true, right? And finally, where were the pills Priscilla had sent?

Clara’s head throbbed. There were so many questions, so many possibilities swirling in her mind. She didn’t have enough information. But tomorrow, the Blessing would reveal whether Rowena’s account was true. And perhaps Clara would find out whether there was any merit to the crushing, suffocating possibility that she had caused all of it.

She cried until the pillow was damp and her throat ached. Then she lay on her side, watching the gray light of the rainy afternoon crawl across the floorboards.

Three sharp knocks startled her upright.

Clara wiped her face with the back of her hand before opening the door. A maid she vaguely recognized stood in the corridor with her hands clasped in front of her apron.

“Miss Clara Casewell?”

“Yes?”

The maid sighed in relief. “I’m glad I checked here before going to the Plaza. His Highness Prince Lochlann requests your presence at his quarters.”

“The Crown Prince is summoning me?”

“Yes, Miss. If you’ll accompany me to Haverford Hall?”