She met his gaze, refusing to be ashamed by his look. She was angry and struggled to control her fury. At long last, there was a jingle in the lock and then it was opened. The Aldermaston of Dochte entered, but there were guests with him. In his wake came a young man, richly dressed with Dahomeyjan finery. He was tall, well-built, and quite handsome. The young woman holding his arm was Hillel, but he would not have known her true name. Then Dieyre entered followed by Colvin.
Lia tried to move quickly, but the weight of the iron chains slowed her considerably. She came to the bars and gripped them, hungry to see his face yet tormented with the prospect. Dieyre glanced at her, failing to hide an amused smile, and sauntered around the room, gazing at the torches, nodding to the kishion, and looking rather pleased with himself. She could have strangled him.
The young man in the finery squinted in the gloom. “Where is he? Where is the man who murdered my father?”
The Aldermaston motioned with his long arm. “In chains in that cell, my lord of Comoros.”
“Bring him to me,” the young man said icily. Lia’s heart started to churn with worry.
The kishion nodded and unlocked the cell door. There was a grunting noise, the sound of a blow and then Martin was thrown in front of the young king.
His face was puffy and bruised, dark with clotted blood. He trembled, his burned hands pressing against his chest. Martin raised his head to look at the young king, his eyes burning with hate.
The young king stared back at him, meeting his baleful look with one of his own. “At long last,” he said stiffly. “My father’s murderer.” His face knotted with fury. His hands clenched Hillel’s arm. “Is he the one, my love? Is he the one who abducted you and brought you to Pry-Ree?”
Hillel looked at Martin shyly, demurely. “Yes.” She turned her face away, as if she could not bear to look at him.
“Colvin,” the young king said next, looking back at the earl. “You can vouch for his identity? Do you recognize him? Is he the Aldermaston’s hunter? He is the one who led you into the trap?”
Colvin was also wearing Dahomeyjan finery. She did not recognize his costume, but she would never have mistaken his dark brooding look. He gazed down at Martin pityingly. “His name is Martin. I do know that he served the Aldermaston of Muirwood, but I do not know if he serves him still.”
The young king released Hillel’s arm and crouched before the prostrate hunter. He seized a thick handful of Martin’s hair and jerked his head up, to meet his own. There was fury in his voice, pure hatred in his eyes. “You murdered my father. It was your arrow by which he was slain. I have seen the arrow, you filthy wretched. You served Prince Alluwyn of Pry-Ree. Then Muirwood. It is all part of the plot to dethrone my father and to prevent me from achieving my inheritance. You will die, dog.” His mouth curled into a grimace of hate. “You will suffer the death of traitors. I avenge him at long last.” He cast away Martin and turned to the Aldermaston. “These grounds are under your authority, my lord. May I beg the use of your gallows for this man? I want him hanged. Now.”
Lia’s heart lurched with dread. No!
The Aldermaston of Dochte had a look of sympathy on his face, as if he understood the deep pain that the young king had felt losing his father early to a murderer’s arrow. Lia clenched the bars tightly, watching with growing horror.
“Hanging is not the punishment of death within Dahomey,” he said. “In our kingdom, the guilty are burned. We do not shed blood.”
The young king’s expression was cruel. “Even better,” he said. “Dieyre, see it done. Fetch me to watch the execution. Thus will all traitors in my realm be punished.”
“As you command,” Dieyre said with a flourish.
It was that moment when the Medium whispered to Lia. It was in that moment of terror that she knew what to say.
“My lord king,” she said, speaking boldly, pressing her face against the bars.
Their eyes turned to hers, even Colvin’s. She saw his expression of shock and then immediate torment. His focus had been on Martin. He had not seen her in the shadows of her cell until she had spoken. The look of anguish on his face tortured her.
The young king turned curiously at being addressed by a prisoner.
“Who is that?” he whispered to the Aldermaston.
Before he could reply, Lia spoke out boldly. “I am Lia of Muirwood. My lord king, you cannot punish this man for murder.” Her heart was wild with emotions. She kept speaking, looking into his eyes. She licked her dry lips. “You cannot punish him for that crime, because he did not commit it. My lord king, it was I who killed your father. It was with a hunter’s bow and a Pry-rian arrow. I was at the battle of Winterrowd, my lord king. I was there, near the hillock where he fell. I confess it, my lord king. The truth of my words can be established by Lord Price, the Earl of Forshee. He knew I was there. And I told him what I had done. He is a maston, my lord king. He cannot speak a falsehood. Ask him, if you doubt my word. Ask him.”