“Hevren.” I stopped, forcing him to a halt, the surrounding guards part drawing their swords. I ignored them and stepped closer to the commander, speaking in low earnest tones. “She has to hear me. Whether I am condemned or not. She has to hear my words and the words of this woman.”

“I am a soldier,” he stated, turning as the doors were hauled wide. “Not a counsellor.”

He stood, gesturing for me to continue, his stance respectful rather than threatening. I glanced at Fornella, who stood eyeing the revealed throne room with naked trepidation. “It’s my head she wants,” I told her. “When she takes it try to make sure she listens.”

The Imperial throne room takes the form of a circle, ringed on all sides by thick marble pillars to support the great dome above. There are no seats save the throne, positioned atop a raised dais in the centre, the dais itself formed from solid cylindrical blocks of diminishing diameter, creating six steps where the Imperial counsellors stand. The status of each counsellor is denoted by the position on the dais; senior military officers typically occupy the lowest step whilst lawmakers and scholars could expect to stand on the second or third tier. I had been unique in being the only Imperial historian ever to ascend to the fourth step. Only the Hope or those whose advice was most cherished by the Emperor could expect a place on the fifth tier. The sixth step was always left vacant, a reminder that the ruler of the Alpiran Empire must ultimately bear the weight of power alone.

My eyes briefly tracked over the counsellors, finding some faces I knew, all either unwilling to meet my gaze or staring in unconcealed, if somewhat forced, fury. I was surprised to find two counsellors on the fifth step, and one a soldier. Horon Nester Everen, High Commander of Imperial Forces, had always been a difficult man to read. Partly because of the habitual scowl he wore, but more so in recent years due to the extensive burns he had suffered in the final assault on Marbellis, scarring the left side of his face from brow to neck. The attitude of the other man on the fifth step, however, was much more easily discerned. Merulin Nester Velsus, the Imperial Prosecutor, had never regarded me with much affection, or I him. He had always struck me as a man engaged in a perpetual quest for the weaknesses of others, as if in confirmation of his boundless capacity for judgement. Seeing the new depth of his enmity, I deduced my current predicament fulfilled long-held suspicions.

However, my attention was soon fully captured by the figure seated at the top of the dais. My last glimpse of her had been in Linesh on returning from the Isles. She had descended the gangplank to the wharf and strode off alone without a backward glance. We hadn’t exchanged a single word during the voyage and watching her pace the deck, face set in constant, unyielding spite, had convinced me there would never be any scope for accommodation between us. I had lost my hate but she clung to hers. It was then the decision came to me. My scholarly curiosity, rekindled by Al Sorna’s tale, yearned for answers to the many tantalising questions left in his wake. I would return to court, deliver my account of events in the Isles to the Emperor, and take ship to the Unified Realm. In time, of course, I came to regret making such a rash decision. Though, as I looked upon Empress Emeren I, I suspected it would have made little difference to my current circumstance.

Her face was set, the fine features impassive, composed and free of animosity. But she couldn’t keep it from her eyes, the way they bored into me, seeming to gleam with anticipation, told me that, whatever pretence to impartiality she might make, my fate had already been decided.

“Uncle Verniers!” I started at the joyous shout, my gaze snapping to the boy scampering from behind one of the pillars. Iveles had grown in the months since I had last seen him, taking on a lankiness that told of early-arrived adolescence, though he still retained a boyish spirit. He ran towards me, uncaring of the surrounding guards, a toy soldier in each hand, wrapping his arms around my waist, gazing up at me with eyes so like his father’s I found myself momentarily robbed of words.

“Did you bring me something from the northlands?” he demanded before speaking on with only the barest pause. “Bad people came to kill me and Mother but one turned into a good person and let us go and Hevren fought them and the villa burned . . .”

“Iveles!”

The Empress had risen to her feet, face still composed, though only barely. The guards had all drawn swords, save Hevren, who crouched to gently disentangle the boy’s arms from my waist. His face tensed in stubborn refusal and his arms tightened, attempting to hold on.

“It’s all right, Iveles,” I told him, placing my hands on his shoulders to gently push him away. “I’m sorry, but I forgot your present. I did bring a story though, one I hope to tell you soon. Now go to your mother.”

The boy shot Hevren a resentful glare then turned and ran to the dais, scampering up the steps to his mother’s side. Watching how she drew him into a protective embrace, her eyes still fixed on me, I realised her detestation was at least partly inspired by the closeness I had always enjoyed with her son. Appointed the boy’s tutor in Imperial history by the Emperor, we had spent many hours together, and, though I tried to dissuade him from it, he had come to call me uncle. “You and father were like brothers,” he said. “So you will be my uncle. I don’t have any others.”

The Empress smoothed a hand through the boy’s hair, speaking softly. “But I want to stay!” he protested. The Empress’s tone became harder and Iveles gave a sullen pout before stomping off to the rear of the dais, his rapid footfalls echoing through the chamber as he sought other amusements.

The Empress sat in silence for a time, regarding me with practised detachment before turning her gaze to Fornella, her mouth twitching in momentary disgust. “Lord Velsus,” she said to the Imperial Prosecutor. “The prisoner has the right to hear the charges levelled against him.”

Velsus bowed to her before turning to me, producing a scroll from the folds of his robe. “Lord Verniers Alishe Someren, Imperial Chronicler and First of the Learned, is hereby charged with treason,” he read. “Be it known, as established by credible testimony, Lord Verniers conspired with the Imperial Prisoner Vaelin Al Sorna to effect his release and evade just punishment for his crimes. Be it also known that Lord Verniers did conspire with agents of a foreign power, to wit the Volarian Empire, to injure the person of the Empress and her son Iveles.”

So there it was, not one lie but two. I cannot truly account for the icy calm that possessed me then, much as I remain unable to explain the presence of mind that allowed me to sink a knife into the base of General Tokrev’s skull. It could be that there are occasions when fear becomes redundant. “Credible testimony?” I enquired.

Lord Velsus blinked and I deduced he had been expecting some outraged protestation of innocence, no doubt to be shouted down by a well-prepared, and suitably theatrical rebuttal. He recovered his composure quickly, however, and gestured to the guards at the door. “Bring in the witness.”

I was expected here, I realised as we waited in silence. The trap is too well laid.

The witness was duly led in, a young woman in a plain dress, her colouring typical of the northern empire, dark hair and skin of an olive hue save for a cluster of livid red stripes on her neck. She was clearly overawed by her surroundings, hands clasped together and head held low, her eyes alighting on me for only a second before she snatched them away.

“State your name,” Lord Velsus ordered.

The young woman had to cough twice before she got the words out, her voice coloured by a barely suppressed quaver. “Jervia Mesieles.”

“That is your married name, is it not?” Velsus enquired.

“Yes, my lord.”

“State your birth name.”

“Jervia Nester Aruan.”

“Quite so. Your father was formerly Governor of Linesh, was he not?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“In fact, he held stewardship of the city at the time of the Hope Killer’s occupation. An occupation many believe led to an outbreak of the red plague, during which you yourself almost perished. Is this not so?”

Jervia’s hands twitched and I surmised she was fighting an impulse to touch the marks on her neck. “It is so, my lord.”

“However, you were saved by the intervention of the Hope Killer, who called for a healer from his homeland. So, it would be fair to say your father considered himself in the Hope Killer’s debt, would it not?”

Jervia closed her eyes, raising her head and drawing a breath. When she opened them and looked at me I saw the unmistakable apology they held. “It would, my lord,” she said in a laboured tone, the voice of a reluctant actress.

“It is said,” Velsus went on, “your father was given a gift by the Hope Killer shortly before his arrest. What was it?”

“A sword, my lord.”

The Imperial Prosecutor’s gaze swept the assembled advisors, brows raised in surprise. “He accepted a gift of the Hope Killer’s sword, the very blade that had been stained with the divine blood of the Hope himself. A man of more noble spirit might have found such a gift an intolerable burden on his honour, but given your father’s ineptitude in defending his city and failure to take the honourable course in the aftermath of defeat, hardly surprising. Tell me, was there anything unusual about this sword?”