Montague sat at his desk and interpreted as much as he could. He considered the message then wrote a response on a parchment to be delivered by the bird back to his old friend, wherever he was. There were so many emotions he was feeling and so many things he wanted to say, but the king’s hearing would begin in minutes. The bird seemed to have little patience, dancing around on the windowsill. There was little time to relay what was most important.
“Monte,” Indrid said, breaking the silence.
Montague almost fell out of his chair. It was already time for the hearing. He turned and quickly folded the letter before the bird grabbed it then fluttered away.
“Burton?” asked Indrid.
He must have caught the top of the letter, noticing the infamous name.
Anna stepped out from behind Indrid, “Burton Lang?” she asked.
Montague began to stutter, “I…This is a very old letter. I was just organizing information,” he replied to relieve their curiosity.
The nervous king stood in their shadows with his castle guards beside him. “I’ll take it from here. Thank you,” said Montague.
“My lord,” the guards said, bowing before excusing themselves.
“It is time,” Montague said to Rayne. “Anna and Indrid, I’m afraid you cannot attend the hearing.”
“I understand,” said Anna. Her smile sank into sorrow. “I’m sorry. This is my fault.”
“You should have told me,” Montague said sternly.
Indrid bowed and took Anna’s hand, “Good luck.”
“We will be right here when you’re done,” Anna said to Rayne. Heightened concern made her voice shudder. Her eyes were red and moist. She hugged him before leaving the room.
The boy king was voiceless as he and Montague walked to the council room. Besides the light of Montague’s lantern the hallway was dark with only a few dim candles fixed to the stone walls.
“Please, sit,” Montague said. There was a bench across from the door. He kneeled down in front of Rayne. Frightened at the thought of what might happen to the boy for what he swore was an accident, he held the king’s arm, looking deep into his soul. “Do you believe that I would ever hurt you, in any way, shape or form?”
“No,” said Rayne.
“Hold out your hand, lad,” Montague said, searching his pocket.
Rayne offered without hesitation. Montague took out a sewing pin from his right shirt pocket and a parchment. “A little prick will sting for just a second.” He dabbed the king’s fingertip, spilling only one perfect drop of blood only to smear it into the parchment. “Now, look at me,” he said. “I’ll be right next to you.”
Montague opened the door and stepped into the firelight of the council. He felt nervous and numb. The glares at the boy were damning. And the looks at Montague, defender of the accused, were not much nicer.
Gretchen sat alone near the witness benches, clutching her handkerchief. She loved Rayne just as much as he did.
The new speaker, Elmer Mongs, began loudly. His left eye was white, completely cataract. “This recent event has shattered the faith of our steward, Lord Alexandal, in hopes that his son would continue our creator’s bloodline with honor. What has happened is unexplainable and defies all logic.” He squinted. “A skill or power used in such a devious way is dangerous to our community and such claims suggest this act was a vulgar display of witchcraft. The blood of our forefather is tainted with darkness.”
That was the last thing Montague wanted to hear.
Other than the speaker, who was bitter from the start, being that the victim of the assault was his son, the other council members sat with their heads down, unwilling to share their voice in the debate. Montague knew that they were ashamed of the facts and too embarrassed to make their thoughts known in front of Montague, a well-respected elder among Ikarus who had strong paternal feelings for the boy.
Lord Alexandal Duncan sat upon his seat, stoic and voiceless, staring into the vacant space within the room, as if any fatherly instinct or love for his child had vanished. He made no eye contact with his son, the king, Rayne Volpi that stood before him, scared and confused. The boy was a stranger to him.
But something seemed strange with Alexandal. He would glare at Montague then look away, squinting as if he was in pain. Montague could swear that Alexandal wanted to tell him something, but someone else was stopping him.
The speaker continued. “We have decided banishment from Ikarus. After ten years when the boy is of age to claim the throne, we will re-evaluate his moral and mental stability,” he finished, spraying spit from his lips.
The council members became chaotic. It seemed as though the decision was not unanimous. They wrestled with what the speaker had just said. Some spoke loudly, claiming that the decision was too impulsive and harsh. Others defended the ruling. Banishment had been the penalty for murder back in the days of Illyrium.
“Burdlap,” Montague said, stealing everyone’s attention. “It was a powder from the burdlap leaf. The plant secretes a pollen-like substance to fertilize the female seeds. This particular secretion has highly acidic properties. The king must have been in contact with it on his way back from The Ponds. It simply coated his dry skin and after the conflict occurred…” he retraced his words. “…after Fervan had personally insulted the king in reference to Rayne’s mother’s passing—”
“He is not the king!” Alexandal suddenly snapped to life with anger, standing on his toes, “Not Acting king. Not yet.”
Montague felt compelled to continue. “When Rayne grabbed Fervan’s sweaty arm the powder reacted with moisture, intensifying the acidity, causing the burn. My lord would never hurt someone intentionally.
