Chapter 302: Carrick’s Threat

The hall erupted.

It was a different noise this time. It had no outrage in it, only shock, a babble of confused voices that rose and tangled. People were standing. Someone near the front shouted a question, and someone else answered, and a woman burst into tears for no reason anyone could see. Carrick stood at the center of it, with his hands still folded and the smile still on his face. It had frozen there like the frost on his ring.

"My lady," he said, very softly. "You are mistaken."

"I am not."

"You may be confused. You have been unwell....."

"No." Her voice was gentle. "That is your word, Lord Carrick. I have noticed that it is a word you use rather often."

A strangled sound went up from somewhere in the second tier.

It might have been a laugh.

Carrick’s eyes went very still.

For the first time, Morgana saw what lay beneath the pleasant mask. It was nothing dramatic. It was only a flatness, a sudden absence of warmth, like a window going dark in a lit house. His gaze rested on Astraea for a long moment, and in it was a cold, calculating, patient fury.

"I see," he said.

"I thought you might."

"Then I withdraw the claim."

Another gasp.

"With deep apology to Lady Astraea," said Carrick, and bowed. It was a perfect bow, graceful and sincere. "I was misinformed. I acted in good faith, upon what I believed to be sound counsel. I regret any distress I have caused."

"You regret nothing," said Astraea mildly.

"I regret...."

"Lord Carrick."

Draeven had spoken.

He had not raised his voice. But the sound of it went through the room like a stroke on a bell, and every voice in the hall died. He stood very straight on the dais, tall and stern and grave, with the gold of his eyes burning low and steady. The crown at his brow gleamed.

"You withdrew a claim," he said, "only after the person you named denied it in front of the council. That is not a correction. It is a retreat."

"Your Majesty....."

"I am not finished."

Carrick fell silent.

"You came into our house under the protection of the crown." Draeven’s voice was quiet and level. "You asked for an audience. We granted it. You stood in this hall and asked a lady’s pardon for your daughter’s crimes, and in the same breath you called them a sickness." His eyes did not leave Carrick’s face. "And then you named a woman as the Mother of Dragons, before the whole of the council, without her knowledge or her consent. And when she refused you, you called her confused."

"Your Majesty, I...."

"I would ask you to consider," said Draeven, "how that looks."

It was perfectly courteous.

It fell like a stone.

Carrick’s mouth opened. He closed it. For a heartbeat, he looked, beneath the silver and the polish, like a man who had stepped confidently onto a floor and felt it give.

Then he smiled again.

It was a slower smile. It was thoughtful. And it turned, deliberately, to Morgana.

"Perhaps," he said, "I have misjudged the question."

She had known it was coming.

She had felt it in the way his shoulders turned, in the soft drop of his voice. She had known that a man like that, cornered, would not retreat but turn, and the nearest vulnerable thing was her. Her pulse began to pound. She tightened her hold on Draeven’s arm, and felt Thorne’s shadow pool cold and close against her back.

"Lady Morgana," Carrick said.

"Lord Carrick."

Her voice came out steady.

She was a little astonished. It had no tremor in it at all. It came out quiet and level, the voice of a girl who had learned very early to keep a straight face in front of people who wished her ill.

"I am afraid I have been remiss," said Carrick. "I have spoken a great deal and not asked after you. You must forgive an old man’s thoughtlessness." His eyes were kind. "I trust you are well? You look a little tired."

"I am well, thank you."

"I am glad of it. One worries." He tilted his head, with a faint, fatherly frown. "I confess I have been thinking of you. And of your family. Your mother, in particular."

The word went into her like a knife.

She did not move.

"She lives in Ashford, I believe," Carrick said gently. "In the village. A small cottage at the foot of the hill, I am told, by the old mill. A weaver’s widow." He sighed. "I hear that she is very ill."

The silence in the hall was total.

"I hear it is a wasting sickness," said Carrick. "That she coughs blood, in the evenings. That the apothecary has done what he can." His eyes rested on her face, soft with regret. "You must be so anxious to see her. I know that if it were my own child, I should never rest. It is a terrible thing, a mother’s illness. One never knows how long....." He stopped, delicately. "Well. One never knows."

Draeven moved.

She felt it before she saw it. A flare of heat across the dais, a low furious growl that vibrated up through the stone. Kaelen had taken a step forward. The air around him had gone white with cold. Thorne’s shadows boiled up from the floor in a black wall at her back.

"No," said Morgana.

She had lifted her hand.

She did not know she had done it. It was only a small motion, palm out, fingers spread, but it stopped them. All three kings froze. She felt them go still, one by one, and the power in the room hung suspended, like a held breath.

"Please," she said, very quietly. "Let me."

Nobody moved.

She drew a long breath.

Walk like it’s your floor.

She let go of Draeven’s arm.

She stepped forward, alone, three paces across the marble, until she stood at the foot of the dais with the whole hall before her. She lifted her chin. She folded her hands, as Agnes had folded hers, calm and still in front of her skirt. She looked directly into Carrick Greythorne’s face.