Page 20 of Burning Her Beautiful
Garrik nods. “Two mid-tier clans petition to have Iliana examined by the Inscriptorum.”
“They want sigil-masters carving through her mind.” Rage flashes through me, bright and hot. I snuff it before it scorches my tongue. “Not yet.”
“Never, if I can help it,” Garrik mutters.
He watches me, eyes steady, waiting for instruction. Dawn winds tug at the corner of a sealed letter in his hand. I hold out my palm. He relinquishes it.
Crimson wax bears Sarivya’s crest—a stylized lily twined about a dagger. I break the seal, read crisp lines inked in violet.
Dominus Varok,
The council requests your presence at ninth bell to address concerns regarding last night’s display. As you hold the favor of His Majesty, your insight is invaluable in clarifying rumors that threaten court stability.
In deference,
Matron Sarivya of House Velinth
Polite poison. She cloaks accusation in respect, yet each chosen word hints I must answer for scandal I birthed.
I fold the letter. “Tell the heralds I will attend. And have scribes prepare the full enchantment ledger of last night’s vines.”
Garrik whistles. “Transparency?”
“Selective transparency.” I tap letter against knuckles. “I intend to drown suspicion in so many irrelevant details no one remembers what question they asked.”
“That leaves Sarivya.” Garrik’s voice turns flint-sharp. “Her network reached the king’s privy council. I discovered two silver envoys bribed for testimony about your hesitation in the Sanctum.”
I breathe once, twice, let the cold soak anger until it cools into focus. “Remove them. Quietly. No corpses—just discredited reports.”
“Yes, Dominus.” He bows, but before turning he hesitates. “There are gentler paths, you know.”
“Gentle paths end in graves for people like us,” I reply. “See it done.”
He leaves. I remain another minute, letting wind scour edges of temper. When frost’s sting numbs fingers, I pivot, stride back toward the stair. Duty demands marble mask soon; no cracks allowed.
The council chamber stretches round and tall as a cathedral bell, its domed ceiling painted with Oltyx rising from raw earth, fist gripping planets like marbles. Sun spears through oculus, gilding motes of dust that swirl above curved benches. Thirty nobles already occupy seats carved from obsidian veined with gold: matrons draped in brocade, lordlings smelling of crushed spices, commanders in scale armor. I enter through the north arch, cloak trailing, face carved to serenity.
Conversations falter, then resume in nervous hush. I feel every glance needle my skin—some wary, some hungry. Iliana’s name flickers on lips like forbidden sweet. I take my place at the speaker’s dais, steel toes thunking stone.
Asmodeus does not attend today. He has sent his voice instead—High Chancellor Velyth, a sallow demon whose calm hides cruelty honed by decades of policy. Velyth rises. “Council convenes on matter of arcane propriety.” His voice echoes crisp. “Dominus Varok, you stand ready to account?”
“I stand ready,” I answer.
Chancellor gestures. Sarivya sweeps to her feet, violet gown catching light. She looks ethereal, every line calculated to evoke fragility—though I know the claws beneath. “Honored council,” she says, voice pure honey, “our laws grant great latitude to Soz’garoth Masters. Yet no mage, however gifted, may endanger Galmoleth’s structural grace for personal indulgence.Last night’s outburst of rampant growth destabilized support columns in my south ballroom.”
She flicks wrist; an aide unfurls a scroll of parchment midair. Spidery glyphs describe cracks along load-bearing buttress—likely conjured after the fact. Murmurs spread.
“Damage is regrettable,” I say. My tone remains mild. “However, the vines responded precisely to containment sigils I set. No masonry shifted beyond predicted tolerance. My ledger stands available for scrutiny.”
I raise a hand. Garrik’s assistant approaches with bound volume inscribed in my hand this morning. He passes copies to scribes. Pages riffle; blue-ink formulas glitter.
A stout lord in iron pauldrons peers at figures, brow wrinkling. “These calculations exceed my reading.”
“As intended,” I note. Laughter ripples—short, uneasy.
Sarivya’s smile strains. “Let us dismiss structural debates, Dominus. Greater concern involves the human catalyst in your ritual. Several witnesses attest she hummed, guiding the vines.”
“The witness describing her hum most clearly,” I reply, “was Sarivya herself. Which means she stood within range of the display she claims imperiled her guests.”
