The Crown Conspiracy полностью

“I can assure each of you she is no longer the sweet innocent child whom I used to hold in my arms. I have seen her, spoken to her, watched her in her grief—or rather the lack of grief—for her father and brother. I can tell you truly her lust for knowledge and power has caused her to fall into the arms of evil.” The bishop paused, dropping his head into his hands and shaking it. He looked up with a remorse-filled face and said, “It is the result of what happens when a woman is educated and in Arista’s case, introduced to the wicked powers of black magic.”

There was a collective gasp issued from the crowd.

“Against my advice, King Amrath allowed her to attend the university where she studied sorcery. She opened herself up to the forces of darkness, and it created in her a craving for power. Education planted an evil seed in her, and it flowered into the horrible deaths of her father and her brother. She is no longer a princess of the realm, but a witch. This is evident by the fact she hasn’t wept for her father. You see, as a learned bishop of the Church, I know—witches cannot cry.”

The crowd gasped again. From somewhere in the gallery, Braga heard a man say, “I knew it!”

The lawyer called Countess Amril to the court, and she testified that two years earlier Arista had hexed her when she told the handsome squire Davens that the princess fancied him. Amril went on to describe how she suffered horribly for days of sickness and boils as a result.

Next, the lawyer called the monks, who like Countess Amril, were eager to relate how they had been ill-used by the princess. They told how she had insisted the thieves be unchained despite their assurance it was not necessary and explained they were attacked the moment she left the room.

The crowd’s reaction grew louder, and even Lord Valin looked troubled.

Percy Braga observed the audience with satisfaction from his seat at the rear of the magistrates. The faces of the gentry were filling with anger. He had successfully coaxed the spark into a flame and the flame would soon be a blaze.

In the crowd, he spotted Wylin moving in the wings toward him.

“We have them, my lord,” Wylin reported in a whisper. “They are gagged and locked in the dungeon. A little banged up by two of my overzealous men, but alive.”

“Excellent, and has there been any movement on the roads? Has there been any indication nobles loyal to the traitor Arista may attack?”

“I don’t know, sir. I came directly from the sewers.”

“Very well, get to the gate and sound the horn if you see anything. I’m concerned there may be an assault from Pickering of Drondil Fields. Oh, and if you see that wretched little dwarf, tell him it is time to bring the princess down.”

“Of course, your lordship.” Wylin pulled a small parchment rolled into a tube from his tabard. “I was passed this on my way in. It just arrived via messenger addressed to you.” Braga took the missive from Wylin and the master-at-arms left with a bow.

Braga grinned at the ease of it all. He wondered if the princess in her distant tower prison could sense her coming death. Her own beloved citizens would soon be begging—nay demanding—her execution. He had yet to present the storeroom administrator who would attest to the stolen dagger that was later found in Arista’s possession. And then of course, there were now the thieves. He would hold them until the last and drag them out to the floor gagged and chained. The mere sight of them was likely to start a riot. He would have Wylin explain how he apprehended them trying to save the princess. The magistrates would have no choice but to rule against Arista and grant him the throne.

He would still have to deal with the possibility of Alric attacking, but that could not be helped now. He was certain he would defeat Alric. Several of the more disgruntled eastern lords already agreed to join him the moment he was crowned king. Once the trial was complete and Arista dead, he planned to hold the coronation. By tomorrow, he would marshal the kingdom. Alric would cease to be a prince and become a fugitive.

“The court calls storage clerk Kline Druess,” the lawyer was saying, “who was in charge of keeping the knife used to kill the king.”

More damning evidence, Braga thought as he unrolled the scroll that Wylin had presented him. It had no seal, no emblem of nobility, only a simple string tie. He read the message, which was as simple as its package.

You missed us in the sewers.

We now have the princess.

Your time is growing short.

The archduke crumpled the note in his fist and glared around at the numerous faces in the crowd wondering if whoever wrote it was watching him. His heart began beating faster, and he stood up slowly trying not to draw attention to himself.