A HENRY STORY 3: Covenants Of The Fallen Prince

XLVII. Traitor

"I want," Henry said. I want you to take me back. "To stay."

Had he really just said that?

"I want to stay," he repeated, and it had its desired effect: they all gawked in disbelief: Luxa, Gregor, Thanatos, even Vikus . . . and especially Solovet. No, Solovet didn't look unbelieving; she looked terrified. Henry smiled. The mist that had veiled his mind earlier—all hunger, thirst, and pain—dissipated, allowing his light back in. Henry took a step forward.

And so he was center stage again. But this time, he did not kneel; he stood taller than he had ever imagined standing in this hall again. In the lone light's shine, he felt many eyes burn on him with emotions that ranged from livid hatred to unconditional support. But he didn't look at any of them. Not even at Luxa, who stood a few paces behind him; in her hand, he could have sworn he made out a familiar golden, shimmering dagger.

"I won't run," said Henry into the merciless silence. "It is what she wants me to do." His eyes were on Solovet; she trembled visibly, her hand at the hilt of her sword. "I did not commit anything she accused me of today . . . except the plot with Gorger." Henry didn't mind the murmur that rose from the crowd. He pressed his lips together. "I did that, and I shall admit to it here and now, so that you may know that I do not wish to keep secrets any longer. I know you have never been informed of it." He waved toward the council. "You may blame them for this misinformation. At ease!" Henry yelled when swords clashed somewhere in the back. "You all! Be at ease, for Sandwich's sake!"

Instantly, Ruvin and one of his lieutenants, who had been keeping one council member who was still tauntingly waving his blade in check, drew back. "Aye, Lord Commander," said Ruvin, eyes still on the council member who had frozen as well.

At the mention of this title, the murmur grew. Even Vikus stirred now. Henry wanted to watch him, but he didn't allow himself to. "Yes, two years ago, I conspired with Gorger." He said it like the truth it was. "I was foolish and scared, and in my strive to end the nonsensical conflict between gnawers and humans," Henry spoke louder to be heard over the crowd, "I misjudged Gorger's reliability. Some whom he had on his side were very . . . convincing. Judge me for that if you like. Any of you . . . except for her." Henry took a step forward and pointed a finger at Solovet. "She may not judge me, for she did the same. She was the one who conspired with the Bane."

An uproar went through the assembly, but Henry disregarded it. He stared at Solovet and found it hard not to allow all the hurt she had caused to gush out of his mouth. His hurt and that of everyone he loved. But he could not. If he started accusing her carelessly, he would not be heard.

He was not looking at an eager crowd. For a heartbeat, Henry allowed his gaze to wander and met Luxa's eyes; in them, he saw a silent offer for support. More friendly faces piled up behind her, and for a moment he considered it—letting her take over and turn this trial into Solovet's own. But . . .

Henry whipped back around to Solovet. Was that what terrified her so? He stared into her livid eyes. That he had the means and grounds upon which to turn her accusations against her?

This was not quite the same as back with Cleaver, it struck Henry suddenly. So many emotions of the last hour had taken him back to the arena and to the gnawer with the cream fur who had orchestrated a witch hunt to punish Henry for allegedly killing Gorger—a crime he hadn't committed. Just like on that day, the last hour had been viciousness that cared not about the truth. He hadn't been able to save himself from Cleaver by speaking the truth, but . . .

This crowd—he took them in once more—was not a flock of Gorger's loyal followers, looking for a scapegoat.

Solovet was not Cleaver.