“Very good,” the king said, as though the mention of blood money was akin to discussing which side dishes to have with their evening meal. “What is the next order of business?” A veritable army of scribes was in attendance to answer such questions, but for some reason the king had targeted his inquiry directly at Tomas.

Was he being tested? If so, it was a poor one; while taking breakfast alone each morning he reviewed the day’s schedule, committing it to memory. He suspected his father did as well, only asking such questions to keep his staff on their toes. “A trial, Father,” he said without further delay.

“A trial, you say? Most excellent. A good trial always breaks up the monotony of court, does it not?”

“Yes, Father.” The word trial was hardly a fair description for what was about to transpire. There would be witnesses, of course, but in the end, there was only one man’s belief that would matter: King Artemus Vedran. Tomas thought the entire spectacle should be renamed ‘king’s judgment’ to more accurately describe its true nature. Maybe he’d do just that when he became king. Or maybe he’d restructure things a bit to give the accused a fighting chance.

In any case, Tomas had thoroughly reviewed the documents prepared for this particular case, and he already knew what the outcome would be.

“Bring in the accused!” the king demanded, his voice full of more vigor than usual.

The doors at the far end of the throne room groaned open. Chains clanked as a woman was escorted by a pair of soldiers on the long walk required to stand before the throne. Tomas had witnessed countless petitioners, prisoners, and fools make this very walk, and he found it all rather melodramatic for his taste. Perhaps when he was king, he would relocate such activities to his parlor so they could all sit on plush couches while sipping a spot of tea.

A tense hush fell over the crowd as the woman reached the designated spot. Words were communicated behind cupped hands as though she might be trying to read their lips. As he always did, Tomas took a moment to observe the accused. She clearly wasn’t from this part of Finfalla. Rather than the finery of a noble or the rags of a peasant, she wore a cloak of skins that draped down her back and across her chest but left her abdomen exposed. The skins that were tied with a rope around her waist didn’t even reach her knees, a rather scandalous amount of sun-darkened skin available for any peeping eye to see. Several necklaces of small bones that might’ve been from a lizard were slung about her. Her dark hair was shorn short in a line on the top with the sides fully shaven.

Her eyes were as dark as unlit coals.