One of my father’s eyebrows rose, but there was a glimmer of uncertainty in his gaze. “Back to your old tricks so soon, my son?”

I said nothing, remaining still and motionless.

“You.” He jerked his chin in Tips’s direction. “Come forward.”

The half-blood’s wooden leg made sharp thuds as he strode toward the throne. I drew sharply on my magic, pulling in every ounce I had at my call as though I intended to silence Tips before he could speak some damning words. To make everyone believe the half-blood was enough of a threat that I’d kill him in front of my father rather than let him speak.

The throne room filled with screams as the spectators sensed the swell of magic, and everyone bolted, stumbling over each other in a mad rush to reach the exit.

My father’s power hit me like a tidal wave, slamming me to the floor and containing the surge of heat and pressure. I struggled against him, fighting as hard as I could. But the iron did its duty.

A boot slammed down between my shoulder blades, and I grunted, struggling to breathe beneath its weight.

My father grabbed me by the hair and jerked my head far enough back to hurt. “Killing him will not absolve you of your guilt.”

“Neither will letting him live.” My tone was flat.

My father let go of my hair, but the boot stayed put, his weight and power holding me motionless against the floor. “Get back here, you cowards!” he bellowed, and if I could have sucked in enough breath, I would’ve sighed with relief. I needed an audience.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched those who had run slink back in, aristocracy at the forefront. Despite their fear, they moved smoothly, flowing in an oddly coordinated mass, all eyes fixed on the two of us. With them came the clunk of Tips’s leg, his pace reluctant as he played his part.

“Tell me of the conversation that passed between you and His Highness,” my father ordered, once everyone had settled in.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Tips’s voice was hoarse with all-too real nerves. “He came down into the mines not two nights after you released him from prison. Tracked down me and my crew and set to telling us that we’d been duped. That the plans you’d given us for the stone tree weren’t what he designed, and that even if we completed them, that the structure would never hold. Said you’d knowingly given us false plans.”

Whispers broke out through the throne room, too many and too quiet to clearly make out.

The weight between my shoulders shifted. This is what he’d thought I’d do – reveal that the plans he’d given the half-bloods were false and not of my making. He was ready for that move, but not, I thought, for the half-bloods turning against me for it.

“The lady you know as Anaïs d’Angoulême gave me those documents herself,” my father said. “She swore they were the plans for a stone structure drafted by Tristan, entrusted to her for safekeeping. You all” – he gestured at the surrounding aristocracy – “were witness to that conversation.”