Heart Thief (47 page)

Bucus sneered at Ailim. “As for you, D'SilverFir. Do you deny that you aided and abetted this Null?”

When Ailim spoke, her voice was steady. “No, I don't deny what you say. I
do
deny that his previous trial was legal.”

Bang.
Bucus's gavel came down. “You add lying to your own crimes. You will say anything to save your lover. In consorting with a known exile, failing to uphold her judicial vows, D'SilverFir has forfeited her Family Estate.”

Ruis watched her lift her chin even as blood drained from her face. She must have already accepted the verdict, but hearing the words would have been a blow. He reeled from the disaster and bitterly hated the fact he could do nothing. As usual in his dealings with the nobles of Celta. How he yearned to hold her. Why had he ever denied her anything?

“Ruis Elder was found within the environs of Druida. He is subject to execution. Guards, take the Null away to the execution courtyard,” Bucus ordered with relish.

Guards grabbed Ruis. His survival instinct pumped with fast blood through his veins. He struggled and jackknifed to kick his captors. T'Blackthorn faded back to speak with Holm Holly.

“He's been wronged!” Ailim cried out. “I demand a retrial!”

“Winterberry, remove SilverFir from the room.” Bucus waved a hand at the guardsman. As Winterberry walked slowly to Ailim, Bucus towered over the table, waving his gavel at her. “You are a disgrace to your name and to your former profession. You have betrayed your class and your title.”

“It is
you
who have betrayed your Family!” Ailim shouted. “I have proof!”

Ruis never admired her more, but the nobles at the table shook their heads at her wild appearance, hair flying about her. She continued, “You should all be receiving proof. Records from the T'Elder Residence, and the starship
Nuada's Sword.”

Winterberry put a gentle hand over her mouth and circled her waist with his other arm, lifting her and slowly walking to the ornate doors. Fury bronzed Ruis's vision. Another man touched her—against her will. She looked small and fragile. Ruis fought harder, but was dragged step by step to the door now open behind the CouncilTable.

“The Council has judged the Null. He flaunted the Council's Orders, lived within Druida for weeks with immunity. He dies!” insisted Bucus.

T'Reed nodded. “The Council
has
already determined that, this whole affair has already reached the newsheets. We are laughingstocks, we, the most powerful nobles on Celta. D'SilverFir's lapses will be discussed later.” He swept a hand to the open door. It looked huge to Ruis, and he wondered that he'd never noticed it before. The slice of outside he could see looked black as death, not the pewter gray of the day he'd known an hour ago.

The petty guard hit Ruis on his head and he sagged. Then Petty looked at Bucus, hitched his belly over his belt. “We never done this. Our blasers don't work around him.”

“The
Null
is in manacles and chains. Some of you hold him, and another run him through with your short sword. Go!” Bucus yelled.

Ruis turned his head and looked at Ailim, still being silenced and carried by Winterberry. If he had to die, he wanted to keep the image of the woman who'd loved him before him.

Her eyes showed torment.

He wished—one last jerk and his gag fell free. “None of this is D'SilverFir's fault. I muddled her wits, I forced her—” He tasted blood at the blow to his mouth. The clanking of his chains and cursing of the guards drowned him out. Gray dimmed his sight as he was carried half-conscious into the cold, stone courtyard.

Ailim heard the door boom hollowly shut behind the guards and Ruis. As hollow as her life, cutting off all the beauty she'd ever known, slamming on the hope for any joy in the future. For an instant she stood, stunned. Then she broke Winterberry's hold and ran after Ruis.

Before Ailim could reach the center of the room, Holm Holly caught her. “You don't want to see this,” he said, grasping her wrists in his hands and pulling her close to his body, where she had no freedom to fight. Ailim struggled, but he was too tall, too strong, and too trained—the premier fighter of Celta.

She tilted her head back to meet his eyes. Heat from agony, anger, determination, and the gathering of her Flair raced through her body. Somehow she'd find a way to prevent it, but she said, “I will see this. I will witness the folly of this act, and I will never forget.”

“Let her watch if she wants, I do. Winterberry, come with me,” Bucus said, carelessly tossing his gavel down. He rolled his shoulders and grinned.

Ruis watched Bucus and Winterberry step into the courtyard.
Bucus looked back to the doorway behind him then shrugged.

He strolled with complete arrogance to a chair on a dais. “I will witness the execution,” he rumbled from smirking lips.

Ruis was not surprised. In fact, he felt little. He frowned. He was numb from shock, he supposed. His doom was here, never to be outrun, present and inexorable. He hoped his desensitized feeling wouldn't wear off before he was killed.

From inside he heard Ailim's voice cut off mid-phrase. His emotions rustled. He didn't want to think how he'd hurt her, whether his death might hurt her. Maybe she would marry Holm Holly after all.

“Execute him,” Bucus ordered, gesturing to Winterberry.

“No,” Winterberry said coolly.

That little surprise almost jolted Ruis from his numbness.

“I am a guardsman, the son of a GrandHouse, connected to the Hollys. I am not an executioner. I will not kill him.”

“I dismiss you from the guard!” Bucus raged.

“Fine.” Winterberry said a Word and nothing happened. He looked disconcerted, shot a glance at Ruis, then peeled his guardsman tunic over his head, dropped it on the cobblestones, and went back inside the Council chamber.

Bucus fumed and looked around at the rest of the guards. Several who appeared of noble blood followed Winterberry's example.

“You”—Bucus stabbed a fat finger at a slack-jawed guard—“and you”—then at another—“and you”—a third—“come here.”

They looked at each other, shifted, dragged their feet.

 
GreatLady Muin D'Vine unbent her old, thin body. Her
eyes flashed silver with commanding Flair. Her voice thundered through the room. “You know not what you do! By the power in me, as the oldest member of this Council, and as the True Embodiment of the Crone, I command you stop this idiocy! Countermand the execution. Bring that boy back in here now.”

At her intimidating aspect, the milling nobles stopped in shock.

“I agree,” called Danith D'Ash. She tossed her head and walked toward Ailim and Holm. Narrowing her eyes at Holm, she started past him. “See how many women you can restrain, HollyHeir.”

“T'Ash,” Holm called.

The big man started toward his wife. “I'm not going against D'Vine.”

“But he's a Null,” D'Birch protested.

“And he's been ill-treated all of his life,” D'Ash said.

“Too late, too late, too late,” whispered the prophetess D'Vine, turning pale and running past them all to the doors, arms outflung.

Ailim wondered what visions she'd foreseen.

With a shriek Shade rocketed into the room. A sheen of sweat dewed his pallid face. He flashed glisten-coated teeth.

“Vengeance for Slash, Nettle,
Ruis
! Death to you all.”

Holly released Ailim and spun to meet the challenge. She heard the rasp of T'Ash's blades, the slither of leather of unholstered blasers.

Too late. D'Vine threw herself into the first firebomb. It hit her in the chest, burned red, then black through her robe, sending streamers of flame down her dress. She ignited into a flaming torch.

Beside her, D'Ash's hem smoked and caught fire, crawling up her dress.

A scream of emotional torment ripped from Shade as he flung another and another of the explosives. “Flametree's firebombspell. Once it touches you, it will burn you to flinders! There's no stopping the propel spell—” Holm's knife stuck in the boy's chest. His eyes widened and glazed as he stared at the blood painting his shirt. He died.

Screams and shrieks rose throughout the room as clothing and furniture caught fire. As their shields faltered, Ailim heard the awful torment of thoughts. Overwhelming fear and pain buckled her knees. She clamped her hands against her head and reeled against a wall.

“Lord and Lady, no!” cried T'Ash. “Danith, rip your robe off! Don't let a micron of the firebombspell touch you. It killed my Family. One cinder will kill you.”

Ailim saw T'Ash tear the heavy formalrobe from his wife, saw an untouched D'Ash, saw her garments consumed.

“Healers!” cried D'Ash.

“Can't. Healers can't stop this. It's a propel firebombspell. Nothing can stop the burning,” T'Ash said.

As Ailim stumbled to the door, she saw T'Birch staring at the fiery sleeve of her gown, T'Reed beating at flames on the chairs with his sword. T'Rowan screaming and staring at a blackened hand. Others rolling on the floor in agony. Half the people in the room were afire. Slowly burning to death.

Ruis flung himself through the doors, chains dangling, followed by Winterberry. “We heard screams! Are you hurt, Ailim? What's wrong?”

“Shields down. Not hurt,” she gasped. “Flametree's firebombspell. Can't be stopped.”

Ruis grabbed a box from his pocket, thrust it at her. “My gift to you.”

She fumbled the box open. Her fingers clenched around an emerald heart. The emotions ravaging her from others dimmed.

Ruis glanced around. “Firebombspell is pure Flair. Flair dies near me. I can smother it.” He gazed at the closest burning person and fell upon her. They both screamed, Ruis low, she high. Then she only sobbed and whimpered. Ruis rolled off her and to another.

Healers ran through the doors. “Something's wrong. We can't port here,” one panted, taking in the scene with a glance. Horror crossed his face. “What—”

Ailim jumped to a Healer. “A propel firebombspell. You can't Heal the ones on fire.” She shoved the Healer to Ruis's first rescue. “Go to her, her flames are out!”

She snagged another Healer, Lark Collinson, and pulled her into a corner. “Have one of your people leave the NobleCouncil Hall, out of the Null's range—”

“Null?” The smaller woman blinked.

“Yes. He's stopping the firestorm. Stopping it. You can only Heal those whose fire is out.”

Lark nodded. “Right.” She sped from the corner and took charge. Healers and nobles rushed to do her bidding.

Ailim scanned the crowd for Ruis. The fire on the furniture had been extinguished.

A cindered man placed a woman gently on the floor. Brown eyes looked from a blackened face. Ruis.

He shouted, stumbled toward her, his stare sliding past her.

She whirled to see Bucus Elder, lips peeled back from his teeth in a mad grin, swinging a long curtain sparking at the end. Focused on her. Crazy laughter rolled from his belly.

“So you've been snooping, gathering evidence against me, using Menzie. Can't allow that. I'm the most powerful man on Celta. No one crosses me.” He spit a stream of filthy curses. Ailim froze. It seemed like a nightmare.

He approached, eyes glittering. “If I go down, so do you. I'll get you.” Another amulet dangled from between his fingers.

Ailim clutched her new necklace, wondering if it could protect her. Even if she flung the necklace away, she was too weak to teleport. Walls of the corner crowded her.

Ruis dived between them, ignoring the bulk of his uncle, the flaming fabric.

Bucus stumbled back, shoved Ruis to the floor, kicked him.

“No!” screamed Ailim. She threw the little box with all her might, hitting Bucus between the eyes. His head jerked back, he hesitated.

Ruis swept Bucus's feet from under him. The fiery curtain wrapped around them both. They all screamed, Ailim in horror, the two men in pain.

Ruis rolled aside, pushed himself to his knees with blackened hands. Ailim grabbed him and helped him rise. He moaned.

A ululating shriek tore from Bucus. His entire body flamed. His face was a rictus of agony. Ruis put out a hand, but flames reached the amulet and Bucus torched.

Ailim and Ruis swayed together.

“Justice,” Ailim whispered.

Lark Collinson strode over with a burning man. Ruis grasped him.

Other nobles followed, pushing the worst cases toward Ruis.

Ruis had been her man, her love, her hero.

Now, he was Celta's hero.

He looked at her through eyes that were mere glimmers between the swollen, blistered skin of his cheeks. The front of his clothes hung in tattered, black shreds. Or perhaps it was his skin. He smiled at her and his lips cracked open and bled.

“Restitution for my crimes,” he said.

“Too much!” She faced a terrified stream of burning nobles.

“Who else can do it?” He reached for the next victim, hesitated an instant before encircling D'Birch, who'd lied about him and her necklace. Then he embraced the woman.

Finally it was done, the last of the flesh-eating, Flaired, inextinguishable flames halted. Ruis had to be lifted and his patient removed from under him and taken away to be Healed.

He lay on his back, a cinder of a man, barely breathing. A circle of nobles surrounded him. D'Ash and T'Ash. T'Holly, D'Holly, Holm, and Tinne. T'Blackthorn.

“T'Heather! Where's T'Heather?” Ailim demanded frantically.