The tila meets his expectations of excellence. Roland immediately buries himself in his cup because it is safer to focus on that than on the man sitting opposite him.

  King Ionith reclines in one of the deep-backed chairs of the formal sitting room, a porcelain cup resting loosely in his fingers. The windows are tall, the light muted by gauze curtains that soften the afternoon sun. It is not a throne room and they are alone. There are no scribes – or even guards.

  The trust implied by the absence of guards should reassure Roland, but only a fool would think that Ionith is incapable of defending himself. Far from reassuring Roland, the absence of any attendants sets his teeth on edge. No records; no witnesses.

  “This is a pleasant change,” Ionith says mildly, lifting his cup. “It has been some time since we last spoke without an agenda or other peers pressing in on us.”

  Roland mirrors the motion, his every movement calculated to give off the impression of insouciance.

  “Indeed,” he agrees. “Your Majesty honours me.”

  Ionith’s mouth twitches, as if amused by his words. Or disapproving.

  “Do I?” he questions idly. “I wonder. Given recent events, I had the impression you might prefer a more…formal setting.”

  Roland lifts his cup to his lips again to cover his instinctive urge to swallow nervously.

  They sit in silence for a few breaths, each moment that passes making Roland want to tug at the collar of his overrobe. But he doesn’t dare be the first to speak.

  He manages to remain silent for long enough; Ionith sets his cup aside first.

  “I have been reviewing the reports from Zlona,” the King remarks conversationally. It is worse than the silence – his very tone puts Roland on edge. And the subject matter…there should be no reason to bring up Zlona. What does he know? “An unusual affair involving both rift and beast wave.”

  “Beast waves are not uncommon,” Roland forces himself to say with unconcern. “And rifts have been known to provoke them. It is an unfortunate matter, but not one worthy of your attention, surely.”

  Ionith hums noncommittally.

  “Perhaps. Yet there are a number of…irregularities in the reports that interest me deeply. As you know, it can be difficult to determine much about a rift after it has been closed. There are, however, indications that the rift might not have originated in the spot where it was found.”

  “How curious,” Roland comments tensely. He feels beads of sweat start to form on his brow and quickly uses his Water-Shaping to wick them away before they reflect the light and reveal more than he’d like. If he knew, I would be in chains at this moment, not sipping tila, he tells himself. It doesn’t help much.

  “Curious indeed,” Ionith agrees lightly. “But perhaps you have some illumination to shed on the subject. Records show that you dealt with a rift in your territory recently too – and so quickly as well.”

  Roland hides his sudden wave of fear behind his tila cup again.Wildly, he wonders whether Ionith is the mila and he’s the rous, but he calms himself a moment later. Ionith isn’t known for being cruel like that. He may suspect, but he can’t have proof. If Roland keeps his head and avoids confessing in any way, he will get out of this with his neck intact.

  “Well, as you know, one rift is not necessarily like another. Some are simple to close; others are more complex.”

  “Certainly,” Ionith agrees easily – too easily. “Rifts that have been manipulated are often particularly difficult to manage.”

  “Oh?” Roland asks, holding onto his composure by the skin of his teeth. “Is that what happened here?”

  “It seems so,” Ionith confirms, his eyes far sharper than his tone. “Traces indicate that the rift membrane was weakened, allowing more beasts through at a time than would naturally have been the case. My mages believe this might be a natural consequence of its movement, but they are not yet ruling out other…intervention.”

  “How…unfortunate,” Roland manages.

  Ionith hums.

  “More than a little odd, in fact, especially as the two alien Tier threes, ithans – I believe – remained by the rift instead of accompanying their brethren.”

  “Odd indeed,” Roland echoes. Then, unable to stop himself, he continues. “From what you’re saying, it seems likely there was outside interference. Do you…have any suspects in mind?”

  “Of course,” Ionith smiles, the expression sharp and humourless. It sends chills down Roland’s spine. “The evidence seemed clear.”

  He remains silent for a long moment. Every instance that passes winds the knot in Roland’s stomach tighter and tighter. He doesn’t know what he should do – ask who it is or not? Which is more suspicious? Or should he even be concerned with such a question when it is clear Ionith more than suspects him?

  Then Ionith seems to relent.

  “Mage Tiria Worddelver was our initial suspect,” he murmurs musingly. Then he glances idly at Roland, the languid motion not quite hiding the sharpness in his gaze. “Perhaps you are familiar with her.”

  “A mage from the Deepdelve line, is she not?” Roland asks nonchalantly, a spear of hope piercing the iciness in his belly. Perhaps his misdirection has been sufficient for the courts. There’s still a chance.

  “Indeed. Known for her sometimes reckless research, it is not implausible that she might have sought to bring the opening of a rift closer to her place of study. She would not be the first mage – or the last – to make foolish choices with such inter-dimensional constructs. Additionally, her signature was everywhere – on the remnants of the rift, on the fragments of the concealment device found at the scene, even on some of the beasts themselves. She denies all involvement, of course, even before a truthteller.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “It is not completely unknown for a powerful Mage Classer to have access to techniques that render truthtellers less than useful,” Roland points out. All the better for him if Worddelver is officially considered guilty for the rift. He considers it a great pity that he himself has never been able to learn the forbidden Skills that can conceal one’s memories for a time, even from oneself.

  “Certainly. Yet,” Ionith continues delicately, “the signature-capture device recovered at the scene complicates matters.”

  Roland’s fingers tighten imperceptibly around his cup. He’d thought he’d destroyed that.

  “Damaged beyond repair – the result of rolling into the rift while it was open,” Ionith muses almost idly. “Illegal, as you well know. And calibrated in a way that suggests repeated reapplication of external signatures.”

  He lets the words settle.

  “Mage Worddelver’s magic was present,” Ionith says softly. “But not alone.”

  Roland exhales slowly, his mind racing.

  “You tell an intriguing tale, Ionith,” he murmurs in return. “Yet I wonder if you might explain why you feel it necessary for me to know all of this. I am not involved in the investigation.” I doubt he has any actual evidence to convict me or he would have already. While logical, the repeated reassurances aren’t successfully removing all of his unease.

  “Are you not?” Ionith asks, the corners of his mouth twitching again in something that might be amusement – or disgust. “Nicholas and his heir fought a powerful mage near the rift. Hooded and concealed, but the attacks he used were telling.”

  “I am not the only powerful Water Mage,” Roland snaps. The cold light of victory in Ionith’s eyes warns him that he’s misstepped.

  “I did not say that they fought a Water Mage. How…curious that you already know that detail.”

  “Rumours fly fast,” Roland offers, trying to cover his gaffe. Internally, he curses at himself. Ionith has put him off balance and if he doesn’t regain it – quickly – he’ll fall.

  “Indeed,” Ionith accepts, but Roland knows he hasn’t been fooled.

  Roland sets his cup down with care.

  “If the Crown has doubts as to my whereabouts, I assure you I was not present. I have witnesses to that effect.”

  Ionith smiles faintly.

  “I’m sure you do. Loyal ones, no doubt.”

  Roland doesn’t respond. His water-magic wicks away more sweat.

  “I am sure they believe what they say,” the King continues. “Belief is a powerful thing. Particularly when reinforced by dependence.”

  Roland’s jaw tightens and he can’t prevent the swallow from making his throat bob.

  Ionith leans back, something satisfied in his expression.

  “You see, Roland, what troubles me is not that a rift was transferred to a different place and concealed. Nor even that it worsened under careless study.”

  “Careless–”

  “But rather,” Ionith goes on, unperturbed, “that the worsening served a purpose. One that aligned rather neatly with existing political tensions.”

  Roland waits for the blade to fall.

  “A major city in Titanbend territory was attacked, the beasts aiming unerringly for it.” Ionith says. “The concealment of the rift delayed the response just enough to suggest neglect. And it was those under Titanbend rule who suffered most.” He tilts his head. “How very convenient for you.”

  Roland’s mouth tastes bitter.

  “Do you have an accusation to voice, Your Majesty?” Roland questions boldly. Ionith is fencing in the dark, but the longer that this conversation goes on, the more likely it is that Roland will accidentally let something slip.

  Ionith studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs, as if disappointed.

  “This is not a trial,” the King replies. “If it were, we would not be drinking tila.”

  He reaches for a folded parchment on the side table but does not open it.

  “It is, instead, an opportunity,” Ionith continues. “To contain the consequences of an affair that has already unnecessarily cost lives.”

  Torrent’s heart beats almost audibly as he senses this conversation coming to its denouement.

  “Certain border lands,” Ionith says, almost idly, “have long been…contentious. Their stewardship inefficient. Their loyalties, perhaps, divided.” He looks up. “It has been suggested that transferring oversight of several such holdings to House Titanbend would improve regional stability.”

  Roland’s breath catches despite himself.

  “And,” Ionith adds, “there are reparations to consider. Compensation for those disrupted by this…change. For the strain put upon another Great House in taking charge of lands that have been…mismanaged.”

  He hands over the piece of parchment. Roland takes it with slightly trembling fingers. Unfolding it, he sees the list of lands that Ionith suggests that he cedes to his enemy’s control. And the sum of money he is expected to pay the Titanbends for the privilege of doing so.

  He struggles not to crush the parchment into a ball.

  “This is an outrage!”

  Ionith’s expression cools.

  “This,” he responds evenly, “is a compromise.” He pauses, then gestures gently toward the door. “Of course, if you believe this arrangement to be unjust, there is another path. You may, at any time, invoke your right to speak before the palace truthteller. To recount all you know of this affair. All.”

  Roland’s mind flashes through the evidence that would bury him. The attempted blackmail of a Great Lord’s heir, the transferred rift, the intention to damage another Great Lord’s territory and to kill said heir. He has activated many enchantments; truth would cause them to explode – messily.

  Silence lays its heavy blanket upon the room.

  At last, Roland straightens. His movements are stiff, formal.

  “No,” he says. “That will not be necessary.” It’s a confession, and they both know it is. But, as Ionith said, it is a compromise. If Roland accepts the sanctions, Ionith will not pursue the matter further – or allow Nicholas to.

  Ionith inclines his head once.

  “Then we are agreed.”

  Roland, Lord of House Torrent rises and bows, every inch speaking to his breeding and education.

  “Your Majesty,” he says in parting, giving as much courtesy as he must and not a fraction more.

  “Lord Torrent,” Ionith replies with a short nod.

  Roland turns to leave.

  “Oh, and Roland?”

  The lord curses mentally – hasn’t the king done enough?

  “Yes, Your Majesty?” he replies, keeping his calm with great effort.

  “It has come to my awareness that certain members of my rift monitoring department have allowed their priorities to become a little…diverted.. Needless to say, they have been dealt with. I dearly hope this situation doesn’t repeat itself.” The king’s voice is as clear and cold as ice.

  “Completely understandable, Your Majesty,” Roland manages to get out, then sweeps out of the room, his thoughts churning with fury.

  Titanbend has stolen from and maligned his House for the last time.

  This is not finished, he tells himself grimly. Not by a long measure.

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