Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone

During the whole course of his trial, the duke said only five words. Nothing more. Not in defense, not in accusation, not in answer to even the most simple of questions. He stood before the council and stared at a point straight ahead. He did not look at Orin; he did not even look at the Lady Adelaide Sung, his estranged wife. His gaze fixedly occupied the empty place at the table’s head where the king would have sat. Orin’s coronation had taken place the day after the funeral, but he had sat in the crown prince’s chair before his advisors had the chance to correct him. Whether he had done so out of accidental habit, or in tribute to his late father, it was impossible to tell: his face was without expression. Like Duke Sung, King Orin said only a handful of words. His advisors asked the questions; some of those called before them even had the grace to answer.

The southern lords had been held separately since the night of Liam’s death. Now, brought before the council singly, with no time to confer, they told remarkably similar stories. They each believed the duke’s accusations of Orin being a doppel, to a greater or lesser extent. Some provided entertainment to the trial’s spectators by seething that he should be killed, that this was all some plot of his devising. To these, the new king had nothing to say. Others admitted to being unsure, but trusting their liege lord’s word enough to be concerned; and so they had come north to add their names to his petition, to make sure it was given a fair hearing. The king had nothing to say to these, either. All claimed ignorance of any plot against Liam’s life; many professed their sympathies, and over kirin’s bone, Aaron supposed they had to be at least a bit sincere. Either that, or they were a den of foxes.

One confessed that the duke had told them the signal ahead of time. Back before they had ever set out, months before things had come to this. If the banshees wailed while their party was there, they were to assume that they were being framed for Liam’s murder. They should strike at the royal guard from behind, and overwhelm them. They should flee back south to rally a defense. They should not, under any circumstances, wait for him.

A member of the Late Wake—a nondescript man who slouched warily through the doors of the council chamber, but straightened his back easily into noble lines once facing them—testified regarding the fox’s tongue. The four tails had been found dead by a poacher the morning that the duke addressed his petition to the council. Killed during the night, its jaws spread wide in a red laughing grin and its tongue severed at the base. The poacher had tried to sell its tails, which had rather quickly brought him to the attention of the Late Wake’s man, who had gotten the story from him. He’d seen the beast’s body himself that same day, and it was as the poacher said.

“What effects do a fox’s tongue have?” the Lady asked, for the court’s benefit.

“None for the most part, My Lady,” he replied. “You can’t tell a man who’s eaten one by sight, or by any other test I know, save one: that man could stand before a kirin’s own council, and tell it like the sky was green. If it was Duke Sung who’s eaten it, he could stand here and say anything he pleased. Truth isn’t much matter to a fox, and kirin’s bone won’t change that.”

“If he did take it on the day he spoke to the council, will the effects have worn off by now? Might we expect the truth from him today?” she asked.

The man sucked in his cheeks. “If he ate the tongue of a four tails, Lady? It’d last years. A lifetime, maybe. I’ve never heard of anyone fool enough to kill more than a two tails, and it was months later he could still claim he’d no part in it. Power with foxes is no linear thing. The difference between two tails and four is far more than twice. It was a fool thing, meddling with that. If you could have seen the look on that fox’s face—it was laughing, right to the end. A man should never kill a laughing thing.”

“Thank you, sir. That will be all.”

The man bobbed a bow, slouching back to anonymity.

“M’pleasure, Lady.” His eyes scanned the crowd as he turned, and it seemed to Aaron that the spy looked right at him, and paused. Not for long: but there was something unreadable in his face as he slipped from the room.

The duke was the final man called. Throughout the questions posed to him, he would only stare at the place where King Liam should have been. At length, Orin held up a hand to forestall a question posed by his Captain of the Guard.

“Speak your piece, Duke Sung, and be judged by it,” he commanded, “Or hold your silence, and be judged still.”

Sung shifted his eyes to the new king, and met his gaze evenly. “My actions were my own.”

King Orin’s expression did not change. “Then be it on you.”

His dismissal of the court was every bit as clear as his father’s had been, just days before. The duke was escorted out, flanked by redcoats. As he did, just that once, his gray eyes found the blue of his wife’s. The Lady brought a hand to her face as if distraught, but Aaron had seen that look before.

It was a smile that reached her eyes.

He didn’t know if the bad feeling started then or if, like a banshee’s wail, it was something that had begun long ago, but to which he’d grown too accustomed to notice.