Chapter 8: The Court of the Dead

"You bled on the bed," Ingrith said.

Kaelor did not turn from the high window of his study.

"It is an old scar. It opens when I am pleased."

"That's a lie."

"It is a king's explanation. They are always short."

"I want to see it."

"No."

"Kaelor."

He turned then.

In the gray light she saw something that had not been there the day before.

A streak of white ran through the black hair at his left temple, as wide as her finger.

"Your hair," she said.

"It happens."

"It did not happen yesterday."

"It happens," he said again, and lifted her chin with two fingers. "The court is waiting. You asked to sit beside me."

"I asked to be useful."

"Then sit and be useful."

The throne room had filled with gray figures in neat rows.

Kaelor took the iron chair.

Beside it stood a smaller seat of black glass.

Ingrith lowered herself into it and the chain between them settled in her lap.

The dead watched her with calm dull eyes.

"These are the judges," the raven whispered from the arm of her chair.

"They weigh each soul who comes to the hall. Today the king lets you hear it with him."

A soul was led in by a pair of tall guards.

He was an old man in a steward's coat, bent, with a long gray beard.

He stopped before the throne.

His eyes found Ingrith.

They widened.

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