Chapter 18: The King's Madness

MELIANTHE

The ravens wake me before the screaming begins.

Their cries pierce the pre-dawn darkness, sharp, agitated warnings that make my skin prickle with ancestral memory. Through my window, I can see them wheeling against the stars in patterns my grandmother would have called prophetic. Ravens know when blood will spill, she used to say.

I've learned to read their movements these past months. When they circle clockwise, it means imperial patrols approach. Counter-clockwise warns of searches. But tonight they fly in chaotic spirals, diving and climbing without pattern, a dance of pure alarm that speaks of violence already in motion.

Then comes the sound of splintering wood three floors below, followed by boots on stone and the first terrified screams.

My hands shake as I light the candle beside my bed, its flame casting dancing shadows that make my chamber feel like a trap. The wick catches slowly, as if even fire hesitates to illuminate what's coming. Through my window, torches move in the courtyard; not the orderly procession of a planned execution, but the chaotic scatter of a hunt in progress. Guards run between buildings, their shouts mixing with the crash of doors being forced open and the wails of those dragged from their beds.

I dress quickly in practical clothes, dark fabric that won't show blood if this morning goes as badly as I fear. My fingers fumble with the laces. When did dressing for potential violence become routine? The leather boots I choose are soft-soled, made for moving quietly through palace corridors. The knife I tuck into my sleeve is small but sharp, though I pray I won't need it.

Another scream echoes through the palace corridors. Someone being dragged from their quarters, their pleas cutting through stone walls like blades through silk. A woman's voice, high and terrified, begging for her children. The sound makes my stomach clench with recognition. This is what Father's efficiency looks like when the mask slips.

Or when he needs it to slip.

The thought comes unbidden, dangerous in its implications. These past weeks, I've noticed patterns in Father's cruelty. Martyrs whose deaths inspire rather than terrify. Brutality so excessive it drives fence-sitters into our arms. As if someone choreographs horror to serve a hidden purpose.

But even if he sympathizes with our cause, Father is a collaborator king who sold his soul for the illusion of power. I can’t forget that.

Through my door, I hear Adelaide's mechanical footsteps approaching with breakfast I won't eat. Her gait is perfectly measured as always but tonight something seems off. A slight hesitation every fourth step, as if she's listening for something.

When she enters, her usual precision has cracked, revealing something almost human beneath. Her immaculate servant's uniform shows signs of hasty dressing; a button misaligned, a strand of blonde hair escaped from her severe bun. In the candlelight I notice dark circles under her eyes that powder can't quite conceal.

"Your Highness," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "His Majesty requests your immediate presence in the great hall. He says..." She swallows hard, and I catch the way her hands tremble before she controls them. "He says it's time you understood what sovereignty costs."

The phrasing makes me pause. Not "protection" or "order" or any of the usual euphemisms. Sovereignty. A word that implies choice, responsibility, the weight of crowns. Father has always been precise with language; Mother used to say he could make words dance or cut depending on his need. This choice feels deliberate, weighted with meaning I can't quite grasp.

"What's the charge this time?" I ask, though dread already coils in my stomach.

"The Fenwick family. They're accused of harboring fugitives, those who escaped the arrests these past nights." Adelaide's voice drops even lower, and she glances toward the door as if expecting listeners. "The evidence is questionable. A torn piece of Master Fenwick's distinctive fabric found near a safe house. Testimony from an informant who claims to have seen their son delivering food to hidden rebels. And correspondence with... with your mother's former associates."

I have to grip the bedpost to steady myself. Master Xavier Fenwick made my first court dress when I turned nine, silk the color of spring leaves with tiny ravens embroidered along the hem. He'd spent hours getting the birds just right, saying a daughter of the Raven Queen should wear her heritage with pride. His wife Amelia taught me embroidery during the long afternoons when Mother was ill, her gentle hands guiding mine through the intricate patterns of our house. Their son Jasper is barely sixteen, a kitchen boy whose greatest crime is probably giving leftover bread to hungry children.

The people they're accused of helping - I know most escaped because of our network's warnings, not the Fenwicks' aid. Lady Whitmore and her daughters vanished three hours before the guards arrived. Lord Hawthorne’s entire household disappeared as if they'd never existed. The Fairweather twins, marked for arrest due to their father's old loyalties, now safely hidden in the countryside. Our network saved them, not the Fenwicks. But convenient scapegoats serve better than empty cells.

"All of them?" The question comes out strangled.

"The entire family, Your Highness. They claim the conspiracy spans all three; that Master Fenwick provided disguises, his wife offered shelter, and their son acted as messenger." Adelaide hesitates, and I see her struggling with something. Finally, she adds: "Though the guards who searched their home found nothing but ordinary tailoring supplies and old recipes. The evidence appeared quite suddenly after the initial search yielded nothing."

The implication hangs between us. Evidence can be planted as easily as seeds in fertile soil. Adelaide knows this; she's probably planted such evidence herself in her role as spy. That she's telling me this suggests... what? A warning? A test? Or simply that even imperial agents have limits to what they can stomach?

"When?" I ask.

"Within the hour, Your Highness. The great hall is already filling with courtiers summoned to witness." She pauses, then adds very quietly: "Your father insisted on a full court. He wants everyone to see."

Of course he does. Public executions serve multiple purposes; terror for the populace, entertainment for the corrupt, and messages for those who know how to read them. But gathering the full court at this hour, for this family? There's something else at play.

The walk to the great hall takes me through corridors that reek of fresh violence. The morning cleaning hasn't begun, leaving blood to pool in the grooves between ancient stones. Servants press themselves against walls as I pass, their eyes showing that careful blankness that's become our universal mask. But I notice other things too. The way certain guards stand at attention with excessive precision, as if compensating for internal conflict. The way some servants risk tiny nods of acknowledgment when Adelaide isn't looking.

One young maid - Della, I think her name is - actually reaches out as if to touch my sleeve before catching herself. Her eyes are red with recent tears, and I realize she must know the Fenwicks. In a palace where everyone watches everyone, genuine grief is dangerous to display.

Blood stains the ancient stones despite hasty cleaning. Fresh scratches on walls where people tried to resist being dragged from their rooms. The smell of fear so thick it's like breathing fog. Somewhere in the distance a child cries, a thin, desperate sound that speaks of a parent torn away. The sound follows me like an accusation.

But it's the ravens that make me falter. They line every window, perch on every available surface, their black eyes tracking my movement with unnatural focus. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, all perfectly still and silent. In the pre-dawn darkness, they look like fragments of night given form and purpose. One drops a black feather at my feet, an omen my grandmother would have spent hours interpreting.

I pick it up, feeling its weight like an accusation. The feather is perfect, unmarred by wind or weather. Along its edge, I swear I can see patterns in the black; shapes that might be letters in the old script, or might simply be tricks of the light. My grandmother used to say that ravens carried messages between the living and the dead, that their feathers could show the future to those who knew how to look.

The Raven Queen saved her kingdom through deception, the old stories say. She wore weakness like armor and wielded mercy like a blade.

I tuck the feather into my sleeve, where it rests against the hidden knife. Two secrets, two potential weapons, though I'm not sure which frightens me more.

The great hall buzzes with forced normalcy, courtiers maintaining the fiction that this is merely another morning's business. They cluster in their traditional groupings, but conversations start and stop like broken clockwork. Lord Aldwin stands with the other moderate nobles, but his usual bombast has been replaced with nervous silence. Lady Cressida holds court among the younger set, but her bright laughter sounds brittle, forced. Even the imperial observers seem unsettled, their usual arrogance tempered by the early hour and sudden summons.

Near the throne, imperial functionaries confer with Ambassador Cordelia, their satisfaction barely concealed. She wears deep purple today, the color of imperial justice, and her pale hair has been braided into a crown that makes her look like a judge presiding over lesser beings. When she smiles at something her aide whispers, I see too many teeth.

Father stands beside his throne rather than sitting, a detail that catches my attention. He's always been precise about when to project authority versus accessibility. Standing suggests uncertainty, internal conflict, or perhaps preparation for movement. His robes are formal but slightly askew, as if dressed in haste or distraction. The heavy crown of Ravencrest sits at an odd angle on his head, and I notice he keeps touching it, adjusting its weight.

At his feet lie the evidence: torn fabric that could indeed be from Master Fenwick's workshop, though the tear looks too fresh, too convenient. A handful of letters tied with ribbon; the inconsistent handwriting suggesting multiple authors, or perhaps one person trying to disguise their script. A ledger with entries in what might be code or might simply be a tailor's shorthand for orders. And there, making my heart clench, a small portrait of my mother that makes my chest tight with loss. Master Fenwick painted it as a gift for my thirteenth birthday, capturing her gentle strength with heartbreaking accuracy. What it's doing among evidence of treason, I can't fathom.

"Melianthe," Father says as I approach, and something flickers in his eyes, there and gone too quickly to interpret. "How good of you to join us. I was just explaining the necessity of gardening."

Gardening. The metaphor makes several courtiers shift uncomfortably. Everyone knows Father's garden analogies precede his harshest decisions. Weeds must be pulled before they choke the flowers. Disease must be cut away before it spreads. Sometimes entire beds must be cleared and replanted.

"Your Majesty," I curtsy with precise formality, letting nothing show on my face.

"Tell me, daughter," Father continues, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "What do you do when you discover corruption in your garden? When plants you've tended carefully reveal themselves to be something other than what they appeared?"

It's a test, though I'm not sure what answer he wants. "I would first ensure I'd identified the problem correctly, Your Majesty. While some plants can indeed mimic others, sometimes what appears to be disease is merely stress, requiring different care rather than removal."

A few courtiers nod appreciatively at the diplomatic response. Father's mouth twitches in approval or annoyance, I can't tell.

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"And if the identification is certain? If the corruption threatens to spread?"

"Then swift action prevents greater loss," I reply, hating myself for playing this game while the Fenwicks await their fate.

"Precisely." Father turns from me to address the court. "Swift action. Decisive measures. This is how we maintain order in chaos, how we protect the many from the destructive few."

The side door opens to admit the condemned. My heart sinks at the sight of them. Master Xavier stumbles forward in chains, his neat appearance destroyed by rough handling. His fine tailor's hands are bloodied, several fingers bent at wrong angles - evidence of "questioning" that yielded no results. Amelia weeps silently behind him, hands bound in a way that makes her shoulders shake with pain. A bruise darkens her left cheek, and her simple dress is torn at the shoulder. And Jasper…

Jasper stares at Father with eyes that burn cold and bright, showing none of the fear that should accompany a death sentence. Instead, there's something almost like... recognition? Understanding? As if he sees something in Father that others miss. Despite his youth, he stands straight, chin raised in defiance or pride. Blood has dried on his split lip, but he doesn't seem to notice.

Father's reaction is subtle but telling. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and his left hand, the one hidden by his robes, clenches into a fist. For just a moment, his mask of cold authority wavers. Something passes between him and the boy, some communication I can't interpret.

"Master Xavier Fenwick," Father's voice cuts through the hall with practiced cruelty. "You stand accused of aiding the escape of wanted fugitives, providing material support to enemies of the crown, and worst of all…" He pauses, and I swear I see him struggle with the words. "Using your position of trust to undermine the peace we've sacrificed so much to achieve."

Sacrificed. Not "worked for" or "built" but sacrificed. The word choice feels deliberate, layered with meaning for those who know how to listen.

"Your Majesty," Master Xavier’s voice shakes but carries dignity despite his injuries. "I am a tailor. I make clothes. If fabric from my shop was found somewhere suspicious, it could have come from any of a hundred customers-"

"Yet it was your fabric," Father interrupts, but the heat in his voice sounds forced, theatrical. "Your son was seen near the safe house. Your wife's charitable visits to poor families coincidentally included those whose relatives vanished before arrest." He spreads his hands in mock bewilderment. "Such unfortunate coincidences."

"I visit many families," Amelia manages through her tears. "The poor need food and clothing regardless of their loyalties. Would you have me ask for proof of allegiance before offering bread to hungry children?"

The question hangs in the air, and I see several courtiers shift uncomfortably. Some of them have benefited from Amelia’s charity in leaner times, before imperial gold made such kindness unnecessary for those who bent the knee.

"The evidence, Your Majesty," Cordelia interjects smoothly, clearly growing impatient with this philosophical debate. "Perhaps you should share the most damning piece with the court."

Father picks up one of the letters with movements that seem almost reluctant. He holds it as if it might burn him, and I notice his hand trembles slightly before he controls it. "This correspondence between Amelia Fenwick and Queen Elena's former lady-in-waiting discusses 'packages to be delivered' and 'ensuring safe travels.' Written mere days before the escape of the Fairweather twins." He looks directly at Master Xavier. "Tell me, what packages did your wife deliver? What travels did she ensure?"

"Food and clothing for the poor, Your Majesty," Amelia insists, her voice stronger than her tears suggest. "As I've done every week for twenty years. If helping hungry families makes me a traitor-"

"It does when those families harbor fugitives," Father's voice drops dangerously low. "When your charity becomes a network for moving enemies of the state."

The words hang in the air like a challenge. Several courtiers glance nervously between Father and Cordelia, understanding the game being played. The high profile escapes have embarrassed the Empire. The real network remains hidden, so scapegoats must be found. The mathematics are simple: three lives for imperial pride.

"And you, boy," Father turns his attention to Jasper. "Multiple witnesses place you near the warehouse where fugitives were hidden. What business did a kitchen servant have in the merchant quarter after dark?"

"I was visiting my sweetheart, Your Majesty," Jasper says clearly, his young voice steady despite everything. "Marie, who works at the Boar's Head tavern. She'll vouch for me."

"The tavern that conveniently sits across from the suspected safe house?" Father's tone suggests he knows the alibi is probably true but irrelevant. "How fortunate for the fugitives to have such distracted witnesses nearby."

"I saw nothing unusual," Jasper insists. "Just merchants loading wagons, travelers seeking rooms-"

"Travelers who vanished before dawn? Merchants whose wagons were found abandoned miles from any trade route?" Father shakes his head. "Your innocence is either feigned or willful blindness. Either way, it serves the enemies of peace."

A raven cries out from one of the windows, a harsh, mocking sound that makes Father flinch. He actually glances toward the bird, and I swear I see something like acknowledgment pass between them. As if the raven has voiced the absurdity of these charges that everyone knows are fabricated. The bird cocks its head, fixing Father with one bright eye, and caws again - a sound almost like laughter.

"Even the ravens mock this farce," Jasper says suddenly, and several guards step forward as if he might attack. But the boy simply stands straighter. "They know truth from lies, Your Majesty. They see everything from their high perches."

"Silence," Father says, but the word lacks force. He's staring at the raven now, and his expression is strange, almost haunted. "The birds know nothing."

"The birds know everything," Jasper counters, and his voice carries an odd certainty. "My grandmother used to say they remember every cruelty, every kindness. They're waiting, Your Majesty. Watching. Recording. When the time comes-"

"I said silence!" This time Father's voice cracks like a whip. The raven spreads its wings and flies away, but not before dropping another feather that spirals down to land at Father's feet. He doesn't pick it up, but I see him stare at it as if it were a written accusation.

"The sentence," Cordelia prompts, her patience wearing thin at this philosophical digression. "The evidence is clear, the guilt established. Justice delayed is justice denied."

Father straightens, authority settling back over him like armor. But I've learned to read the tells he doesn't know he has: the way his right thumb rubs against his index finger when stressed, the slight tightening around his eyes that precedes difficult decisions. Right now, both tells are screaming.

"The sentence," he repeats slowly, as if tasting the words. Then, louder: "Death. Public execution at dawn. Let all who would choose sentiment over survival see where such choices lead."

The pronouncement lands like thunder, but I'm watching Father's hands. The left one, still hidden by his robes, trembles slightly. His thumb continues its nervous rhythm against his finger. Whatever game he's playing, this move costs him.

Young Jasper laughs - actually laughs - the sound bright and terrible in the shocked silence. "You think you're saving the kingdom by killing us? You're only creating more martyrs for the resistance you pretend doesn't exist."

"Your Majesty," I hear myself say, stepping forward before I can think better of it. "Surely the evidence warrants further investigation. A scrap of fabric and proximity to a tavern seem insufficient for-"

"Insufficient?" Father turns on me with eyes that blaze with something complex, anger and warning and perhaps approval all tangled together. "When twenty enemies of the state vanish before arrest? When our peace is threatened by those who would return us to the chaos of the old ways? Or perhaps you think their escape was mere coincidence, daughter?"

The threat is clear, but there's something else in his voice. A layered meaning that suggests he's giving me an opening while appearing to close doors. He knows as well as I do that the Fenwicks are convenient scapegoats, not the real network.

"I think dead tailors make poor intelligence sources, Father. If they truly aided the fugitives, they might have information about the broader network." I keep my voice steady, playing the pragmatic princess. "The Empire values information above satisfaction."

"The broader network that definitely exists and definitely threatens our stability." His tone is absolutely flat, giving nothing away. "Though perhaps... dawn is hasty. Sunset tomorrow would allow for enhanced interrogation. Time to extract whatever knowledge they possess."

Cordelia's eyes narrow at the delay, but she says nothing. Sunset means another day for rescue attempts, for plans to form, for convenient complications to arise. "Enhanced interrogation has already been attempted," Cordelia observes, gesturing to the Fenwicks' obvious injuries. "What more could be gained?"

"Desperation loosens tongues," Father replies smoothly. "A time contemplating death’s approach often reveals secrets that immediate fear conceals. Besides, public executions require proper preparation and announcement. We want the message clear, not muddled by haste."

It's a reasonable argument delivered unreasonably. Cordelia knows it, Father knows it, everyone knows it. But challenging the King directly requires careful calculation, and dawn is only hours away. She inclines her head slightly in acquiescence.

"Guards," Father commands, and Captain Morris steps forward. Another interesting choice; Morris, whose loyalty predates the conquest. The captain's face could have been carved from stone for all the emotion it shows, but I know him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders.

"Your Majesty?" Morris's voice is perfectly neutral.

"Secure the prisoners in the Tower cells. Double watches. I want no mistakes this time."

"It will be done, Your Majesty." Morris gestures to his men, who move forward with practiced efficiency. But I notice small things. How gently they grip Jasper's arms, how they allow Amelia to walk without dragging her, how one guard actually steadies Master Xavier when he stumbles. These are not the actions of men eager for blood.

As the guards move to comply, something extraordinary happens. A raven, larger than the others with silver threads through its black feathers, flies directly into the hall. It enters through the great doors as if they were opened for it, though I saw no one touch them. The bird circles once overhead, crying out in a voice that sounds almost like laughter, then drops something small and glittering before wheeling back out through the open doors.

The object rolls across the floor, coming to rest at Father's feet. The sound it makes, metal on stone, seems to echo far longer than it should. Every eye in the hall follows its path, and when it stops, a collective intake of breath ripples through the crowd.

Father bends to retrieve it, and I see his face go pale. His hand actually shakes as he picks up the small object, and for a moment, I think he might drop it again.

It's a ring. Silver, carved with the seal of House Ravencrest; not the current seal, but the old one. The one my mother wore. The one that disappeared the night she died. The craftsmanship is exquisite, each feather on the carved raven distinct and perfect. But it's the inner band that makes Father's hand tremble. I can see writing there, though I'm too far away to read it.

Father closes his fist around the ring, his composure cracking visibly. When he speaks, his voice is rough with barely controlled emotion. "Clear the hall. Now."

The dismissal sends courtiers scurrying, their whispered speculation following them like smoke. Some glance back at Father, at the Fenwicks, at me, trying to piece together what just happened. The imperial observers huddle together, no doubt preparing reports that will fly to their masters within the hour.

But I remain, watching as Father struggles with whatever that ring represents. My feet feel rooted to the floor, held by invisible threads of connection to that small piece of silver. Cordelia lingers as well, her sharp eyes cataloging every crack in his facade.

"That ring," she says slowly, each word cold as a chip of ice. "Where did it come from?"

"A reminder from the ravens," Father says, and now his voice is dangerous in its quietness. "That some ghosts refuse to rest."

He looks at me then, and for a moment I see past the tyrant's mask to something raw and desperate beneath. The controlled king who orchestrates violence with calculated precision has vanished, replaced by a man drowning in some private grief. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and I realize with a shock that he's afraid.

"Go, Melianthe. Prepare yourself for tomorrow's ceremony. Remember that every choice has consequences, and some are heavier than others."

The dismissal is clear, but the message is layered. As I curtsy and withdraw, I hear him add, almost too quietly to catch: "Your mother understood that."

I leave the throne room with thoughts churning like storm clouds. The Fenwick family has until sunset. Time for rescue attempts, for ravens to carry messages, for convenient complications to arise. Time for the resistance to act, if we're brave enough. Time for the network to prove whether we're worthy of the trust placed in us.

But it's Father's reaction to that ring that haunts me as I walk through corridors where ravens still gather in unusual numbers. The way his mask didn't just slip but shattered, revealing depths of pain I hadn't imagined he could still feel. Whatever that ring means, whatever promises it represents, they're powerful enough to crack the facade he's maintained for years.

As I pass a window, I see the silver-threaded raven perched on the sill, watching me with eyes that seem to hold impossible knowledge. It's beautiful and terrible, this creature that brought my mother's ring to my father's feet. As I watch, it spreads one wing, revealing more silver threading through its feathers, patterns that look deliberate, almost like writing in the old script.

It cocks its head as if in question, and I find myself whispering: "What truth are you trying to show me?"

The raven's cry sounds almost like an answer, though one in a language I don't yet understand. But I'm beginning to suspect that before this is over, I'll need to learn. The old stories speak of ravens as messengers between worlds, carriers of secrets too dangerous for human tongues. This one seems to carry the weight of years in its silver-touched feathers.

I think of Jasper's words: They remember every cruelty, every kindness. They're waiting.

Waiting for what? For whom? For the right moment, or the right understanding?

The execution is set for sunset. The resistance will act today. And somewhere between those two certainties, truth waits to be discovered about a king who might be playing a game deeper and more terrible than any of us imagine.

The ravens know. They've always known.

The question is whether we'll understand their warnings in time to matter.