Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(36)

But Manon did not care about that. Not when the words were being spoken.

“The Crone’s Sickle hangs above us,” Cresseida intoned. “Let it be the Mother’s blade of justice.”

This was not a meeting.

This was a trial.

Iskra began smiling.

As if a thread wove between them, Manon could feel Asterin straightening behind her, feel her Second readying for the worst.

“Blood calls for blood,” the Yellowlegs crone rasped. “We shall decide how much is owed.”

Manon kept still, not daring to show one inch of fear, of trepidation.

Witch trials were brutal, exact. Usually, problems were settled with the three blows to face, ribs, and stomach. Rarely, only in the gravest circumstances, did the three Matrons gather to mete out judgment.

Manon’s grandmother said, “You stand accused, Manon Blackbeak, of cutting down a Yellowlegs sentinel with no provocation beyond your own pride.”

Iskra’s eyes positively burned.

“And, as the sentinel was a part of the Yellowlegs’ heir’s own coven, it is also a crime against Iskra.” Her grandmother’s face was tight with rage—not for what Manon had done, but for getting caught. “Through either your own neglect or ill-planning, the lives of four other coven members were ended. Their blood, too, stains your hands.” Her grandmother’s iron teeth shone in the candlelight. “Do you deny these charges?”

Manon kept her back straight, looked each of them in the eye. “I do not deny that I killed Iskra’s sentinel when she tried to claim my rightful prize. I do not deny that the other four were slaughtered by the Fae Prince. But I do deny any wrongdoing on my part.”

Iskra hissed. “You can smell Zelta’s blood on her—smell the fear and pain.”

Manon sneered, “You smell that, Yellowlegs, because your sentinel had a coward’s heart and attacked another sister-in-arms. When she realized she would not win our fight, it was already too late for her.”

Iskra’s face contorted with fury. “Liar—”

“Tell us, Blackbeak Heir,” Cresseida said, “what happened in Rifthold three days past.”

So Manon did.

And for the first time in her century of miserable existence, she lied to her elders. She wove a fine tapestry of falsehoods, believing the stories she told them. As she finished, she gestured to Iskra Yellowlegs. “It’s common knowledge the Yellowlegs heir has long coveted my position. Perhaps she rushed back here to fling accusations at me so she might steal my place as Wing Leader, just as her sentinel tried to steal my prey.”

Iskra bristled but kept her mouth shut. Petrah took a step forward, however, and spoke. “I have questions for the Blackbeak heir, if it would not be an impertinence.”

Manon’s grandmother looked like she’d rather have her own nails ripped out, but the other two nodded.

Manon straightened, bracing herself for whatever Petrah thought she was doing.

Petrah’s blue eyes were calm as she met Manon’s stare. “Would you consider me your enemy or rival?”

“I consider you an ally when the occasion demands it, but always a rival, yes.” The first true thing Manon had said.

“And yet you saved me from sure death at the War Games. Why?”

The other Matrons glanced at one another, faces unreadable.

Manon lifted her chin. “Because Keelie fought for you as she died. I would not allow her death to be wasted. I could offer a fellow warrior nothing less.”

At the sound of her dead wyvern’s name, pain flickered across Petrah’s face. “You remember her name?”

Manon knew it wasn’t an intended question. But she nodded all the same.

Petrah faced the Matrons. “That day, Iskra Yellowlegs nearly killed me, and her bull slaughtered my mare.”

“We have dealt with that,” Iskra cut in, teeth flashing, “and dismissed it as accidental—”

Petrah held up a hand. “I am not finished, Iskra Yellowlegs.”

Nothing but brutal steel in those words as she addressed the other heir. A small part of Manon was glad not to be on the receiving end of it.

Iskra saw the unfinished business that waited in that tone and backed down.

Petrah lowered her hand. “Manon Blackbeak had the chance to let me die that day. The easier choice would have been to let me die, and she would not be standing accused as she is now. But she risked her life, and the life of her mount, to spare me from death.”

A life debt—that was what lay between them. Did Petrah think to fill it by speaking in her favor now? Manon reined in her sneer.

Petrah went on, “I do not comprehend why Manon Blackbeak would save me only to later turn on her Yellowlegs sisters. You crowned her Wing Leader for her obedience, discipline, and brutality—do not let the anger of Iskra Yellowlegs sully the qualities you saw in her then, and which still shine forth today. Do not lose your Wing Leader over a misunderstanding.”

The Matrons again glanced among them as Petrah bowed, backing into her place at her mother’s right. But the three witches continued that unspoken discussion waging between them. Until Manon’s grandmother stepped forward, the other two falling back—yielding the decision to her. Manon almost sagged in relief.

She’d corner Petrah the next time the heir was foolish enough to be out alone, get her to admit why she’d spoken in Manon’s favor.