CHAPTER 10: THE SEEDS OF WAR

It was nearly a fortnight after Caedrion had met with his aunt in the library that Baelius was called before the elders of House Ignarion.

An unusual occurrence for a nullborn who was not even granted the right to carry the name Ignarion as his own.

But not outright suspicious enough for him to dare reject the summons.

However, when he arrived in the chambers, guarded by Ignarion Spellswords, he knew immediately that something was amiss.

The wall of flames that surrounded the round room, concealing whatever was stated within was more suffocating than the last time he had been graced by its eternal presence.

And the glares cast his way by those bearing witness were no less fierce.

A sharp voice echoed across the room, thunderous and powerful.

"Baelius... you have been summoned here to answer an inquiry regarding the poisoning of Caedrion Ferrondel, heir to the Architect. What you say here will determine your fate..."

Baelius could feel the sweat dripping down his brow, onto the black iron floor.

The hiss as it evaporated upon touching the near-molten metal was a sound only he seemed to hear over the deafening silence.

Poisoning of House Ferrondel’s last surviving heir? This was the first he was hearing about it....

He couldn’t help but believe this was some kind of mistake. And quickly tried to explain his innocence in the way a man falsely accused would normally choose.

"Poisoning? With all due respect, my Lord, but there must be some kind of mistake. I have no desire, nor need to harm anyone. Let alone the heir of some foreign house. Nor have I ever been in a position to even attempt such a thing."

Veltharion’s gaze softened. From the shadows, the House’s eldest living member stepped forward...

He was a representative of the more rational and conservative caucus within the House. Elder Caustian, his beard was white with age yet paradoxically slick with vigor.

Its length was nearly touching the floor, as if he had never once shaved in his entire life.

His appearance was old, old enough to truly be called an elder. And yet his frame was neither frail nor timid.

His shoulders were robust beneath his weathered flesh. For a Magus to live to such a state, he would have to be quite old indeed.

And yet, when he spoke it was with the coherence of a man in his prime. albeit with the wisdom of one who had lived centuries.

"The boy makes a valid point, my lord. As a Nullborn, he is the property of House Ignarion, he does not hold the rights of a Magus proper. His presence should be well accounted for at all times. And in my investigation this was the largest discrepancy with the other evidence collected...."

Evidence? What evidence? There was no such thing. How could there be? He was innocent of the accusations laid against him?

And yet, it was then that Baelius saw them. Laid bare across the table in the center of the council.

Potion ingredients, manuscripts detailing ancient forbidden magic that could be used to not only poison someone, but to curse their very soul.

Even alchemical ingredients he had never seen before were or at least the remnants of their use, were spread across the table.

His breath caught.

There it was. His satchel, frayed but unmistakable.

The same stitching his mother had sewn by candlelight, whispering stories of Magi and destiny as he drifted to sleep.

And now it lay among poisons and curses, like a carcass dressed for execution.

Before he could properly voice his grievance, a voice interrupted the thought.

Smug, condescending, and filled with just enough petty spite that it practically oozed out of the man’s mouth as he revealed himself.

"Oh, please... The evidence is damning. One discrepancy does not prove the innocence of this abomination. You think he could not have pulled off such a fiendish act while staying perfectly within the boundaries of the Ember Court? Guess again. Tell them, sweetheart... Tell them what you confessed to me...."

A woman stepped forward, young, beautiful.

Her appearance raised the intrigue in more than a few Elders’ eyes. Including the Lord of House Ignarion himself.

Who cast his gaze away from his own sons, and focused entirely on the maid, who stepped forward. Timid, fearful, trembling.

"I.... I am.... I am maid to House Ferrondel. To Caedrion Ferrondel personally... Young Master Baelius here, he approached me when I was acquiring a vessel from the city of Emberhold for Young Master Caedrion’s fiancée a gift to prelude their upcoming nuptials. It was there in the shop of a craftsman named Veldric that Baelius approached me. He promised me wealth, power, love. As his wife, and lady if I did what he asked..."

She bit her lip and turned away, trembling. A performance so flawless, Baelius might’ve believed it if she hadn’t named him as the accused.

He was in a state of disbelief.

Not because Valerius had framed him for the crime.

But he knew then and there that Valerius himself was guilty.

And that the woman Valerius had mentioned in passing within Veldric’s shop was Aelindria Ferrondel.

Had he done the slightest investigation into the matter, he could have easily discovered this conspiracy before he was ever made the sacrificial lamb for its slaughter.

He only sunk his head, defeated; it did not matter now what he said.

His father may be Veltharion, Lord of House Ingarion.

But his mother was a null, and thus he had no right to protest his treatment.

And since he could not prove his innocence, he was guilty.

His actions did him no favors, and he knew it. But it did not matter.

Because the moment Valerius stepped forward and brought forth false witness, his was doomed.

Veltharion sighed after witnessing the charade.

A glint of understanding was in his and the Ancient Elders’ eyes as they silently communicated with their gazes.

And then a verdict.

"Baelius... I find you guilty of conspiracy to assassinate the Heir of House Ferrondel. At dawn, you will be taken to the Forge, and cast into the fire. May the Crucible have mercy on your soul, for you will find none from me."

After saying this, the Ignarion spellswords who guarded the door lowered their blades, crossing Ignarion’s neck, while raising their free hands.

The light of fire erupted forth from their palms, and suddenly bindings wrapped around Baelius’ figure.

Bindings not made of iron or steel. But flame itself.

He did not scream. He did not beg.

The flames carried him from the council, his face blank.

But behind his eyes, something had begun to burn.