And then the bailiff was opening the brass-bound leather case to reveal a set of two iron bracelets, about two inches wide, and two thick iron rings as well.
“Now then, girl—come here!” the bailiff demanded, nodding at me to approach him. “It is time for the first part of your sentence to be carried out!”
He set the heavy case—which was lined in black velvet—on the chair beside him. Then he pulled on a pair of heavy gloves, as though he was preparing to handle something extremely hot, and picked up the first iron bracelet.
“Approach and hold out your left wrist, prisoner!” he demanded.
With a tingle of apprehension, I did as he said. Stepping forward, I held out my left hand and let him slide the heavy iron bracelet over my arm.
To my vast relief, the iron was cold, but not unreasonably so. I could feel it warming a bit against my skin, but it didn’t feel like it was burning me. Mainly, it just felt heavy.
The fact that I had withstood the first bracelet so calmly seemed to win me a lot of brownie points with the ever-growing crowd of observers in the back of the hall.
“Hark at the child—see how she doesn’t flinch a bit!” one woman murmured.
“And see how the iron leaves no mark upon her skin!” whispered another.
“Not a single tear,” marveled the man, who had been certain the pain would drive me mad.
My reaction—or lack of it—wasn’t lost on Lady Starchild either.
“Hardened girl!” she exclaimed, glaring down at me from her podium. “Have you no shame? How can you display no pain or remorse even when you are punished? Bailiff—the other bracelet—and the rings!” she demanded, not giving me a chance to answer.
Still wearing the thick leather gloves, the bailiff put the other iron bracelet on my right hand. But he had difficulty picking up the rings with the clumsy gloves on.
“Here,” I said. “I’ll help you.”
Leaning forward, I plucked the first iron ring from the velvet-lined box. It was heavy and cold as a lump of ice in my palm but at least it—like the bracelets—was smooth to the touch, so the iron wouldn’t scratch my skin.
My easy movements as I slid the iron rings on my fingers—one on the left ring finger and one on the right—didn’t escape the watching crowd.
“Look at her—see her touch the rings as though they were nothing!” one woman exclaimed.
“The iron doesn’t burn her at all” another cried. “How can it be?”
Apparently, Lady Starchild wanted to know the same thing.
“Bailiff!” she snapped, “Are you certain you’ve gotten the right bracelets and rings? The iron ones?”
“Yes, m’lady.” The bailiff nodded and frowned. “I daren’t touch them myself—they’re red hot. I can feel it even though my gloves.” He held up the thick, clumsy leather gloves to show her.
“Then how is it that the iron does not burn her?” Lady Starchild demanded.
“I don’t know, m’ lady.” He shook his head, looking baffled.
“Never mind!” Lady Starchild snapped. “Just take her away to the dungeons!”
“But Mother, she hasn’t been properly punished!” Morganna whined, glaring at me. “At least flog her! If the iron won’t burn her, she must bleed for what she did to me!”
“Very true, my sweet.” Lady Starchild nodded, her perfect golden hair waving with the motion. “Very well—Bailiff,” she called. “I have changed my mind—since the iron has no effect on the girl, she must be beaten instead!”
Beaten? Flogged? My heart was suddenly in my chest as I watched the bailiff put away the box the iron bracelets and rings had come out of, and pull out a long, evil-looking black whip instead. It was tipped with a bunch of sharp little metal barbs that looked like fishhooks and I could just imagine what they would do to my skin.
Then Bran and Lachlan were stepping forward and pushing me behind them protectively.
“You will not touch our lady with that whip,” Bran growled, drawing his long sword and holding it up so that it gleamed menacingly.
“You’ll have to get through us first,” Lachlan added and the crystal at the end of his staff began to glow a deep red, like a warning sign, I thought.
“You dare to circumvent the will of this Court?” Lady Starchild exclaimed. “I’ll have all three of you whipped within an inch of your lives! You’ll be wearing iron collars in the dungeons and eating nothing but dust and ashes until you starve to death! You’ll—”
“What is the meaning of this?” an angry voice called from the back of the hall.
A sudden hush fell over the room and then I heard the whispers starting.
“The Queen!”
“Queen Elia!”
“Bow down—make way for her!”
The crowd parted, making a path down the middle of the hall and then I saw her for the first time—Queen Elia of the Summer Court.
78
She was a little old lady with silver hair, who might have been my grandmother’s age—if I had a grandmother, that was. But despite her tiny stature—or maybe because of it—she was imposing. She carried herself with a stately air, head up and back ramrod straight. Her flashing eyes had a triple ringed iris just like mine, although hers were blue—cobalt blue on the outside, sky blue in the middle, and pale, arctic blue right around the pupil—that made her stare even more imposing.