Free The King of the Vile by David Dalglish Page B

That final one I don’t quite understand the crime in, but since it resulted in the deaths of thousands of innocent men, I assume it’s an important one.”
    Stunned silence greeted Tarlak when he finished. Unable to help himself, the swept an arm wide as he bowed low.
    “Did I miss anything?” he asked.
    “Yes,” said a dour looking woman with a pointed nose and long, dangling silver earrings. “You neglected to mention your complete lack of respect toward the Grand Council during your own trial.”
    Tarlak smiled at her.
    “That one seemed unnecessary, since you were all here to witness it.”
    “Enough,” Roand said. A thin gold rod covered with red gems lay across his lap, and he waved it once toward Tarlak. Immediately, the air in Tarlak’s lungs seemed to grow sticky and hot, and when he tried to speak, it was like trying to vomit up stone. Pulse pounding in his neck, he breathed in and out, trying to relax. The strange discomfort only affected him when trying to talk, so he kept quiet.
    Roand set the rod back down. “In this room, I am master. And you will show respect, Tarlak, whether you feel it deserved or not. Your entire life you’ve carried a cavalier attitude toward authority, but this is one moment where you need to acknowledge the gravity of your situation.”
    “If he doesn’t understand that now, he never will,” said the dour woman. “Meaning this trial is over before it has already begun. He isn’t worthy of candidacy. Cut off his hands and cast him from the bridge so we might move on to more important matters.”
    A portly man with a beard growing solely from his neck let out a half-hearted cheer in agreement.
    “Let us not be so hasty,” said a thin man with a face more resembling a hawk than a human. “Respect may be learned, whereas innate magical talents cannot.”
    Tarlak looked about, and he couldn’t believe what he saw. They were serious. He’d walked into this trial thinking it’d be a sham, but apparently they truly did wish to debate his merits as a potential member of the Council. Tarlak wasn’t sure if that meant they were less insane, or more. They’d brutally murdered his friend, Antonil, yet still thought he might be a productive member of their organization?
    Tarlak opened his mouth to respond, felt his lungs harden and throat constrict. Roand saw and tapped his wand.
    “You may speak,” the Lord of the Council said. “And I pray you use a more appropriate tone.”
    His lungs loosened, and Tarlak slowly breathed out with relief. So there still might be a chance to save his life? Bizarre, but expecting sanity from this group was probably a mistake.
    “I have performed many petty insults against you,” he said, carefully weighing every word. “But given how long you’ve ignored me, I know most are not worthy of your attention. So I ask, please tell me what crime I committed against you worthy of death so I might defend myself.”
    “There is no single crime,” the dour woman. “Only a repeated history of insult that must finally be stopped.”
    Tarlak turned to face her.
    “If I might have the pleasure of your name, milady?” he asked.
    The woman drummed her fingers across the arm of her chair, the slight movement traveling up her ramrod spine to cause her long earrings to sway.
    “Anora,” she said as if she were giving her name to a rodent.
    “Well, Anora, I dare say every man alive may be hung until death for the total sins of their lifetime, but that’s not quite how this works, is it? A punishment fitting the crime, for each crime, is that not correct? So if you want to chop off my hands and dump me into the river, I’d love to hear a good reason that may stand on its own.”
    “You refused us,” said the hawk-faced man. “Practicing arcane magic without our approval is an executable offense in the eyes of the Council.”
    There it was. Tarlak had repeatedly spurned them, and it looked like they were still sore from his refusals. Well, if