Page 40 of A Healer's Wrath

“I accept.”

Chapter twenty-two

Irina

Istormed into the audience chamber to the echoes of shouting and arguing. The Council had assembled, and had positioned themselves for a Kingdom without King Melric. If someone didn’t get things in hand quickly, this would spin further out of control. Melric died without an heir, which meant every duke in the land was likely angling to replace the royal line with their own.

I had just watched my parents burn.

I was in no mood for their games.

“Everyone, sit.” My magic-enhanced voice rattled the paned glass of the chamber.

All heads turned and arguments ceased.

“Your Majesty?” the High Chancellor blinked in confusion.

“I know who killed our King.” My voice was acid on iron.

The most powerful men in the Kingdom sat and waited for me to make the trek across the chamber to their table. The High Chancellor was the last to take his seat at its head.

When I reached the table’s foot where the Minister of War craned to watch, I surveyed the men before me. Power radiated from me, as palpable as my anger, battering the assembled Ministers like waves against a rocky shore.

No one dared speak.

“Mages killed Melric. They also killed my parents.”

The men gasped and exchanged glances. A few whispered.

The High Chancellor was the first to respond. “How do you know it was Mages?”

“I was with my mother and father. I held them as they drew their last breaths. I watched Mages still my father’s heart and bathe my mother in flames. They admitted their crimes on my infirmary door.”

I glared across the table’s length and waved a hand in the air. A perfect replica of the lettering and circle I found on the Medica’s door ignited in flame a foot above the glossy wood.

A stir of gasps and chatter erupted around the table.

I snapped a finger, and the fiery image exploded into thousands of sparks, stunning everyone back into silence.

“The King died without an heir, but his murder compels us to act without delay. There is no time for drawn-out haggling or angling for power by the nobles.” I flicked my wrist, and a crown appeared on my brow. “From this moment, I am the Crown.”

It took a moment for the Councilors to shake free of their shock.

What followed began as indistinct murmurs between small clusters and swelled until the Council’s clamor echoed off the stone walls. The Chancellor tried to regain order, but no one heeded his calls. Wood scraped against stone as men and women shoved back chairs and waved angry fists, shouting their indignation.

How could a low-born commoner—a woman—be elevated above the lords of the Kingdom?

Above the Privy Councilors themselves?

Each of them fancied themselves more qualified than anyone in the line of succession, though none held a place in that royal queue. They salivated over the crown as a starving dog might over a slab of meat. Melric had been a good king, wise and generous, but the dukes who stood to inherit the reins of power were useless, selfish idiots who only cared about fattening their own purses.

I could see it in their faces, hear it in their protests. Any member of the Council would make a better ruler than that lot.

Now a common Healer thought to rule?

The High Sheriff leaned toward me and whispered, “The men of Council will eat you alive, and the nobles—oh, the nobles will do worse. They’ll come for you at every turn. Your rule—your life—will never be secure.”

“This is insanity,” another man shouted.