Chapter 37: Three Witnesses, One Lie

The physician’s hands still trembled when Maren sat across from her in the root-house cellar. The woman had not stopped shaking since Nessa pulled her from the underground chamber, and the torchlight made her shadow jump against the stone walls like a trapped bird. The smell of damp earth and old blood clung to the air, thick enough to taste. Maren placed a cup of water between them. The ceramic was chipped, the water murky, but it was the only kindness she could offer. “What is your name?” “Lira.” The word cracked like dry leaves. “Lira Vence. I was the court physician for seventeen years.” “Seventeen years.” Maren did not take her eyes from the woman’s face. She watched the pulse jump in Lira’s throat, the way her fingers twitched toward the cup and then away. “Then you were there when my mother died.” Lira’s throat moved. She did not answer. “I am not asking you to confess to murder.” Maren kept her voice low, steady, a blade wrapped in silk. “I am asking you to tell me what you saw. The trial depends on witnesses who can speak to the burial rite. You drugged me. You know the order of that night better than anyone.” “Vespera will kill me.” The words came out in a rush, desperate and raw. “Vespera will hang if I win.” Maren leaned forward, close enough to see the tears gathering in Lira’s eyes. “But she cannot hang if I cannot prove the rite was staged. You held the cup. You poured the draught. You are the only living witness who can place the drug in my blood before the burial.” Lira’s hands wrapped around the cup. The water sloshed, spilling over her fingers and staining the rough wooden table. “I did not know she meant to bury you alive. I thought—I thought it was a sleeping draught. She said you needed rest before the funeral rite. She said the crown-root was making you violent.” “And you believed her.” “I had no reason not to. She was the regent. You were—” Lira stopped, her mouth hanging open. “I was what?” “The heir who never wanted the crown.” Lira’s voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the drip of water from the cellar ceiling. “Everyone knew. You avoided court. You refused the root-tending. You let Celeste wear the mourning jewels. The court thought you were weak.” Maren felt the words land like stones in her chest, each one a cold weight she had carried for years. She did not flinch. She did not look away. “They were right,” she said. “I was weak. I am not weak now.” She stood and walked to the cellar door. The hinges groaned, and the sound echoed in the narrow corridor beyond. Nessa waited there with the second witness—a stable hand who had carried Maren’s body to the chapel crypt. The boy could not stop crying. He was fourteen, maybe fifteen, and his hands were still raw from the rope burns, red and blistered. Maren stopped before him. “You carried me.” “Yes, my lady.” His voice broke, high and trembling. “They said you were dead. They said it was an honor to bear the Thornborn to rest. I did not know—I did not know you were—” “I know.” Maren’s voice softened, a crack of warmth in the cold stone. “I do not blame you.” The boy looked up. His eyes were red, swollen, the tears still tracking through the grime on his cheeks. “I heard her, my lady. The duchess. She stood over the grave and said—” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “She said the root would grow stronger with a living host. She said you would feed the crown for a hundred years.” Maren’s blood went cold. The air in her lungs turned to ice. “She said that aloud?” “She thought I was already gone. I hid behind the altar. I was too scared to move.” His voice cracked again. “I heard everything. The dirt hitting the coffin. The prayer she said. She laughed, my lady. She laughed when they sealed the stone.” Maren turned to Nessa. “Bring Celeste.” Nessa’s eyes widened. “Here? Now?” “She is the third witness. If I am going to break the coronation, I need to know what she saw.” Celeste arrived in chains. The reliquary hunters had found her trying to flee the Glass Court with Vespera’s ledgers, her fine clothes torn and dirtied. Her mourning jewels were gone, ripped away in the struggle. Her gown was torn at the shoulder, revealing a bruise the color of a rotten plum. She looked nothing like the false heir who had worn Maren’s crown. She looked like a girl who had finally seen the truth and found it unbearable. Maren did not offer her water. “You were there,” Maren said. “When Vespera planned the burial. You were in the room.” Celeste’s chin lifted, a ghost of defiance. “I was.” “Did you object?” “No.” “Did you help?” Celeste’s jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath her pale skin. “I did not know she meant to keep you alive. I thought—I thought you would die quickly. I thought it would be merciful.” Maren felt something break inside her chest. Not pain. Something older. Something that had been waiting to crack since the first shovelful of dirt hit the coffin lid, since the darkness had pressed in and the air had run thin. “Merciful.” She tasted the word, bitter and wrong. “You thought burying me alive was merciful.” “I was wrong.” Celeste’s voice cracked, splintering like glass. “I was wrong about everything. She told me you were dying anyway. She told me the crown-root was killing you. She said I was saving the court from a slow collapse.” “She lied.” “I know that now.” Celeste’s hands clenched, the chains rattling. “I know because I tried to bond with the crown. It rejected me. It burned. It burned for days, and I could not stop screaming, and Vespera told me to endure. She said the pain would pass. It did not pass.” Maren studied her. The girl was younger than she had seemed at court. Younger and more afraid, the mask of the false heir stripped away to reveal a child who had been used and discarded. “When did you realize the truth?” Celeste’s eyes filled, tears spilling over. “When I found the letter.” “What letter?” “Rowena’s letter.” Celeste’s voice dropped to a whisper, barely a breath. “My mother’s maid wrote it before she died. She said the first root was not planted by the Thornborn. It was planted by the Glass Court. They forced the Thornborn to bind themselves to the crown. They made the bargain. And Rowena—Rowena knew. She knew the truth, and she tried to tell you, and Vespera buried her alive for it.” Maren’s breath stopped. The world tilted, the walls of the cellar pressing in. “Where is the letter?” “Gone.” Celeste’s hands trembled, the chains singing a thin, metallic note. “Vespera burned it. But I read it first. I read it three times. And I know—” She looked up, her eyes meeting Maren’s. “I know Rowena did not die in the root. She died trying to protect the secret. She entered the first root willingly, not because Vespera forced her, but because she wanted to hide something from the court.” “What?” Celeste’s eyes held Maren’s, wide and terrified. “The first root is not a root. It is a prison. And the thing inside it—” Her voice broke, splintering into a sob. “The thing inside it answers to Thornborn blood. It answers to you.” The ground beneath Maren’s feet seemed to shift, the stone floor tilting like a ship on a stormy sea. “Where is the first root?” “Beneath the hollow crown,” Celeste whispered. “Beneath Cael Draven’s heart.” Maren turned and ran.