“I tell you it’s true!” His voice was thick with anger. “Why should I lie about children!”

            “No one would lie about children,” said Fulcruchen, the King’s elderly councilor, and leaned over to give the Earth Skyll a reproving look. Elymas ignored him. 

            Milo took a deep breath. This was his only chance. Soon the bell would ring for dinner, and the first half of the second day of Open Court would end. 

            “Where’s the evidence?” Elymas perched on the stool specially designed for his deformity. 

            Milo looked at the King instead. “Majesty, would the throne see evidence?”

            “We would,” replied the King.

            He opened his satchel and before the dais laid out a skull, a child’s hand and the partial sleeve of a robe. A red robe. A collective gasp went through the crowd. There was no mistaking where the torn sleeve had come from; it was an exact match to those worn by the Elymas’ servants. 

            “Bloody broken bones!”  The Kings voice was half disgust, half rage. “What’s this?”           

 “Until three days ago, it was a man we called the Poet,” Milo pointed to the skull.