Cold Magics by Erik Buchanan

would do. Instead, it was the tread of a hundred or more individuals, all heading in the same direction.
    Torchlight, pale and yellow, slipped into his cell as the sounds grew closer. There were too many voices for Thomas to guess at their numbers, but they were growing louder with every passing moment.
    A new sound: horses’ hooves striking the paving stones. This time there was a rhythm to them—the synchronized trot of trained cavalry. Shouted commands rose over the noise of the crowd for a moment, but the crowd roared back in a huge cacophony of dissent. There were more shouts, then a chant which began almost indistinguishably and grew louder, until it filled Thomas’s ears.
    “Free him! Free him! Free him!”
    Me, Thomas thought, and felt tears on his face again. They’re talking about me.
    A single voice rose up in the crowd, and there were calls of “Quiet!” and “Silence!” until the crowd stilled and that single voice was all he could hear.
    Henry . Thomas started to sob with relief.
    “Whereas, by taking this student from his apartments without warrant, by confining him without notice to the authorities of the Academy, or to the authorities of the king, you have grievously and shamefully abused the law. And whereas this is the second outrage committed upon the student body of the Royal Academy of Learning this year, and whereas you have ignored requests from the Principal of the Academy, the Master of Laws, and the Chancellor of his Royal Highness to free this prisoner, we demand his release!”
    The crowd roared, and the chants of “Free him!” sounded again, louder and louder. Thomas heard shouted commands and the shifting of horses, but no sound of riot.
    Keys rattled. The door of his cell was flung open and four guards came in. Without a word, they seized Thomas’s arms and hauled him to his feet. He cried out in agony. One guard knelt and undid the manacles around Thomas’s ankles. The guard stood and, without a change of expression, hit Thomas hard in the stomach.
    All the air whooshed out of Thomas’s lungs and he doubled over. Two of the guards grabbed his arms and forced them high over his head, then marched him out of the cell in that bent position. The pain was excruciating. They took Thomas back up the stairs and through the hall to the front door. Thomas could see only the floor, but the voices grew louder with every step he took.
    When the guards stopped and pulled him upright, he was in the foyer of the building. Three rows of guards stood in front of them, facing the shut and barred doors. Before them stood the priest who had interrogated Thomas and a man in the robes of a bishop. Neither looked particularly happy.
    The guards pushed Thomas down to his knees.
    “This is the one, then?” said the bishop.
    “He is,” said the priest.
    Thomas forced himself to look up, to meet the bishop’s eyes. The man’s nose crinkled as he caught his first smell of Thomas. His eyes narrowed, looking him up and down. “Are you certain?”
    “Bishop Malloy pursued him from Elmvale to the city. He was present at the death of Bishop Malloy and his men. He had books of witchcraft in his apartments.”
    Magic, Thomas wanted to say. It was magic, not witchcraft.
    “And you believe he used witchcraft against Bishop Malloy?”
    “He or his companions,” said the inquisitor. “He did have the books.”
    “And who shared this apartment with him?”
    “Henry, youngest lord of Frostmire. Currently outside demanding his release. And recently a young man named Alexander. The young man’s father and brother arrived in town two days ago to take Alexander back home. Alexander and the brother were with this one when he killed Bishop Malloy.”
    “Do we know where they are now?”
    “No, Bishop. They vanished into the city after this one was arrested.”
    Thank the Four , thought Thomas.
    The sound of whistles joined the cacophony outside.
    The door opened, the noise level rising sharply and then falling