The moving red lips of the news-anchor introduced clips of the mob outside the Magisterum. Even with the sound off, Sophia could hear the hate that twisted their faces as they screamed for a conviction. It echoed in her memory.
The room was dark. The sun had set and she’d not bothered to flip on a light. A pile of cereal bowls filled the battered coffee table – the milk had dried into hard rings around the bottom.
She hugged her knees to her chest.
Why were they still talking about him? – why was she still watching?
The screen split in half, and the anchor’s studied expression of interest and intelligence slid to one square.
She found the remote and Rael Hudson’s modulated voice filled the room.
“… his Eminence’s authority?”
The man in the other panel nodded, his eyes appropriately grave, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and he pressed his steepled fingers against his chin.
The blue banner identified him as Tony Moore, advisor to Grand Magister Avron II.
“Sure. With the President Day nuclear threat to the north and drought in the south, his Eminence’s authority undermined – by anyone – posed a national threat.” Continue reading