The violet light pulsing along the oath-silver filaments flared with sudden, blinding brilliance, illuminating the curved interior of the brass acoustic horn. Within the velvet cradle, the micro-grooves of the copper cylinder whirred against the reading needles, the mechanical friction producing a soft, anticipatory hiss like the rustle of silk skirt-hems across a carpeted floor.
The acoustic diaphragm trembled. The first shaped syllable of absolution hovered on the threshold of sound, the delicate cadence of Mara Vane’s voice prepared to fill the cold stone vaults of the Hall of Witness with twelve years of engineered forgiveness.
Vane’s hand trembled in the air. For three agonizing heartbeats, his fingers remained poised above the small brass cut-off toggle, his bloodshot eyes locked onto the glowing horn as though watching a drowning hand reach up through dark river water.
Every soul in the amphitheater watched in motionless silence. On the lower benches, Edren Dene leaned forward against his knees, his breath whistling softly in his damaged chest. Master Serit sat with her hands resting upon the arms of her high chair, her aristocratic features carved in sharp relief by the phosphorus lanterns. Beside the clerk’s table, Cale stood rigid, his fingers curled into loose fists at his sides.
