Stolen Justice

by Shawn Wickersheim

  Cecily pushed aside the sheets and noticed for the first time a note pinned to Devin’s pillow. She snatched it up and saw her name beautifully, if not hastily scrawled across the front. Turning it over she read:

  My dearest Cecily,

  I’m afraid the disturbing news concerning the king has drawn me away from your arms. I wish I could be there to comfort you during this most dreadful time, but, I’m afraid my duty to the crown, and to the well-being of this great city, has forced me to leave you behind. I shall return shortly, meanwhile, make yourself at home. The staff knows to obey your every wish and desire.

  With all my love and more,

  Devin

  Beneath his name, he had scrawled an elaborate, foreign-looking symbol. Studying it more closely, she noticed one part of the arcane grapheme looked familiar, a spiral line intersecting a circle, the old Yordician script for ‘eternity’. The rest she simply did not understand.

  Cecily folded the note and tapped it thoughtfully against her chin. She hated being apart from him now after all these years, but his bizarre behavior on the balcony earlier had startled her. Perhaps it was just residual healing magic exiting his body. A faint smile touched her lips when she decided to believe that.

  Besides, time away would only make her appreciate him more, she rationalized. She completely understood his need to help her father . . . the new king. Devin had once served briefly in the military, and surely, he would be of help orchestrating Ian’s capture. At a dark time like this, commoners and nobles alike would scour the city and the neighboring countryside to find him. If he were captured alive, he would be brought swiftly to trial and then . . .

  And then her earlier realization struck home again, and Cecily’s green eyes widened in alarm. She jumped out of bed and hastily grabbed her robe. If there was going to be a trial, she needed to make the royal courts aware of Ian’s infidelities immediately. If she didn’t petition for a nullification of their marriage and a royal absolution prior to his sentencing . . .

  She swallowed hard. In such abhorrent crimes against the crown, the convicted and his entire family suffered severe punishments! Though she was the princess, a precedent had been set nearly two hundred years ago, when one branch of her royal tree had been permanently cut off. Titles, properties, wealth, everything had been stripped from them and they had been cast out of the country!

  Cecily hurried into the adjacent sitting room in search of a quill, ink and a piece of paper. She would leave Devin a brief note before leaving. She needed to return . . . to Ian’s estate. There was at least a couple dozen more love letters still tucked away in his desk. She had read only a few, but she suspected they all would be just as perverse and just as damning.

  Cecily shuddered at the thought. Reading those letters, hearing in her mind the words another woman had expressed to Ian sickened her. She opened Devin’s desk drawer and spied the bundle of letters he had kept of their own correspondences from years ago. The corners of the pages had yellowed over the years, but she saw the shadow of her curving script on the top page and smelled the fragrant aroma of the perfume she had used to scent her letters. Momentarily distracted, she pulled the bundle of letters out and undid the ribbon. She felt guilty almost for rereading her letters to Devin, but she was sure he wouldn’t mind.

  Cecily opened the top letter and began reading. As if transported back in time, she recalled the exact location and time when she had written the words; the tiny gazebo overlooking the river on her father’s summer estate. She flipped to the next letter and blushed; laying in bed, naked, fantasizing about their earlier sexual encounter. The next letter . . .

  Cecily stopped reading.

  She flipped to the next letter and halfway down the page she stopped again. She felt her face grow warm and her heart hammer wildly in her chest. With shaking fingers, she pulled out another letter and began reading.

  Half an hour later, she carefully retied the bundle, and placed them back into the drawer just as she had found them. On a blank sheet of paper, she wrote a hasty note informing Devin she would return soon. Without further delay, she dressed herself, summoned a carriage and by dawn was riding back to the Weatherall estate. Her hands were still shaking from what she’d discovered.

  She did not notice the pair of guards following her.

  chapter 21

  Ian woke to darkness. Was he in the same chamber where his arm had been set? No. The air here was much fouler. An evil decaying odor mixed with the pungent ripe stench of urine permeated the moist air. As his eyes became more accustomed to the dark, he noticed a faint sliver of light seeping beneath the lone iron door. Shadowy, grey outlines began to form as he searched his tiny cell. A rickety chair and table sat along the wall opposite his cot and in the not-so-far corner he spied a wooden pail which stank of waste.

  Ian sat up slowly. His left arm was bandaged, and a makeshift sling held it close to his body. He had broken it diving out of the castle window, after he had . . .

  Ian frowned and shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes. For a moment, he remembered standing in the king’s room wielding a dagger. No, no, no. That couldn’t be right. He hadn’t brought a dagger with him. He’d carried his sword . . .

  Of course, his scabbard and sword belt were gone. His leather boots were gone too. His feet were wrapped in dirty rags which stank of sweat and . . . Ian flinched . . . excrement. He kicked them off, but the coldness of his cell drove him to put them back on again. He huddled on his cot shivering against the cold. His jailors had allowed him to keep his bloodstained, muddy clothes but not his cloak. Were they afraid he would use it somehow to strangle himself? And how would he manage that with a broken arm? No . . . they probably just wanted him uncomfortable.

  To that end, they were succeeding.

  Ian closed his eyes. So much had happened so quickly. Why . . .? How . . .? Dammit, he couldn’t even create fully formed questions! He took a deep breath, only gagging slightly on the odor, and tried to work backwards in time, piecing together the events that had brought him here.

  A barrage of images bombarded his mind, flashes of recent events. A bloodied young woman. A ship in flames. An open vault door.

  The king lying on his bed. He stood over him with a dagger raised high above his head . . .!

  Ian’s eyes snapped open and he stared blankly at the wall across from him. No! That image . . . that . . . that memory . . . that . . . could not be right! He did not kill the king. He did not kill the king.

  He did not kill the king!

  Ian bowed his head and chanted that phrase over and over until he drifted off to sleep.

  When he woke again, the cell was brighter. Or was he getting used to the dark? He noticed a jug and a tin bowl lying on the floor by the door. He did not want to eat, but his stomach grumbled and finally, he rolled out of bed. His body ached. He stiffly shuffled over to the door. Stooping, he reached for the bowl and found a mouse nibbling contentedly on the moldy scraps within. He kicked the bowl across the cell and watched as the squeaking mouse righted itself, scurried along the cell wall and squeezed beneath the gap under the door. Ian vomited into the wooden pail and collapsed on the floor.

  Ian woke the third time, not knowing if it was day or night. He didn’t know if hours or days or minutes had passed. The tin bowl sat on the floor again beside the small jug. Hurrying toward it, his hunger more acute, Ian was relieved to find it free of mice. He gulped the rotten food down eagerly and drained the clay jug. The water smelled of sulfur and tasted like rotten eggs, but it wasn’t until after he had sated his thirst that he noticed. He didn’t care. He moved to sit on his cot again, realizing he had just eaten his meal like an animal hunched over its food dish. His face reddened with embarrassment.

  He would not allow this place to change him into a beast!

  And yet, a short time later, he found himself hunched over the wooden pail, vomiting again. He had eaten the rank gruel too quickly, he realized too late. He stumbled back to his cot, feeling empty
and cold and lay facing the stone wall, willing himself to sleep. Slumber would not come to him this time.

  His thoughts drifted to Tyran and eventually even Cecily. He missed his family, his home, his friends, Gertrude’s cooking. His mouth watered. He missed Wynston’s efficiency and his caustic advice . . .

  Ian shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position on the thin, straw pallet and he realized he also missed his bed.

  He missed Cecily in his bed.

  Wait . . . what?

  For a moment, he reminisced about the brief time, a year or so before Tyran’s birth when they had shared a bed and each other. He closed his eyes and saw her again, saw her smiling as she undressed in front of him, saw the way she had made love to him . . .

  And then the image contorted wickedly in his mind and he saw her first coupling with Lord Orrington and then Lord Ragget. A few times, she coupled with both men at the same time. The three performed lewd and unusual acts on each other while they laughed and laughed and laughed . . . while they laughed at him. All three stopped and stared and laughed at him some more . . .

  Ian woke from the nightmare screaming. He kept screaming until his throat was raw. No one came. Kneeling beside the iron door, he pressed his ear against it and listened for any sound. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Not even the annoying squeak of a rat or a mouse.

  A spindly-legged spider crawled beneath the door and Ian found the insect incredibly interesting. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from it. He watched it travel across the floor until it disappeared into a tiny hole between two stone blocks. He wished he had a lantern, or a lamp, or even a candle to vanquish the darkest shadows, even for a short time. With light, perhaps he’d be able to coax the spider out of its hole. His jailors did not seem to care about his wishes or his comfort.

  He lay on the floor and tried to peer under the iron door. He saw only a hint of a shadowy corridor, and somewhere further on a faint glowing lantern. Pressing his lips as close to the narrow crack as possible he shouted again, but with his raw throat only a raspy cry sounded.

  Still, no one came.

  Not even another spider.

  Pushing himself up with his right hand, he paced back to his cot and curled into a tight ball. He forced the images of Cecily from his mind and tried to find a haven of safe thoughts to occupy him. Exhaustion or perhaps boredom finally overtook him, and he drifted into a fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep.

  chapter 22

  “Why won’t the memories stick?”

  “Some do, but the rest he resists.”

  “Try again.”

  “I have tried a dozen times.”

  “Try again!”

  “Why does it matter? He will be convicted whether he admits his guilt or not.”

  “I want him to believe he committed the crimes.”

  “I won’t try again until you give me a reason.”

  “I’ll let you live . . .”

  “. . . Bring me the prisoner.”

  chapter 23

  Lumist used every ounce of bitterness, anger, frustration, and rage to keep his feet moving, hoping to outlast his pursuers, but a handful of determined Yordician men continued to dog him. The news of the king’s death seemed to spur them on and like a hound with a bone they refused to let him go.

  Briefly, he entertained the idea of turning and facing them again, but he had dropped the mace miles ago after caving the bald one’s head in. Discarding the weapon may not have been his wisest decision, but he had never been particularly fond of bludgeoning others to death. It lacked sophistication, grace and . . .

  The damn thing had been heavy too.

  If he had a sword though . . . Ah, with a sword, he would have faced his doom already. With a sword, he would have carved out a thrilling epilogue for his life. With a sword, he would have . . . died respectably. He glanced down at the bloody knife in his hand and . . .

  And found it . . . lacking . . . in so many sad little ways.

  Despair crept into his heart. Why hadn’t he fallen in battle and died a hero’s death? Why hadn’t the final blow, the one that had ended his tournament career, ended his life instead? Why had the grim march of time continued to add years to his life when all the good years were already long gone?

  The angst of living past the age of what he considered useful weighed him down and his steps slowed. His knees ached, and each pounding step sent another wave of pain coursing through his body. Though not quite fifty, he had lived his early life thinking he would be dead by thirty. A knight should die young, in battle, gloriously in the defense of his country.

  Ironically, he had lived during a time of relative peace, all the while listening to the awe-inspiring stories of his father’s generation, stories of war and heroic deeds and names remembered. Names like Sir Antonio Jeanios, or Percy the Quick or Lord David Vetten Kesh who along with only thirty men had held the Tyber Pass against a force of nearly three thousand Yordicians for four days. And of course, no Gyunwarian would ever forget Ian’s grandfather: Lord Alan Weatherall. These men had made history. These men had shaped history. Their names would endure.

  But if he was found at dawn dead in a ditch, who would know him? Who would remember the name Sir Lumist Tunney . . . tournament champion?

  He fingered the long scar on his neck and remembered again the cut that had changed everything . . .

  It was the last day of tournament, the last battle. He was one victory away from capping an impressive decade of success. For nearly ten years, he had been untouched, unharmed, undefeated. No champion before had ever achieved such glory. He had already crippled Sir Gustav Straegar the day before and now he faced an aging knight, Sir Walter Merriday. Rumors of Merriday’s impending retirement had spread throughout the country and tens of thousands had flocked to Belyne to see the final match between the legendary Yordician swordsman and the undefeated Gyunwarian knight.

  The coliseum was packed. The air crackled with excitement. The noise was deafening. The roar of the crowd shook the ground as they met in the center of the arena and traded blows.

  Lumist had beaten Merriday before, nearly ten years earlier when the Yordician swordsman had been in his prime. Now, the older man was slower, his moves, well known and predictable. Lumist felt ashamed to face him. He had wanted his unprecedented ten-year reign to conclude against a younger, stronger opponent not this graying has-been.

  But like the gang that chased him now, Merriday refused to quit. The old man fought relentlessly, taking the punishment Lumist dished out, bleeding from several cuts, but refusing to go down. He was gasping for air, bellowing in pain, staggering around the battleground, fleeing more than fighting.

  Merriday should have yielded. Instead, the mulish bastard fought on.

  The fateful blow was one of desperation, a last-ditch effort to earn a few more moments of rest. A vicious sideways swipe meant only to back him up . . .

  Merriday’s blade cut through his gorget. As the metal scraped against metal, Lumist felt the unfamiliar sensation of cold steel slicing his flesh. The gash wasn’t quite deep enough to kill him instantly, but not shallow enough for him to continue fighting either. He fell back, clutching his injured neck, his blood splattering down the front of his once gleaming suit of armor. Despite his extensive training, despite considering every possible line of attack, he had forgotten one key element in battle.

  The fickle nature of dumb luck.

  It was in that moment, when the darkening world was spinning all around him, he realized something which should have been blatantly obvious already and yet, until that moment, that one moment of clarity it had not been something he had ever considered before.

  He wasn’t invincible.

  That certain truth struck him harder than Merriday’s blade ever could and he knew if he survived the day, he would never fight in an arena again. Never fight again. His mind was made up. Never . . .

  Lumist ducked into a dark alley and paused to catch his breath. It was getting prog
ressively harder to do so and each time he stopped, the Yordicians gained ground. This time however, his bladder began to complain. He hadn’t drunk much at the Prancing Piper, but even a little water after sundown kept him up half the night. He undid his trousers. Better to piss now while he was alone than to piss on himself later in front of the Yordicians.

  While he watered the back wall of some darkened shop, he reflected on all the other times he’d relieved himself before a fight. Because despite the promise he’d made to himself while he lay on the arena floor bleeding, he had broken his vow countless times since. He had fought in the back alleys behind taverns. Among the tombs of the Necropolis. Even in the upper streets among the fancy estates. Never in the arena, though. That promise he had kept.

  But whenever hatred or prejudice reared its ugly head, he fought back. For his life. For his way of life. For Gyunwarians.

  During the past few years, he had found himself fighting a different sort of battle and one he knew he’d eventually lose. Age was weakening him, slowing him down and stripping him of his martial talents just as . . . he grimaced, straining to empty his bladder completely . . . just as he was finding himself living in interesting times!

  And while he didn’t believe Ian had killed the Yordician king, Lumist knew the two countries would suffer a political upheaval, a period of unrest . . . perhaps even armed conflict . . . He gritted his teeth. Damn the fates for conspiring to bring about a time of war when he was already past his prime!

  Chalk it up as another example of the fickle nature of dumb luck.

  Echoing footsteps drew Lumist back to the here and now. He did up his trousers and ran to the end of the alley. His muscles protested. He had stood still too long. A cramp in his side pulled him up short and he winced as he tried to breathe through the pain.

  A couple of shadowy figures appeared in the alley behind him. When they saw him hunched over at the other end, they whooped and hollered and danced toward him looking pleased and not nearly as tired as he after their long chase. Lumist lurched out of the alley, turned east and spied the Prancing Piper a block away. A flickering light glowed beneath the tavern’s sagging door and dimly illuminated the dirty cracked window beside it. A shadow moved across the inside wall. Someone was still there. Perhaps if he could make it back to the tavern . . . perhaps Kylpin had returned early . . . perhaps . . .