“Here. Bring the torch back out with you.”
“Thank you, my son.”
The door shut again. Gwyn lowered his arm, blinking to adjust to the light. He squinted at the priest until he could make out more than a dark shape: the man was short, plain of face, with merry eyes glittering black in the torchlight. The black and red vestments of the church draped his narrow shoulders.
The priest studied him back, and his lively eyes dimmed as his brow furrowed. “Why, you’re barely grown.”
“I’m fourteen, sir.”
The furrowed brow shot up. “Younger than you look! You’re not even of age. How can they imprison you? What is your crime?”
Gwyn held his gaze steadily. “The use of magic.”
The priest’s lips parted. “I see. I see. But why did you dabble in what’s forbidden?”
“Because my brother was dying, and I found the only means of saving him.”
The priest stared. His lips moved, but he said nothing for a long moment. “You saved him? You actually saved him using magic?”
Gwyn nodded. “I don’t regret that I succeeded. I knew it was against the law. I was willing just the same. For anything less than my brother’s life, I’d never have tried. But for him, I would do anything.”
The priest’s face darkened. “Be careful of saying that, my boy. In this place, most of all, give no price for your service.” He moved forward, his shadow shrinking behind him in the guttering flame. “You’re a brave lad. No disputing that. But you might be less free with your confessions, even to a priest. Not everything is so black and white here as it might seem back home.”
“I realize that,” said Gwyn. “But I won’t lie to a priest of Afallon. I feel what I did is not deserving of death, but if that is the price for saving Lawen, I am glad to pay it.”
“Lawen?” The priest’s brow wrinkled. “What is your name, lad?”
He rose from the straw bed. “I am Gwynter ren Terare of Mount Vinwen.”
“Ren Terare? Really? Then you are Sir Lawen’s half-brother, born of his father’s second wife?”
“I am.”
The priest looked him up and down. “You’re taller than your brother.”
“Yes, sir.”
The priest shook himself, as though waking from a trance. “Forgive me, my lad. Here you are, frightened even if you are prepared to face trial, and I’m standing here, insensitive to your suffering.” He strode closer and offered his free hand. “I am Rindermarr Lorric, priest of the second order in service to Divine Afallon, Bless His Eternal Name.” He traced a square in the air in reference to Afallon’s Four Tenets. “I’ve been brought here at your behest in these last days before your trial, to impart wisdom and comfort if I can, and perhaps even to help you make a defense before the Crow King.”
Gwyn shifted. “Would defending myself be of any help? I did break the law.”
Rindermarr shrugged. “There are two ways of thinking on that. Some would call it folly. Most, in fact. But there have been a few, mind you very few, cases where the defendant was pardoned. Not found innocent, mind. But pardoned nonetheless.”
Gwyn blinked. “How?”
“Before I answer, I must ask a question. What kind of magic did you use?”
Gwyn hesitated. Should he answer? Was this some sort of trap? Did it matter? “I don’t know what kinds of magic there are.”
“Did you conjure a healing or use an artifact of some kind?”
“Oh.” Gwyn shrugged. “I used an artifact, I suppose. I know nothing of conjuring.”
The priest frowned. “Then you aren’t a mage yourself?”
Again, Gwyn hesitated to answer. “I don’t believe so, but others have insisted that I am.”
“What others?”
“Aluem. He’s a…unicorn.”
The priest blinked. “A unicorn? You’re acquainted with a unicorn?”
Gwyn nodded. “He’s my friend. He came here with me.”
“Here?” The priest looked around as though Aluem might appear in the cell. “To the capital?” His voice lowered. “Are you mad? To bring him here…”
Gwyn lifted an eyebrow. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Is it dangerous for him?”
Rindermarr sighed. “You know little of Crowwell.”
“That’s true. This is my first visit. Perhaps my last as well.”
“Chin up, my lad. Afallon willing, you’ll live to come of age. You may even be able to use that. Never before has someone of your age stood trial, and there may be some leniency.”
Gwyn studied Rindermarr’s eyes, trying to judge his sincerity. “Why would you aid me, sir?”
“Why?” The priest smiled. “Because justice should never extend so far that mercy is forsaken. You’re just a boy. A very resourceful one, by the sound of it. Magical artifacts aren’t often just lying around. Would you tell me your story, Master ren Terare?”
Gwyn searched Rindermarr’s eyes. Gentle. Open. He nodded. “You may call me Gwyn.” Glancing around the cell, he shrugged. “There isn’t much by way of seating, but my pallet of straw can handle us both, I think.”
Rindermarr glanced at the straw protruding from the canvas. “We can always pray.” He shoved his torch into a rusted sconce and sat cross-legged beside Gwyn on the makeshift bed. “Very well, Gwyn. Tell me what you will.”
Gwyn stared into the flickering firelight, assembling all the details of his journey. “I went seeking the Ilidreth…”
Chapter 22
By all reports, Nathaera arrived in Crowwell two days after Gwyn had been imprisoned in Crow Castle. Traveling with her were Windsur and Lady Mair ren Terare, and in a second carriage, a carefully disguised Lawen and Kive. Lady Mair had brought a dozen men-at-arms from Vinwen’s garrison to protect them during their week-long journey.
The entourage reached Keep Lotelon without incident, where Nathaera was greeted in the manor’s foyer by her very relieved mother, the well-respected Lady Yiara ren Lotelon.
“I’ve been ill with worry!” scolded Mother, squeezing Nathaera so tight, she thought her ribs might crack.
“I’m fine. I sent a letter ahead, didn’t I? You’ve known for days that I’m well.”
“In these dark times, anything can happen, even on a main highway. Besides, you can’t expect me to trust you, after you ran off to find some mythical castle!” Mother turned toward the others, eyes scorching, no doubt about to scold Windsur next — but her expression altered upon seeing Lady Mair. Mother caught up her dress skirt and curtsied. “Welcome, Lady ren Terare. Please make yourself comfortable during your stay at Keep Lotelon. My daughter wrote briefly of your plight, and while I don’t know the particulars, I understand that your son saved my daughter’s life. If there’s anything at all that I can do in return, you have but to ask.”
“Thank you, Lady ren Lotelon,” Mair said with a graceful curtsy of her own. “You’re very hospitable. Please call me by my given name, as I am to be your guest.”
Mother turned to a manservant standing at attention nearby. “Direct Lady Mair to her suite. See that she has whatever she needs.”
The servant bowed and motioned to Lady Mair, who followed him down a long gallery, steps clipped and lithe.
When she’d disappeared around a corner, Mother let out a sigh. “She’s always been a fearsome woman. Exquisite, but fearsome. If not for her meager wealth, I suspect that woman could lead the court from any corner of the world, just by a look!” She shook her head. “Never mind that. Hurry and bathe, Nathaera. You’ve much to tell me of your horrible journey, and I’ll expect every detail. Every last one. March, young lady.”
“What about my other guests, Mother?” Nathaera said as quietly as she could.
“Oh, yes, yes. I’ll see they reach the guesthouse unmolested.” Mother pointed at another servant, who bowed and headed for the front doors, no doubt already aware to be discreet.
Nathaera hurried toward the bathhouse, eager to be clean after her week on the road. Bu
t her thoughts strayed to Gwyn as she walked. Was he well?
Of course not. What a foolish question.
She bathed as quickly as she could, dressed herself in a soft gown of pale pink, and allowed servants to plait her hair with fresh spring flowers. Nathaera then made her way to the west parlor of the manor, where Mother sat awaiting her story.
Nathaera seated herself across from Mother on a silken settee, and she relayed as much of her journey as she could recall. She left out no detail, aware that her best defense of Gwyn was in painting his character entirely.
Mother listened. She asked no question and made no comment. When Nathaera finished, Mother sat still for a long time. Finally, she pulled a handkerchief from her sweeping sleeve and dabbed at her forehead. “You brought a man-eating Ilidreth to my guesthouse, child?”
Nathaera nodded grimly. “Better to know where he is then let him wander to Crowwell on his own. He wouldn’t stay behind. He insisted on following Gwyn. He calls him Shiny.”
Mother nodded faintly, eyes pinned on the fur rug beneath her feet. “I’m afraid Gwynter will likely be burned at the stake, Nathaera. I can’t think of any way around it. A pity, though. He sounds like a unique young man. Stupid, tremendously stupid, but brave just the same. Still, I’ll speak with your father. Perhaps his age will bear some weight in his favor. We’ll see.”
Nathaera tried to smile. “Thank you. I’d hoped you might agree to speak with Father about it. I know Gwynter disregarded the law; but truthfully, Mother, I doubt I would do differently if I thought I could save you or Father that way.”
“I dare say it would tempt me as well.” Mother sighed. “Poor boy.” Her eyes found the westward window as the sun sank toward the distant mountains outside. “To think he found Swan Castle. Extraordinary.”
“He is, Mother. Gwyn isn’t ordinary at all.”
Chapter 23
Keys rattled in the lock outside.
Gwyn looked up as the door to his cell swung open, muscles taut as his nerves hummed against his ears. Rindermarr stood in the portal, grim but smiling. Two guards in full armor flanked the priest, spears in hand.
“It’s time, Gwyn.” Rindermarr motioned behind him. “Follow me. The Crow King awaits you.”
Gwyn climbed to his feet, straightened his grimy clothes as he gulped a few steadying breaths, then strode to the door. Rindermarr turned and padded ahead of him, while the guards took up position in the rear. The priest led the way from the earthen passageway and out into the fresh air. Gwyn drank it in, desperate for open sky and the wind in his face; but freedom was short-lived as Rindermarr soon stopped outside a second wooden door set in the stone face of the castle. He opened it and slipped inside. Gwyn followed. Narrow, uneven steps eventually carried him up into a tower room, where the guards instructed him to wait with Rindermarr until the appointed hour of the trial. An altar stood in the room’s center; a moth-eaten cloth draped over it.
“Pray with me, Gwyn,” said Rindermarr, kneeling at the altar.
Gwyn knelt and bowed his head. His heart struck his ribs and his mouth tasted like sand. This is it. Very likely he would not live to see this day end. He would never see Vinwen again or play in the fields with his little sisters. Never again gather his mother into his arms and hold her tight. Never wrestle with Lawen or wander the woods on Tia’s back. Never see Aluem again to thank him for all his help or bow to the fair Nathaera with her quirking smile. Never fulfill his promise to keep Kive out of the realm of the Ilidreth.
Please, Afallon Above. I don’t want to die. Let me live. Let me live to repay my debt to Thee.
The tower air hung stifling and thick, even with an open window facing southward. Gwyn mopped his brow and tried to pray on, but his prayer changed little, repeating over and over in his mind.
He wanted to live. He wanted to live!
Please let me live.
The door beyond opened. “Gwynter ren Terare. It is time.”
He staggered to his feet.
Rindermarr followed him into the adjoining chamber, where a circle of high-rising chairs loomed above him behind a short wall erected to keep him isolated. Two dozen or more men in black stared down from those lofty chairs, and at their center, raised above the rest, sat the Crow King himself.
The man looked much like his portraits: long dark hair framed an angular face and pale eyes of white-grey shone in the torchlight. He was robed in a white cloak lined with crows’ feathers, and a delicate crown of black stretched above his brow, spired and sharp. He sat with one leg propped over the other, an arm draped casually over the side of his throne. Yet despite his nonchalant stance, his eyes were pinned on Gwyn and his gaze burned like sunlight on a frozen pond, fiercely attentive.
A hand seized Gwyn’s shoulder and pushed him firmly forward until he stood in the chamber’s center. High above him, the domed ceiling came to a point, where a brass chandelier flickered with a hundred burning candles. Fanning out from the chandelier spread a mural of black wings along the ceiling.
Gwyn shuddered, nerves raw. His heart thundered in his chest and his stomach writhed like a million tiny ants hard at work. He struggled to keep his face still, eyes alert but not wide. He mustn’t show fear, or he might collapse in a heap and sob for mercy.
He must not begin to doubt his choice. He had saved Lawen, and that was all he’d meant to do. If that is a sin, I am guilty.
“Gwynter ren Terare of Mount Vinwen of the ancient land of Simaerin,” boomed a voice among the dark figures above. Gwyn started and looked around but couldn’t tell which man spoke. “You stand before Blessed Afallon and his servant, our Illustrious Crow King, to be judged according to your deeds. You are accused of seeking out and performing magic, which is a direct and malicious violation of His Majesty’s edict against such use. How do you plead?”
Gwyn’s tongue swelled. He swallowed, raised his eyes to meet the king’s, and stated: “Guilty.”
Murmurs stirred the looming men.
The booming voice spoke. “Have you a defense for this action?”
Gwyn nodded and curled his hands into fists. “I sought a cure for my dying brother. None could be found among men, and so I sought it from the Ilidreth, though I knew well it might cost me my life. When I crossed paths with one of their kind, he directed me to Swan Castle, where I acquired a small blue gem. This was taken to my brother, and it healed him of his illness mere days before he would have otherwise died. Beyond these facts, I present no defense. I am ready for your verdict.” He bowed his head and waited. Waited.
“Tell me, Gwynter,” said a soft, lulling voice overhead. The Crow King. “Should anyone who risks losing a loved one break the law, and pursue whatever course, in order to avert such a loss?”
Gwyn lifted his head and met those cold, burning, penetrating eyes. “I don’t know if there is a blanket answer to that question, sire. Should they? Perhaps not. But will they? Almost certainly.”
“Then your defense is the human condition?” asked the king, leaning forward in his throne. “‘Impulse directed my feet, and my heart led me onward. I couldn’t help myself.’ This is your philosophy? This is acceptable?”
“I could help myself, Your Majesty,” Gwyn said. “I chose not to. I weighed the risks, and found I was willing to pay the price. If that price is death, I must accept that.”
“So noble,” the Crow King murmured.
“Your Majesty,” Rindermarr said, stepping forward to stand beside Gwyn. “May I speak?”
The king waved his hand before him. “Priest Lorric, certainly. Say on.”
“It has been brought to my attention that this boy is not yet of age. A trial of this level may not have been appropriate. While it is obvious from his own confession that Gwynter did break the law, can he be punished to its full degree at the tender age of fourteen?”
The king blinked slowly, and his gaze slid back to Gwyn. “You are but a child?”
“I’ll be fifteen in six months’ time.”
“Yo
u’re very tall for your age,” said the king.
“Yes, sire.”
“Well.” The king leaned back and steepled his hands to tap his fingertips against his chin. “Well.” He lowered his arms to curl his fingers against the armrests of his throne. “Where is the blue gem you used to heal your brother, Gwynter of Vinwen?”
“With me.” Gwyn reached into his pocket and withdrew the gem Lawen had given him as they returned together from the Ilidreth realm. He held it out now for all to see.
The king’s eyes widened. “How exquisite. And this is from the fabled Swan Castle?”
“The castle exists,” Gwyn said.
The Crow King turned his gaze to Rindermarr. “Take the gem and bring it to me.”
Rindermarr inclined his head and reached to take it, but the gem flashed with blue light, hummed a single note, and vanished. Gwyn stared at his empty palm. As did the entire room.
“Well,” said the king, breaking the silence. “Such is the nature of magic. Fickle and fleeting. You’re better off without it. So are we all.” He turned his attention back to Rindermarr. “Thank you, priest. Is there anything else before you leave?”
“No, Majesty.”
“Then you may go.”
The priest bowed and turned to leave the chamber the same way he had come. Gwyn watched him exit with dismay, but he steeled himself and turned back to the Crow King.
“You strike me as a quite remarkable child. Resourceful, willful, stubborn, yet noble and longsuffering. I find that I do not hate you.”
Gwyn’s brow creased. Hate him? Was so strong an emotion warranted?
“That said,” the king went on, “you’ve broken my law more than once. And while your actions for your brother’s sake might be commendable to some, what defense have you for your second infraction?”
Gwyn shook his head, perplexed. “What second infraction, sire?”
The Complete Duology Page 13
