by Bryan Davis
Marcelle tightened her grip on her sword. Her father and Dunwoody weren’t young enough to flee from a hidden guard. Only one chance remained. Fight!
She leaped at Maelstrom and slapped his sword from his grip, slicing part of a finger off with it. Then, reversing her swing, she slashed again, but he ducked out of the way and dove for his sword. He grabbed it and jumped to his feet.
With blood dripping from his index finger’s stub, he charged and swiped at her waist. She leaped over the blade and turned a flip in the air before landing on her feet.
She faced him again, her sword ready. How strange it felt to leap in this body. Without real muscles, weakness ought to have disabled her, but her lack of substance made her light and nimble. Her mind had conjured a complex dream, indeed.
Just as Maelstrom charged, a desperate cry rang out. “Marcelle!”
She threw herself on the floor and tripped Maelstrom, sending him flying. Then, springing back to her feet, she turned toward the voice. Her father stood at the top of the stairs, a guard’s spear at his back. Orion walked to his side, his arms crossed and his face painting the portrait of a weary but patient observer.
Marcelle stared at them. What had become of Dunwoody? Had he escaped?
“Are you quite finished?” Orion asked.
“Perhaps.” Marcelle looked at Maelstrom. His mouth twisting in rage, he staggered alongside a trail of blood. When he reached his fingertip, he picked it up. “Wicked witch attacked while I was distracted.” He set the bleeding digit against the stump, holding it there as he continued. “Fighting with my left hand is a great disadvantage.”
“Typical excuses from a whining loser,” Marcelle growled, “but I wouldn’t expect any better from the likes of you.”
When he let go of the finger, it stayed in place as if surgically stitched. Shifting his sword to his right hand, he gestured for her to approach. “Come to me now. A fair match is all I ask. Unless you fear to fight without trickery.”
“Stop!” Orion barked. “This display is becoming tiresome.”
Both combatants lowered their swords. “I’m not going to subject myself to your tests,” Marcelle said.
“We’ll see about that.” Orion nodded at Maelstrom. “Drain her father’s energy, but not too quickly. He is old and frail.”
His frown reflecting the anger of a humiliated man, Maelstrom raised an arm and pointed at Marcelle’s father with the same finger she had severed.
As if pierced by an arrow, her father clutched his stomach. His eyes shot wide open, and he gasped, his face growing pale as it warped in pain. He whispered, “Marcelle, I …” He dropped to his knees, unable to say anything more.
“Stop!” Marcelle’s cry came out in a whisper, lacking any breath.
Orion raised a hand. “Leo. Cease immediately.”
“As you wish.” Maelstrom lowered his arm.
“Drop your sword,” Orion said, “and Leo will restore your father.”
Marcelle rested the tip of her sword on the floor. “What will you do with him?”
“If you are asking for a bargain, I am willing to spare your father all prosecution if you will surrender.” Orion nodded toward the crowd. “You see the witnesses to my promise.”
Marcelle scanned every face, from the gawking onlookers, to Maelstrom, to Orion, to her father. How startling that her dream had created such detail! So many people, so many varied expressions. Since it was a dream, she could fight on. If Maelstrom killed her father, it wouldn’t matter. He would be fine in real life. No harm would be done. Yet, even in a dream, how could she deny love? How could she abandon her father to the ravages of this monster? A violation of conscience might wound her soul and slow her recovery.
“Will you give me a moment to speak?” she asked.
“Take all the time you wish. Just remember that your father is in pain.”
She looked at her father again. Giving her a weak smile, he nodded but said nothing. She smiled back at him. He had given his okay.
Turning in a slow circle, she searched for the words that might shake Maelstrom’s hypnotic hold over these people. “As you have noticed, my friends, my appearance is not what you’re accustomed to seeing. I have been on a journey of unspeakable terror that has drained my vitality. I have been to Dracon.” She paused for dramatic effect, but only dry stares met her own. A few people even chuckled in a derisive way.
Anger flaring, she bent her brow. “You are such cowards! Yes, I said cowards! As long as you can keep your satin dresses, your velvet capes, and your pungent perfumes, you’ll let tyrants hold sway. You don’t care about the peasants who gather the crumbs that fall from your tables. You don’t hear the cries of the children when they go to bed hungry. You ignore evidence of Dracon, that the Lost Ones still toil under the whips of dragon masters, their emaciated frames bleeding from their lashes. In fact, you persecute those who search for the truth. You punish those who disturb the status quo. Using your own whips, you inflict lashes on those who dare to imply that you have ignored the plight of the pitiful. And why is that? Because you know that you have treated the peasants here with beastly contempt. You are the dragons of this world.”
“Marcelle,” a man called out. “How can you say that? You know my family. We give to the charities. We make clothes for the orphans.”
She nodded at the man, Charlton, the head of Orion’s board of overseers. “Yes,” she said with a sarcastic sneer, “I’m sure we’re all aware of your good deeds. You trumpet them every chance you get, and the applause of your peers is your reward. But as long as you keep dragging members of the Underground Gateway into prison, you’ll get no applause from me. Your wings and scales are all too evident. You don’t want the slaves here to be free. You want them fed and clothed so they can plow your farms to make sure your dinner plates are heaping and spilling over the sides. You want them to pluck your poultry so your cushions can hold up under your fat backsides. You want slaves to continue bending under the whip both here on Major Four and there on Dracon, because if a heroic warrior returns from Dracon with a band of freed captives, the cry of liberty will resound throughout the land. And that cry will echo from mountain to mountain and valley to valley until every ear in every rundown shack hears it and catches the contagion. Yes, freedom is a contagion. It is a wildfire that burns the tares of hopelessness. It is rain that sweeps across the land and cools parched thirsts. It is a hammer that passes from hand to hand and breaks the chains and manacles of slavish strife, enabling those set free to flex their muscles and rise up against their oppressors. And their oppressor is you.” She pointed at Charlton and let her finger shift from face to face. “And you. And you and you and you.”
Narrowing her eyes, she threw a hot stare at Orion and growled. “You don’t want the slaves to return, because you fear freedom.” She threw her sword on the floor and stepped away from it. “I have said all I need to say. Release my father, and I will go with you.”
Maelstrom took a hard step toward her, but Orion raised a hand, halting him. Many in the crowd grumbled, some whispering vague threats. The words burning stake rose above the murmurs more than once. Charlton and a few others said nothing, their lips straight and their brows knitted. It seemed impossible to tell if they were scowling or contemplating.
Orion picked up Marcelle’s sword and caressed its shiny surface. “Your eloquence and passion are sharper than your blade. I’m sure we’re all moved.” He nodded at Maelstrom. “Restore his energy.”
Maelstrom stepped up to Marcelle’s father and laid a hand on his head. Within seconds, color returned to his pallid face. When Maelstrom stepped back, her father rose to his feet but said nothing, though his tight lips told of burning anger.
“Issachar,” Orion said as he gestured for the guard to lower his spear, “you are free to go, but you must stay within the confines of the palace until I say otherwise. I want to make sure your daughter keeps her promise.”
He nodded but again said nothing. With no mo
re than a glance at Marcelle, he turned and walked down the stairs, his gait stronger than ever.
Orion waved the sword at the courtroom doors. “Now let us reconvene. We have a trial to conduct.”
As Marcelle walked toward the courtroom, she kept her head down, avoiding the stares of those filing back inside. The tiles passed under her feet, clean and shining, without a trace of blood from Maelstrom’s wound.
She looked back and scanned the floor. Indeed, no bloodstains appeared anywhere. Like dew evaporating in the heat, they had vanished.
* * *
EIGHT
* * *
MARCELLE stood at the center of the courtroom inside an encircling, waist-high guardrail. About eight feet away, the floor for the spectators sloped upward like an amphitheater with stairs between sets of chairs that fanned out to each side, every seat filled by one of the soft-skinned set. Ladies fanned their rouged faces while men mopped their foreheads with lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. As usual, hats with wide brims and garish plumes covered every priggish female, making the crowd look like a peacock’s feathered nest.
After scanning the walls, Marcelle nodded. Every window had been closed. The inquisitors hoped for a grilling, and she was to be the main course. A shadow passed across one of the windows, fleeting and obscure, too big for a bird, yet too small for a man. A child, perhaps?
Ahead, Orion sat behind a high desk perched on a stage, glaring at her while Maelstrom paced the floor just beyond the guardrail. With no bulge in his cheek, he looked less like a gritty soldier and more like one of the nobles, none of whom would be caught chewing anything while outside the dining hall. He seemed paler than usual. Perhaps the battle and loss of blood had had more of an effect than he had shown earlier.
In one hand, he clutched a glass rod with a sharpened point. The other he used to grasp the rail from time to time as he walked around Marcelle like a cat stalking its prey. “To begin this investigation,” he said with an air of gentlemanly dignity, “I ask you to vow to cooperate and answer all my questions without fail.”
Marcelle glowered at him. “I make no such vow. You wouldn’t request it unless you have a sinister reason.”
He laughed softly. “Not sinister at all. The purpose is simply to determine whether or not you have decided to be cooperative. With the vow in place, we will pursue a polite form of questioning. If, on the other hand, you maintain your hostile posture, we will have to resort to methods appropriate for questioning an antagonistic defendant.”
“I see.” Marcelle scanned the audience. Many nodded, whispering to each other. Very few, if any, saw through the charade. To them, it made perfect sense. Just promise to be civilized or you will be treated like a savage. Of course anyone should acquiesce to answering questions. What could be the harm in that?
Marcelle pressed her lips together. The ignorant simpletons were unable to plumb the depths of Maelstrom’s malice. If she made the vow, he would ask a question that would prove her to be a sorceress no matter which way she answered, and not answering would be breaking a vow, which only a sorceress would do. And, of course, refusing the vow gave him an excuse to employ torture. His longing gaze seemed to hope for the refusal, a look that bound her in chains and clapped a manacle around her neck.
Maelstrom gripped the rail and leaned within an arm’s length. “And your answer?”
“I vow to answer every civilized question with a civilized answer.”
A murmur arose and quickly settled. Maelstrom glanced at Orion, who gave him a nod.
“Very well.” Maelstrom held up the glass rod. “This is a truth crystal. I know you have no experience with such things in Mesolantrum, but this crystal is why we have had so much success with ridding Tarkton of sorcery. It detects whether or not someone is telling the truth. If a lie is told, it turns black. With truth, it shimmers with clear light. And it takes on various shades of gray if the speaker’s words are ambiguous or false without the speaker realizing it.” He extended it toward Marcelle. “Hold it in your right hand.”
She folded her hands behind her. “I will not.”
“Ah!” he called out, spreading out his arms toward the onlookers. “Perhaps the investigation is already complete! Who but a liar refuses to have her lies detected? She fears that her heart will be exposed.”
“I have no fear that my heart will be exposed. I fear that this device is not what you say it is.”
Orion spoke up. “A test is in order, Leo. As you said, we are not familiar with this lie-detecting rod. It is natural for our citizens to be suspicious of something so wondrous.”
Maelstrom bowed. “I apologize. I jumped to a faulty conclusion.” Turning slowly in place, he held the rod out for all to see. “May I have a volunteer who wishes to cleanse the scourge of superstition and further the cause of science in Mesolantrum?”
A man in the front row stood. Dressed in long sleeves and draping a jacket over his arm, he raised a hand. “I’ll be glad to, if it will help us get this over with. It’s as hot as an oven in here.”
“Yes, ’tis true,” Maelstrom said. “Yet, there is a reason for the lack of ventilation, which will come to light soon.” He handed the rod to the man. “Now tell me your name.”
“Stanton.”
The rod glowed with a bright aura.
“Excellent!” Maelstrom said with a genial laugh. “You know your name!”
Chuckles spread across the crowd. It seemed that Maelstrom was winning them over.
“Now tell a lie.” Maelstrom quickly raised a finger. “But don’t worry. ’Tis not a sin, because you are not intending to deceive anyone.”
While Stanton looked up at the ceiling, apparently conjuring a clever lie, Marcelle instinctively touched her hip where her sword should have been. Maelstrom’s smooth-talking tongue should have been cut from his throat long ago. Now he was catering to the cathedral pew sitters. Probably half the audience never missed a service, genuflecting in front of statues three times a week in order to keep from slipping on the stairway to heaven. For most of them, an eloquent two-minute prayer made up for two hours of backstabbing gossip, though they never bothered to take the dagger out of their victim’s back.
Stanton shrugged. “Here’s the most obvious one I could come up with. It’s comfortably cool in this courtroom.”
The rod instantly turned black in his hand.
Stanton pointed at the rod, grinning. “Look, Margaret. I suppose you’ll want to buy one of these.”
While the crowd laughed, Maelstrom took the rod and walked it to Marcelle. “Are you satisfied that it works as I have suggested?”
She again moved her hands behind her back. “I noticed it never glowed or turned black in your hand.”
The laughter ceased. A grumbled “Stubborn wench” drifted from somewhere near the middle of the crowd.
Marcelle let her eyes dart around. Another shadow passed across the window, larger and slower this time. It could easily have been a man. What might he be up to?
She snatched the rod from his hand. “Get on with your charade. Everyone else here is fooled by your manipulation, but I’m not. You’re so humiliated that you can’t control me like these stupid sheep, you’re determined to see me burn.”
More scolding murmurs erupted, but, with a wave of his hand, Maelstrom quieted them. Turning back to Marcelle, he glared at her. She returned the stare. She had rattled everyone, and the aghast expressions of her former friends were truly entertaining. If not for this being a dream, she would never be able to face them again.
“Tell us,” Maelstrom continued, “why are you so terribly pale?”
She kept her stare locked. “I have no blood pumping through me. I have no heartbeat at all.”
The audience laughed, but when Maelstrom grabbed her wrist and lifted the rod, they all quieted. It glowed with a brilliant light. “You see!” he shouted. “She tells the truth! What need is there of further questioning?”
Silence filled the room. Every eye locked on Marcel
le, blistering stares that could have skewered her if they had sharpened points.
“Leo,” Orion said. “Since we all know that a bloodless person who has no heartbeat is incapable of speech or motor activity, is it at all possible that the rod is malfunctioning?”
“Not in my experience, Governor.”
“I see.” Orion looked up at a window. “Regardless of how obscure the chance might be, I am going to grant the possibility and ask that we move directly to the final proof that we discussed earlier. If that evidence provides the conclusion you seek, then we can assume that this test is valid as well.”
Maelstrom bowed. “I wholeheartedly agree.” After taking the rod from Marcelle, he produced a small round ball of dark resin from his pocket and showed it to Stanton. “Do you know what this is, my good man?”
Stanton took it and gave it a long sniff. “It smells like lava gum.”
“Correct. What do you know about lava gum?”
“Highly spicy and flavorful. We use it in stews. Just a bare shaving can spice up an entire pot.”
Maelstrom nodded toward the ball. “What would happen if you chewed on it?”
“As everyone knows,” Stanton said, “the first thing you would do would be to sweat. Although it doesn’t burn the tongue, it induces profuse perspiration.”
“Since you have shown such courage already, would you care to demonstrate?”
“Glad to.” Stanton dried his brow and cheeks with a handkerchief, then peeled off a tiny sliver of lava gum with a thumbnail and put it into his mouth. As he chewed, sweat beaded on his forehead, then streamed down his cheeks and nose, a far more profuse flow than he or anyone else in the courtroom had suffered.
He spat the sliver into his handkerchief and mopped his face. “That’s lava gum all right.”
“Exactly. Now notice, although it is uncomfortably warm in here, and even the most delicate among us has at least dressed herself with a shimmering glow, Marcelle has not shed a single drop.”
Again a buzz spread around the courtroom. This time Maelstrom did nothing to quell it. He took the gum from Stanton and presented it to Marcelle. “Put a sliver into your mouth. It will not take long to see what you really are.”
