Azi and Amei exchange a glance. The princess seems to hold her son tighter. Without a word she rushes out after the clerk.
At first Azi seems shocked. Quiet. Distant as the fairies chatter at her shoulder.
“Typical it took so long,” Flitt says.
“They had to be sure,” Twig offers. “It’ll be over soon.”
“Well,” Flitt rolls her eyes. “It’s about time.”
“It isn’t over,” Azi says so quietly I can barely hear her over the rush of the sea breeze. She offers me the coin, and I take it. “This will leave us without a prince to become King. You’ve heard the whisperings. Whatever the verdict, our kingdom will be torn in two.” She looks toward the door. “This could be the beginning of the end of peace in Cerion.”
Nobody says anything. We know she’s right. Before the end of the day, the Prince will be free or the ax will fall. Either way, the kingdom will be divided. Either way, it’s bound to cause trouble.
“Saesa,” this time when she speaks, Azi’s voice is stronger. I’ve seen that change in her before. The one where she switches instantly to a fighter. Battle ready. Commanding. Like a Knight should be. “Run to the Academy. See if you can find Rian and let him know to meet me at the Court.”
“Yes, my lady,” Saesa bows. She grabs my hand and pulls me with her. Azi follows behind us until we reach the main gate. There’s already a crowd here, waiting. We have to push through them to get out. Most are calm, but I can feel it as Saesa pulls me through. Tension. Threat. Unrest. Bubbling, waiting. Seeping through each of them like a shroud. Like a spell. I glance back at Azi. Catch a glimpse of her yellow silk as she rushes toward the guild hall. Grip Saesa tighter as we spill out from the crowd.
It’s not just unrest. Something else is at work here. Something bigger. Something nobody else notices, somehow. As much as I hate Mages, I’m glad we’re going to the Academy. Rian will know what to do. As Saesa and I break into a run, Zeze joins us. She jots alongside, looking just as determined as I feel as the Academy’s sparkling white walls stretch out before us.
Chapter Ten: High Court
Azi
This vast room is imprinted in my mind. I could close my eyes while sitting here and still see every detail in the frames around the narrow, bright windows. Every unusual pit in the stone of the walls, every carving of past judges engraved in the massive columns is etched into my memory. Their faces, young and smooth or rough and wrinkled gaze across the vast hall, stern and sober, the weight of justice as heavy on their shoulders as it is on my own.
I’ve spent so many endless hours here on my feet, testifying and listening to others’ testimonies against the Prince, but I’ve never seen these intimidating halls as full as they are today. Rows of benches line the Walk of Justice like the aisle of a cathedral. The closer one sits to the front, the more important their rank in the trial at hand. I sit on the first bench. Right behind me I feel the presence of my guild: Mum and Da, Mya, Bryse, Cort, Donal, even Elliot has come in from his trek in the woods to witness the verdict.
Thankfully, I’m not alone on my bench. Rian is by my side along with Uncle Gaethon. A dozen others are seated beside them, all of whom have been key to the Prince’s trial. Cousins, generals, guards and attendants all look around, seemingly as on edge as I am to have this affair come to an end.
The High Court is an annex of the palace, kept apart from the main building by a series of corridors and courtyards. There is a separate entrance for commoners and guests which, right now, is flooded with people trying to get in to watch the verdict being read. I peer over my shoulder at the unusually loud crowd. Since the start of the trials there has been interest in the Prince’s fate, but the mood from the lower sections is usually quiet and respectful. Today is different. The kingdom is on edge. The guards lining the walls beneath the high stained-glass windows feel it. They are much more tense and watchful than usual. I’m sure they fear the worst if the commoners don’t hear the verdict they want. I do, too.
Still, Cerion is a place of transparency and justice. Its people have a right to be here to witness the fate of their prince and their city. Sitting in my full armor with my sword laid beside me I find myself hoping fervently that they choose to accept the judgment of the court with grace and composure. I know if they don’t, my duties would force me into action against them.
My worries aren’t eased much when the High Justiciar enters the platform with his attendants and the crowd begins to hiss and shout. A fight breaks out between a group of men with opposing views, and they are promptly ushered from the court at spearpoint.
“Let it be stated,” the Justiciar’s voice booms through the lofty arches, hushing the crowd once more, “before we begin, that there will be no tolerance for disruption of any kind for the duration of these proceedings.” He raises his arms and nods to the great doors, and a score of additional city guard march in. They stand at attention in the aisles at the ends of the rows, their chain mail glinting in the afternoon light that streams through the high windows.
A crier in royal livery steps forward on the platform and surveys the hall as the back rows settle down. When it is quiet enough, he squares his shoulders and announces clearly:
“His Royal Majesty, King Tirnon, Her Royal Majesty, Queen Naelle, Her Royal Highness, Princess Margary, Her Royal Highness, Princess Amei.” The crowd goes silent and all of us stand as the royal family takes their place in the box on the far right of the platform. I can’t keep my eyes off of Princess Margary, who looks well-rested despite the exhausted state we left her in only an hour ago. A glint of green flashes at her shoulder and I know that Twig is with her.
“He gave her too much,” Flitt murmurs from my shoulder. “Guess he had to. Be right back.” I watch her dart away from me in a streak of light. Beside Margy in the place where Twig had dimly bobbed, Flitt’s colorful prisms twinkle. She comes back to me and I glance around. No one seems to have noticed the fairies, and that’s as it should be. They remain safely hidden in the Half-Realm. Only Rian raises a brow at me as the officers of the High Court take their places in a box opposite the Royal family. A slight breeze rustles Rian’s hair and in my mind’s eye I catch a glimpse of Shush.
“How many fairies are here exactly, Flitt?” I push to her silently.
“Oh, are we playing?” she giggles and claps as she settles into her usual place tucked into the collar of my pauldron. “Three as far as I can tell. Maybe more. I’m not the Keeper of the Fae, you know.”
The High Justiciar takes his place at center, in a box against the wall.
“Begin,” he says as the gallery takes its seats.
“Anod Bental, High Master of the Academy of Cerion,” the crier announces, and then, “Yorid Gauntry, Mage General of Incarceration, bearing His Royal Highness Prince Eron.”
We all stand again and turn toward the back of the hall, where another set of doors swing open beside the main doors. These lead below to the catacombs and network of dungeons carved into the cliff stone beneath the city.
“They keep the Prince down there?” Flitt asks as those around us crane to get a glimpse of the procession. The thick crowd makes it impossible to see anything but Master Anod’s red pointed cap as it bobs along the Walk of Justice.
“Everyone awaiting justice is kept below in the Catacombs, in sleep chambers,” I explain. Already, the low pulse of pain that comes from sending thoughts this way is nagging at me.
“It seems too kind, just letting him sleep,” she says.
“It’s for his own safety and the safety of those guarding. Sleeping prisoners can’t conspire. They don’t eat anything, they don’t bother anyone. They don’t try to trick the guards or smuggle things in and out. They can’t try to escape,” I push to her. Beside me, Rian shifts his feet. The procession is nearing. I can see Master Anod in his white robes now, with Master Yorid several paces behind him. Between them, Prince Eron floats motionless as if being carried on a litter, except there isn’t one. He drifts,
sound asleep, by means of a levitation spell. The three are followed by a procession of a dozen Mages in robes of red to mark their high stations.
As Eron drifts past us I’m startled as I always am by how serene he looks. His sand-blond curls are perfectly arranged, his fine embroidered jacket neatly buttoned over his chest. Even his boots are polished to a high shine. He looks every bit the part of a Prince, even as the Mages guide him up to the platform.
“Did you feel the shift?” I push to Flitt, knowing it’s my turn for a question and curious as to how attuned she is to the Mages who fan out along the steps between the platform and the gallery. They make no motion, they don’t even whisper, but I know their protections have been cast like an invisible wall between the platform and the people. Wards meant to protect Cerion’s highest ranking lawkeepers and wisest men.
“Wards. Typical,” Flitt pushes to me. We watch in silence as the Prince is eerily turned upright in front of his own bench: a single seat that faces the gallery. He sinks into it and Master Yorid waits for the Justiciar’s signal before he whispers the words that will break the Prince’s sleep.
As he blinks awake the crowd grows restless again. Some of them shout obscenities as Eron looks around, disoriented.
“Your Highness. You sit before your judge and jury accused of treason, murder, and conspiracy. You have stated your case and it has been argued a record long time. Eighteen months you have had, and now the scales of Justice have weighed your words and deeds,” the Justiciar goes on in his booming voice while Flitt needles her way into my thoughts again.
“Will he do it here? Your da, I mean? In the hall in front of everyone? If he’s guilty?” she asks, her tone a mix of excitement and distaste. My heart starts to race. I glance behind me at my father, who watches the proceedings with little show of emotion, the blade of his great axe gleaming at his shoulder. Behind him, Saesa’s red curls catch my eye. Tib sits beside her with daggers in his eyes for the Prince. Beyond them I scan the faces of eager onlookers and my stomach churns with nerves. I turn back and look past the prince.
“Do you see that block?” I nod slightly toward the platform, where just before the Justiciar’s bench, built into the stone, is a raised block set with an overlay of fresh pine.
“Azi!” says Flitt, exasperated. “How many times do I have to remind you? You can’t answer a question with a question! Honestly, it’s like your head is a beehive and the rules are the honey and every thing’s gone and dripped out of the comb. Every time!”
“It’s all set up to happen today,” I turn my attention back to the Officers’ box, where the High Court has risen to its feet. “Why do you think so many people have come?”
“They came to watch him die?” Flitt gasps. I think to chide her about forgetting her own rules, but my head is pounding from the conversation. “That’s revolting!”
“Well, why’d you come?” I ask pointedly.
“That’s different!” she sputters. “I know Prince Creepy on a personal level! I have a right and a responsibility to—”
“Shh!” my hand flies to my shoulder as the Justiciar’s ruling echoes over the hall.
“…in these matters, after much deliberation, we find Eron Plethore guilty on all counts. There will be no special consideration in sentencing due to station, and as we have exhausted all avenues there will be no further deliberation on the matter. Execution of the prisoner will be dealt by the hand of His Majesty King Tirnon or a declared Champion forthwith.”
The gallery, surprisingly, is so quiet that I can hear Rian breathing beside me as the king slowly stands. His Majesty’s face is pale as his hand grips the pommel of the ceremonial sword that hangs at his waist. He stares at his son, who still seems to be trying to clear his head from the effects of the sleep spell. After a long pause, Tirnon leaves the booth to a spattering of applause from the gallery. Behind me, Mum whispers something to Da. He doesn’t reply to her.
“Is the king going to do it himself?” Flitt asks. “I thought you said he named your Da.”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. A glance at Rian shows him not to be focused on the prince at all. Instead his attention is fixed on one of the towering windows of the High Court. He leans to Uncle and whispers something, and Gaethon follows his gaze. When I look up and see nothing, I can’t help but feel a pang of annoyance. The two of them have been very mysterious this afternoon. In the short time we had to talk while getting ready to come here, Rian was very vague in answering my questions. I couldn’t get much out of him through our hatch other than a quick and hushed murmur about stolen books at the Academy.
At the center of the platform, the king stands beside his son looking weary and downtrodden as Eron pleads with him.
“Father,” he implores as though suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. He seems so sincere, so innocent.
“How can he act so meek,” Flitt pushes to me, “after everything he’s done? Can you believe it? Typical human.”
His Majesty’s jaw clenches as he turns away. His eyes search the rows and come to rest on Da behind me.
“As has been arranged,” the King’s voice rings steady across the great room, quieting even the slightest whisper, “I name Sir Benen Hammerfel for this grievous task.”
“Coward!” someone cries at the rear of the gallery, but I’m too taken by the scene unfolding before me to turn and watch the scuffle that follows. On the platform Eron’s eyes go wide as my father stands and approaches the steps. The axe at Da’s back is nearly as broad as his shoulders, its blade so well-honed it seems to slice the very air with every step he takes. The wards shift as he nears the dais, allowing him to pass through them.
“Father,” Eron says again, white-lipped, “please.” When the King gives no response but to clasp hands with my father, Eron changes his tactic. “My wife!” he cries, looking over his shoulder.
In the royal box, Princess Margary sits between the Queen and Princess Amei. One tiny white-gloved hand grips her mother’s hand, and the other squeezes Princess Amei’s. At the sound of the Prince calling for her, Amei shifts in her seat. A pained expression crosses her face but she quickly squares her shoulders and checks herself.
“Please, I would have my wife beside me and I would say a word to the kingdom,” Eron begs King Tirnon, whose eyes slide to look at his son and then to the Justiciar, who nods slightly.
“If the Princess will consent to it,” King Tirnon turns to her. Slowly, bravely, Amei allows herself to be escorted from the box. Through it all, Da stands at attention, his plate armor burnished to such a high gleam that it’s nearly blinding as it reflects the sun beaming through the windows.
“Be on guard,” Rian pushes to me. His voice in my mind is sharp and quick, and I have to catch myself to keep from gasping with surprise. I turn and look over my shoulder at the crowd, which is settled again as they watch the events on the platform with morbid fascination.
“My lady,” Eron says as the Princess comes to stand beside him. He whispers to her so quietly I can’t hear, and he leans toward her as if asking to be kissed, but she dismisses him with a graceful turn of her head. The back rows jeer and catcall, and many of them start to shout to get on with the execution.
Eron is led to the block and as the Judiciar forces him to kneel and press his head to it, Eron stares across the platform. His eyes meet mine and lock onto them. I feel the pull toward him as my father raises his ax blade.
“Sparrow and fox, boar and perch,” Eron’s shout echoes over the arches. “high in the clouds and into the depths, foreshine, forewarn, induct, destroy.” His eyes narrow and flash with wild excitement. “They come,” he mouths to me, and I feel myself pulled closer.
“Azi.” Rian’s voice is far away. I feel him shaking my shoulder, but I’ve already tumbled too far from myself. Eron is still speaking, his words sometimes in my head and other times echoing aloud in a garbled form of Mage tongue. I’m in his mind, looking out at the gallery from his perspective. I’m him. I s
ee myself, Azi, sitting beside Rian, my eyes casting a strange golden glow. From Eron’s perspective, I glance up and see the glint of the ax blade overhead. It slams down to the cheers of the crowd. Everything goes black, and everyone screams.
Chaos erupts around me. I don’t know at first where I am or even who I am. Men are shouting all around me: “Princess! Princess!”
I panic. I can’t move. I can’t see. My head is heavy and the room is black. People trample past me, crashing over my legs and arms with little concern.
“Princess, here! Secure the queen, I’ve got Margary!” This voice is familiar. Finn, Margy’s guard. Good. She’s safe.
“Azaeli!” Margary screams as she’s ushered past. Something in her panicked tone startles me out of my daze. I’m aware again of where I am, back on the bench. Myself again. Azi, beside Rian. Still, I can’t see. Spells fly past me, bursting into powerful explosions. Crowds of people surge from everywhere, screaming for each other in the darkness. Rian’s hand grips my arm and pulls me to the side just in time to dodge a spell flying right toward us.
“What’s happening? I can’t see!” I cry out.
“Blindness spell,” Rian says. I don’t need to see him to know that his teeth are clenched. “Powerful one. Flitt,” he cries, “Take Azi out of here. Go!”
Someone slams into me and I grab my sword as another burst of magic blasts past us. Flitt’s hand presses to my cheek and my skin starts to tingle.
“Don’t you dare!” I shout at her. “I’m staying to fight!”
“Nope, not this one!” she says in a singsong voice.
“Go!” Rian shouts again as magic surges around us, crackling in my ears. “Go!”
“Okay, okay,” Flitt says. Before I can argue or pull free of her tiny hand, I feel the ground shift beneath me. I’m falling fast, soaring, spinning through the unknown into the Half-Realm. The light that sparkles from Flitt’s tiny form is blinding after the darkness. It burns my eyes and washes everything in a strange blue glow. We hit the ground so hard that the breath is knocked out of me. As I lie gasping for air, a strange sensation pulses through me, as if I’m being sucked into myself. My eyes adjust slowly to the bright surroundings until I’m aware of someone else lying very still beside me in the cushion of grass.
Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) Page 11
