by Ellyn, Court
“Curses on you, girl! It’s your fault we’re here.”
The sentries leveled spears but didn’t advance; they seemed unsure how to handle the prisoners turning on each other. Spit and refuse from buckets arched toward Carah.
“Stop it!” Jaedren pleaded, but no one obeyed a waif of a child.
“Leave her alone!” Rhian’s bellow hurtled across the cavern like a fist. The shouting and cursing died at once.
He stood on the edge of the shelf, at the extent of his chains, glaring at each prisoner in turn. “I told you why we’re here. Lothiar hates us all, every avedra, and he means to destroy all of us, not just the few he knows by name. Lady Carah only provides him cruel entertainment. Sure she’s a victim like the rest of you. It’s only Lothiar who deserves your rage, not her.”
No one argued. Out of weariness or despair or respect, Carah couldn’t say. Rhian had somehow earned clout with each of them. Most retreated inside their holes. The rest stared at Carah in resentful silence. The shivering woman sobbed in jagged gasps.
That Rhian had broken his long silence to defend Carah wrenched a smile out of her. Her shaking subsiding. She hoped to convey her gratitude, but Rhian paced with a fury. Two steps in either direction. Turning when his chains grew taut. Lothiar’s assault had stirred something in him. He must’ve heard most of what Lothiar said, the lurid whispers spilling across the cavern.
Rhian muttered sharply to himself. “… before Dathiel …,” was all Carah heard clearly.
In a sudden fit, he attacked his chains, tugging with all his strength in an attempt to break the bolts. He cried out in futility and struck the wall with his fists.
Carah couldn’t bear it. This was her levelheaded avedra, her even-tempered pearl fisher?
All at once Rhian stopped and turned to stare at the wall streaked with the madman’s bloody fingerprints. Aye, there was only one way out of these chains. He knew it all too well. The frenzy seeped out of him. He sank onto his haunches, laid his head against the wall, and closed his eyes. He paid no heed to bloodied knuckles.
How long until Lothiar’s bait drew its quarry? If moments before Carah had longed for her uncle to find her, she now dreaded it. She would rot in these chains without complaint and join the ring of faceless skulls if only her uncle remained safe.
But Lothiar was right. Even now Thorn was searching. Carah knew it in her bones. He mustn’t come. Oh Goddess, don’t let him come.
~~~~
22
Kethlyn paced the tiny cell. Noon came and went. Maybe Mum had changed her mind. Maybe she was reviewing law books. Maybe Da pleaded with her one last time. No one bothered explaining the reason for the delay.
In the meantime, the Miraji guards delivered a fresh change of clothes from Kethlyn’s trunk. Through the food slot low on the door, they passed him his state uniform, a long surcoat of lush red velvet with an arrow embroidered in silver thread on the shoulder, a white silk shirt with broad cuffs, and trousers of supple gray leather. The garments had been handpicked by someone in the know, Da most likely. It was a kind gesture, but it confirmed that the delay was only a delay.
At last the order came, merely a murmur from the top of the stairs, and the Miraji guards unlocked the iron door. Two stood back with swords drawn, strange curved swords that absorbed the lamplight and tossed it back as though it were the rays of the sun. The third fixed shackles about Kethlyn’s wrists and ankles. “Is this necessary?” he asked. “There’s nowhere to run.”
The three Miraji glowered at one another. They didn’t understand a word.
Chains or no chains, show no shame, Kethlyn told himself as they escorted him from the dungeon and into blinding summer sunlight. He had to go slowly; the chain about his ankles shortened his stride by half. The courtyard was largely abandoned. Those few servants and sentries who had cause to be there craned their necks and stared.
The Great Hall had been transformed into Her Grace’s court. Voices and heat tumbled into the corridor, striking Kethlyn in the face. As soon as he shuffled through the double doors, a belligerent hiss assaulted him—whispers, hoots, and howls of denouncement. Several rows of chairs ringed the Hall, and every one of them was occupied. Stifling heat or not, every spectator wanted a taste of blood. Hands waved folds of paper or silk fans before sweaty faces. The paper became missiles, wadded up and thrown.
Kethlyn raised his chin, but kept his eyes lowered to the floor. Deciding he looked too defiant, he lowered his chin a measure.
The three Miraji brought him to the center of the Hall, where a hastily built box awaited him. It was raised, with a bannister, much like the defendant’s box in the Magister’s Hall, but crude. There was no chair. He was to stand on display before hundreds of accusing eyes until it suited his mother to have him dragged away again.
Off to his left someone said, “War Games, Kethlyn? You caught me unaware this time. Happy?”
He glanced aside and found Eliad seated as close to the box as he could get. He was astonished that Eliad remembered those childhood games. In all his attempts at staging ambushes, Kethlyn had never once taken Eliad by surprise. Somehow he’d always known where Kethlyn was lurking. Funny, he hadn’t thought of those games in years.
He said nothing in reply but gazed straight ahead. The high table was situated on the dais. There was only one chair behind it, and that chair was empty. Mum still delayed?
Da sat at the foot of the dais, looking pensive, dazed. His face was unreadable.
Etivva sat with him. Her dark almond-shaped eyes clung to Kethlyn, creased with unmasked worry. He offered a miniscule smile and a tiny wave to his former tutor; she covered her mouth with long brown fingers and looked away. She had lost all hope. She was sure he was about to die.
The blood drained from Kethlyn’s head, because suddenly he believed it too.
A blunt wooden pole tapped the tile floor. “Her Grace’s court will come to order!” bellowed a herald.
The echoing tide of voices quieted as Mum entered the Great Hall. Her stride was commanding, her spine erect, but Kethlyn saw through the duchess’s mask. How haggard and spiritless her face as she filled the chair at the high table and arranged papers before her. She was a wreck inside, and he had done this to her.
Kethlyn waited for her to look him in the eye, so he could convey his regret, but she denied him the chance. With determined force of will she prevented her gaze from falling on him. Her eyes passed over the faces lining the left wall, lowered to the table, rose and passed over the faces on the right. She raised one of many papers, and there her gaze remained. “All assembled here are aware of the crimes of which you are accused,” she said, “so I will be brief. You Kethlyn, son of Kelyn, Lord Ilswythe, stand accused of conspiring to murder every individual in this room, and those who were mercilessly slain at Bramoran. You also stand accused of high treason by usurping the title and authority of the Duchess of Liraness, namely myself. I will hear your plea to these charges.”
Look at me, Mum. I’m your son, too. Look at me! But she didn’t.
Very well. All to the wind. “Innocent of the former. Guilty of the latter.”
An outburst followed. Near at hand, Eliad shouted, “Liar!”
“You gave us over to die!” cried someone on his right.
Even Queen Briéllyn joined the angry mob. “Did you put that murderous scheme into my son’s head?”
Da glanced at Kethlyn sharply. He had urged his son to deny all charges. He started to rise from his chair, then forced himself to sit and endure the hate-choked rage as if it was directed at himself.
Kethlyn offered him a tight-lipped smile conveying his remorse. Then he lowered his gaze, and for the next several hours looked at nothing but the pine-board bannister in front of him.
The duchess called Tullyk to the floor. The captain of Bramoran’s city garrison rose from a bench near the Hall’s doors, well below the salt, and limped on a stiff knee to stand between the box and the high table.
“It
’s my understanding that you spoke face-to-face with Lothiar,” Rhoslyn said, consulting one of the papers. “That you discussed … His Lordship?”
“No, Your Grace, I merely overheard Lothiar refer to him.”
“In what regard?”
“Lothiar told his ogres to keep the fire on the duke, to make sure he paid.”
“Paid for what?”
Tullyk shrugged cumbersomely. “He didn’t say, not in my hearing.”
“What was your impression of Lothiar’s mood as he said this?”
With a snort, Tullyk said, “Lothiar was downright furious with His, er, Lordship.”
Rhoslyn dipped a quill into an inkpot and scribbled a note. “Thank you, Captain, you’re dismissed.” She pushed aside the paper and picked up the next. “Commander Malkym Leng.”
As Leng took the floor, Rhoslyn stated, “May I remind you that your first loyalty is to me? I expect unvarnished fact.”
There was a single moment of hesitancy before Leng replied, “Yes, Your Grace.”
“You were the commanding officer when His Lordship invaded Leania, correct?”
“I was.”
“Who gave you that order?”
“His Lordship.”
“And who gave him that order?”
“Lothiar.”
A rustle circulated among the spectators, pugnacious whispers, confident nods. Rhoslyn pounded a small mallet on the table. Tírandon had been unable to equip her with a proper gavel.
Once quiet resumed, she asked, “Did His Lordship seem happy about this order?”
There was a pause as Leng considered what to him must have sounded like idiocy. “Doesn’t matter if he was happy about it. When I give a soldier an order to scrub the latrine, I don’t give a shit if he’s happy about it or not. I expect him to follow orders. And His Lordship was trained by the best soldier to be a good soldier. He followed his orders to the letter. We invaded Leanian soil. We confiscated Leanian property. We secured Leanian prisoners. We took into custody the heirs of Endhal. But … it may mean little to this court … but that’s where His Lordship’s obedience ended.”
“Explain what you mean by that, Commander.”
“His orders were to immediately and without hesitation execute Endhal’s heirs, but when His Lordship saw they were children, he questioned those orders. That’s when he learned the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That the Black Falcon is just a puppet. King Valryk spoke the words, but they were Lothiar’s words.”
“Are you telling this court that King Valryk has no will of his own? That he bears no responsibility for the murders of his people, for the turmoil unleashed across the Northwest?”
Leng drew himself a fraction taller. “I didn’t say that, and if you’ll forgive me, Her Grace is muddling the issue, nor can I answer for His Majesty.”
An irate flush peppered Rhoslyn’s throat. She was silent until it subsided. A small wave of her hand brought a squire with a decanter. She poured herself a goblet of water, sipped, then resumed. “Were you present during His Lordship’s … moment of revelation?”
“No.”
“But His Lordship spoke of it to you directly?”
“Yes.” Leng maneuvered fast. “And his story never once altered in the telling. I’ve never had reason to doubt his word. That’s an unvarnished fact.”
Rhoslyn’s eyes narrowed. “What action did His Lordship take in response?”
“As soon as he learned he’d been used in the most vile way possible—”
Rhoslyn slammed the mallet on the tabletop.
Leng concluded his statement anyway, “—he released the prisoners and returned with his army to Windhaven.”
Rhoslyn hammered the mallet until Leng stopped talking. He shrugged, unperturbed.
“Did he explain to you why he did not immediately bring his army to Tírandon?”
“Eventually, yes. He didn’t bring his army south because he feared you, Your Grace.”
“If he was not in the wrong, what reason had he to fear?”
“Well, you might think he was in the wrong. Which obviously you do.”
“But you don’t.”
“No, Your Grace. He was following orders.”
“Until he defied them.”
Leng grinned a decidedly wolfish grin. “Exactly.”
For some time, Rhoslyn glared him down; Leng’s confidence wavered not in the slightest. “Dismissed, Commander.”
She consulted a third sheet of paper. “The court calls Sergeant Wyn Fuller.”
A harried-looking man made his way forward. Without colors declaring his allegiance, he seemed more mercenary than soldier. He eased as far from the prisoner’s box as the space of floor allowed.
“Explain to everyone who you are,” the duchess said.
Fuller cleared his throat half a dozen times before he mustered an answer. “I’m a squad leader of Gold Company in Your Grace’s standing army. The War Commander apprehended my squad and myself on route to Bramoran where we were to deliver a wagonload of supplies. We—my squad and I—accepted the War Commander’s offer to fight for him rather than hang.”
“Yours was among the regiments that invaded Leania?”
“Yes, Your Grace. We believed we were invading with the objective of protecting Evaronna’s borders.”
“Protect from what?”
“From Leanians, of course. We were told they had started a war. We felt justified in taking hostages and supplies.”
“As Commander Leng has testified, the prisoner—His Lordship—returned to Windhaven. Yet you continued on your merry way, bound for Bramoran?”
Sweat slicked the sergeant’s upper lip. “We didn’t know His Lordship had abandoned his post. On my honor, we didn’t. Only yesterday—after His Lordship’s army arrived and I got to talking with my mates—only then did we learn that Commander Leng had sent runners to round us up. But the supply train had got strung out. We never saw no runner. Honest!”
“Round you up?”
“To stop us reaching Bramoran. I reckon His Lordship didn’t want the goods we hauled going to the ogres.”
From the audience someone shouted, “Don’t you believe it, Sergeant!”
Fuller searched the crowd in vain. “Then why else—?”
Rhoslyn rapped her mallet. “Dismissed, Sergeant.”
Fuller saluted sharply and retreated from the Great Hall.
“Lastly,” the duchess said, “the court summons Alyster of the Kulkrie Kindred.”
The floor remained empty. The spectators shifted, looking for the highlander. In the back corner of the Hall, someone said, “Go on, lad.”
Alyster heaved himself off the bench from beside his cousin Haim and weaved past gawking highborns to stand before the dais.
“Just to make your involvement clear,” Rhoslyn said, “you accompanied Thorn Kingshield and Lady Carah to Windhaven, correct?”
“Aye.”
“I want to ask you what you know about His Lordship’s decision to come to Tírandon.”
“A’ right. But I wasn’t exactly included in the conversation. I can only tell you what Carah tol’ me.”
Rhoslyn consulted Kelyn’s notes that implied Alyster was a firsthand witness. She drummed her fingers on the table, irritated, then rephrased her question: “Can you recall something Carah may have said about His Lordship’s decision?”
Affronted, Alyster crossed his arms. “I can quote her exactly. I can’t read or write, so it’s important I remember everything everyone says to me. She said, ‘I made him understand that if he stays, he’s dead for sure. If he goes, he might at least reclaim his self-respect’.”
From a chair near the dais, Queen Briéllyn gained her feet. “Your Grace, Carah isn’t here to speak for herself. This highlander could be putting words in her mouth.”
Alyster glowered incredulity at the queen. “Why should I lie? Men lie when they fear, and I don’t fear this court or anyone here.”
Briéllyn sat, her mouth pinched into an angry thin line.
“Tell me, Alyster,” said the duchess, “your own impressions of His Lordship. You had never met him before. You formed an objective opinion?”
Alyster turned to rake the prisoner with scornful eyes. “At first I thought he was a worthless sack o’ shit. Drank hisself half to death. Whined about his plight. On and on.”
“At first, but not now?”
Alyster shrugged. “Once I beat sense into him, I decided I could abide him.” Snickers rippled among the spectators, but Alyster remained grave. “He’s no coward. I thought so, but I was wrong, or he wouldn’t be here.”
A long while Rhoslyn remained silent. Her fingers curled into a fist atop the orderly papers, and she drew in a deep breath before plunging ahead. She was gearing up to expose her own wound, the part she herself had played. “Did His Lordship happen to explain why he sided with King Valryk in the first place?”
“He told Carah, aye, and she told me. In the strictest confidence.”
“Now is the time to break that confidence.”
Alyster deliberated, glancing between the high table and the box. For one instant, Kethlyn raised his eyes and gave a minute nod. Alyster let out a breath and blurted, “He was afraid he’d end up like me. Declared a bastard and cast off without rights or property.”
As if they’d been slammed by a wave, the older highborns remembered a scandal involving the duchess. The younger ones asked for details.
Alyster rounded on them. “Whisper all you like. Hypocrites. How many of you have bastards out there living on the street, loathing your guts?”
The mallet rapped sharply. “You will address me and me alone.”
Grudgingly, Alyster faced the dais.
“Legitimacy and disinheritance were the only reason His Lordship gave for conspiring with King Valryk?”
Somber, Alyster nodded. “The only reason I heard.”
“You’re dismissed.”
