by Melanie Rawn
“Agreed,” rumbled Justice Feleson. “What’s this to do with anything, Advocate?”
“Merely establishing that a contract did exist, Your Honors, and was not consummated.”
Someone in the audience giggled.
“So to speak,” Chava Allard added.
Now there was outright laughter.
“Get on with it,” Justice Feleson growled.
“Now, Prentice, it is my understanding that you were to marry Lady Mirya.”
“There was some talk of it,” Josselin admitted.
“More than some, I should say. Did she love you?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“If she was willing to divorce her husband to marry you, wouldn’t you say she must have been in love with you?”
“I suppose.”
“Did she ever tell you so?”
“She may have said something like it.”
“And yet you doubted her word?”
“I don’t define love as possession.”
“How would you define it?”
Justice Maklyn interrupted, shaggy eyebrows twitching irritably. “This is a courtroom, not a philosophy class.”
“I was only trying to discover if Prentice Mikleine’s definition of love applied to whatever feelings he had for Lady Mirya. Did you love her, Prentice, as you define love?”
“No.”
“Were you willing to marry her?”
“No.”
“And yet you were willing to accept her protection. You were willing to accept a snug roof over your head, good food on your plate, fine clothes on your back, and an expensive education in the manners and duties of a First Daughter’s husband—all of which she paid for. You were willing to discuss marriage. And yet you did not love her.”
“No.”
“Why did you accept all this from a woman you didn’t love?”
Josselin said nothing.
“The witness will answer the question,” Justice Nunne directed.
After a moment, Josselin said quietly, “I was seventeen. I had nothing. No dower, no prospects, no craft, no Name. She was a Blooded Lady who offered my foster mother favorable terms with her Web if I agreed to be . . . taken under her protection. Geriana Escovor and her husband were good to me—they took me in when no one else wanted me.”
“And I would imagine a big, strong youth such as yourself costs quite a bit to feed.”
Joss ignored him. “I worked hard, but I couldn’t begin to repay her—either in money or kindness. So when Lady Mirya’s offer came. . . .”
Allard finished for him, “You took advantage of her money and kindness.”
“If you want to see it that way—”
Chava Allard spread his fine hands wide, addressing the Justices. “Is there any other way to see it? He led her on, made her believe her love was returned, that he would become her husband—that he was, in short, a young man possessing all the masculine virtues of integrity, obedience, and honesty, as well as remarkable beauty. Instead, he turned out to be a liar, a cheat, and as rebellious as he was ungrateful after all she’d done for him.”
Justice Irresh cleared her throat. “Is there a question for the witness anywhere in our future?”
“My question is this: Prentice Mikleine, did you always plan to defraud Lady Mirya, destroy her hopes, and break her heart, or did you get the idea after you met Collan Rosvenir?”
“I made no such plan. Lord Collan had nothing to do with anything, except that through him and Lady Sarra came the discovery that I’m Mageborn.”
“And becoming a Mage Guardian was more important than becoming a husband to a kind and generous woman? Ah, but I forget—you never loved her, you never intended marriage. That will be all, Prentice. You may step down.”
Caisha, that poor boy got mauled.
I thought he gave a rather good performance.
She expected Allard to call Lady Mirya to the witness box next. He did not. Instead, he addressed the High Justices in summation.
“Your Honors, for thirty-eight Generations we trusted the Bloods to do what was right, wise, and proper. Surely so many hundreds of years of inbred sagacity have a powerful influence on the thinking of our own Generation—it has not been so very long, truly told, since the Bloods and Tiers were abolished at the behest of Lady Glenin Feiran. Lady Mirya Witte must be understood in that context. Because a Blooded First Daughter is by the very reason of that Blood a more valuable person than any other, whatever she does for whatever reason must be more carefully considered than the actions and reasons of any other person.
“Even more important, however, is that she is a woman. Why else do we celebrate the coining of ‘Wise Blood,’ when a young girl leaves behind the amusements of childhood for the serious responsibilities of adult womanhood? We see here a First Daughter, yes; a Blooded Lady, yes; but most importantly, we see a woman. For Generations only women could own and manage property; only women could hold office and participate in civic affairs; only women could decide the great questions of power and faith and magic.
“Lady Mirya Witte was accused and found guilty of causing the death of her husband. Two hundred years ago she would never have been brought into court. Charges would never have been filed. Not because of any alteration in the laws or customs of Lenfell from that day to this—but because two hundred years ago, Lady Mirya would never have found reason to cause the death of her husband. Her husband would never have given her reason.”
Two hundred years—around about Veller Ganfallin’s era, shall we say?
He doesn’t have to say it, Gorsha. The dates are in all the history books and we all went to school.
“Times were simpler then, more direct, less complex, and there were injustices. But I’m not sure that change is always for the better. And I am positive that in Lady Mirya Witte’s case, too much change, too rapidly, too threatening to all she holds to be sacred and true—change caused the death of her husband.”
Not bad, Gorsha remarked. From blaming Sarra and Col, he’s gone on to blame society at large. Vellerin Dombur must be hugging herself with joy.
I doubt her arms can reach that far. And it’s better than that. It’s an indictment of all men who do so much as express an opinion of their own, as if they had brains to think with just like women do.
Careful, Caisha—you’re starting to sound like a radical.
Fuck the “middle path” Telomir set me on twenty years ago! she responded venomously. I know what’s right and what’s wrong, and I’ll do what I have to—
Even to murdering Josselin Mikleine or Jored Karellos without any proof of guilt?
“Now, there will be some who will say, ‘The ungrateful villain deserved what he got.’ Lady Mirya took Ellus Penteon from nothing—from poverty, obscurity, a life without prospects and without hope—and made him husband of a First Daughter, with the right to be called a Lord. She gave him three beautiful daughters to raise. She allowed him to work at a profession he enjoyed. Early in their marriage, she paid for further schooling that qualified him for that profession. She didn’t believe in keeping her husband ignorant and simple. She agreed to his taking a prestigious position at St. Caitiri’s, even though it took him far away from her—and her daughters with him.”
You took both Jored and Josselin from nothing, didn’t you, Cailet? You taught them, made them part of Mage Hall—and look how one of them repaid you. Is that how your thoughts go? Does one of those young men deserve to die because of what you think he did?
Gorsha, do shut up, she responded tiredly.
“And look how he repaid her, some people will say. They will say he was ungrateful in his independence and disobedient in his good fortune, taking all the advantages she offered and selfishly pleasing himself through them without thought to the pain it caused her. They will say he drove her to it—that he should be held up as a warning to other men similarly minded. T
hey will even say that he deserved it because he was of a lower Tier and he dared first to marry a Blooded First Daughter and then to flout her will.
“I am not one of those who will say such things,” said Chava Allard. “What I say is that Lady Mirya was left without anchorage in law. All she had was tradition and custom, and when she saw these things endangered by the behavior of her husband—” He broke off and clasped his hands behind his back again, shaking his head. “She is like a bird who nests comfortably in a particular tree with her chosen mate, raises her chicks, and is perfectly happy. And then one day she flies back to her tree to find it has been cut down, and lies dead in the forest, leaving her homeless and bereft and her children without a home. If the bird flies about in a panic, unable to comprehend the magnitude of her loss, then who can blame her?
“Ellus Penteon was her husband. There was a time when a woman had every right over her husband, including life and death. I do not urge a return to that time, but I do urge Your Honors to consider what effect nearly a thousand years of such rights have on a woman who tries to make her husband happy, only to find he wants more, and more, and still more.
“Contributing to her afflictions was Prentice Mikleine’s treachery. Some of us may find it inappropriate for a woman of mature years to seek out a boy of seventeen, but a gap of even twenty years between a woman and her husband is not unusual. Indeed, it greatly benefits a man to marry a woman older and more experienced than he, so that he may learn from her.
“But Ellus Penteon—and, later, Josselin Mikleine—did not see themselves as having anything to learn. Penteon defied her, took her daughters from her home, lived apart from her for years. She eventually was unable to bear life without the comforts and consolations of a husband living in her home as a husband ought. She fell in love with a handsome youth, and took him under her protection with every expectation of marriage. I ask Your Honors to note that she did not initiate divorce proceedings against Ellus Penteon before ascertaining whether or not Josselin Mikleine would indeed marry her. It was, truly told, her intention to settle a certain amount upon Penteon, in addition to his salary at St. Caitiri’s, and to allow him full visitation rights with her daughters.
“But she was betrayed by an opportunistic young man. Again, note that she did not divorce Ellus Penteon. She still had hopes of their becoming a family once again. In times past, he never would have left. But in these times, it was impossible for Lady Mirya to know exactly where she stood. Nearly a thousand years of tradition and Blood rights kept telling her there were certain things she should expect of marriage and a husband—and of a young man who willingly entered into her protection. The defiant disobedience of Ellus Penteon, the craven deception of Josselin Mikleine—these things shattered her inherent beliefs, and in her torment and confusion she acted upon her oldest instincts.”
You know, it’s quite amazing, Gorsha mused. Here’s an educated, clever man, arguing for the return of a social tradition that would never have allowed him to learn there even was such a thing as the law.
At least he wasn’t harping about Joss and Jored anymore. She decided to forgive him—it wasn’t easy being mad at somebody who shared your skull—and replied, Yes, it’s been quite a show. But it’s not yet over. Lenna’s turn next.
Don’t these people ever get hungry? They’ve been at this since Half-Sixth and it’s damned near Ninth!
She nearly laughed aloud. Gorynel Desse, you’re a Wraith! You haven’t got a stomach to be hungry with!
But you do, and if it doesn’t get fed soon it’ll start to growl, and then you’ll embarrass me.
Don’t be ridiculous—nobody even knows you’re here!
That, he replied disdainfully, doesn’t matter. I know I’m here.
Y’know, she teased, I’m still trying to figure out why all those women found you so charming. I’m surprised any of them invited you to dinner, let alone into their beds.
I resent that. And you’re suspiciously cheerful, Captal.
Oh, I’m just a cheerful kind of girl. How many children were there, anyway?
Haughty silence.
Chava Allard was finishing up. “Circumstances for which she was not responsible led Lady Mirya to such frustration and unhappiness, and threatened her deepest beliefs so violently, that she felt herself cornered. Trapped. Unable to see beyond the source of her unhappiness—the man who should have been the joy and comfort of her life—she fixed on his removal from her life as a solution. Though we may not condone her killing Ellus Penteon, we cannot be so lacking in understanding that we do not know why she did it. And because of this, I humbly petition Your Honors to set aside her conviction and pardon her, for she was not responsible for what she did.”
“Thank you, Advocate Allard.” Justice Irresh lifted a glass of water with fingers skinny as sticks, sipped, and leaned back in her chair. “Advocate Ostin? Have you anything to add?”
“Nothing but this, Your Honors.” Lenna didn’t bother to take the podium. “I must say that it was an affecting image, that of the poor homeless bird who has lost her tree. But if I recall correctly, Lady Mirya not only allowed the tree of her marriage to Ellus Penteon to be chopped down—and sent to St. Caitiri’s Academy on Brogdenguard—she imported a new young sapling to plant in its place. If she flew about chirping and squawking, she did so in private—and for almost seven years between the time Ellus Penteon left for Brogdenguard and the night she slashed his throat and stabbed him seventeen times.” After a brief pause, she said, “I thank Your Honors for your attention.”
At a signal from Justice Irresh, the clerk called for all to rise. The Grand Justices departed to chambers. Spectators filed out, discussing the proceedings in low voices—and Cailet was willing to bet that despite the many hours since breakfast, it would be a while before anybody could eat lunch. Lenna had left them all—including the Justices—with the image of Ellus Penteon lying in a dark alley in a pool of his own blood.
Cailet waited for Sarra and Collan near the back door. Josselin went past without even seeing her—head high, gray eyes glazed with weariness, mouth taut with strain. Cailet thought it genuine; Saints knew her own was real enough. Josselin was getting tired of playing his part, and Cailet was getting tired of watching him do it so well.
Would the same stress begin to show soon in Jored’s face?
Which one of them was it? Damn it to All Saints, which?
Sarra and Collan approached, and Cailet fell into step with them, murmuring to her sister’s husband, “Nice work—but aren’t you utterly mortified by those clothes?”
He nearly snarled at her, sense of humor defunct. Sarra shot her a reproving look. She shrugged and accompanied them down the long corridors back to the Council’s portion of Ryka Court, and Sarra’s own suite. Tarise, hurrying back before them, had mulled wine waiting, saying it was guaranteed to cheer a dismal day. Cailet glanced out a window, startled to see rain. One could spend weeks inside Ryka Court without ever setting foot out of doors.
“I thought it went very nicely,” Tarise said as she ladled their cups full. “And not just because we’re going to win and Mirya the Mare is going to lose.”
“Oh?” Cailet said, for lack of anything else, and almost burned her tongue on the wine.
“Yes,” Tarise continued, determined to be optimistic. “It’s a vindication of everything we ever wanted to change about the legal system. Listening to Lenna and that other Advocate argue their sides of the case—zealous defense and zealous prosecution, just what the judicial system ought to be.”
“Wonderful,” Collan muttered. “My taxes at work.”
“What are you complaining about? I thought you came off rather well.”
He almost snarled at her, too, and took his glass and his grumpiness over to the windows to watch the rain.
“How long before they reach a decision?” Cailet asked Sarra.
“Who knows? It could come tomorrow, or ne
xt week, or next Thieves Moon. They take their time and nobody rushes them.”
“I hope the rain lets up soon,” said Tarise. “They’ve asked Rillan to help with a hunt scheduled for the ninth, but he says if the ground’s too soaked for a safe gallop, it’ll have to be postponed a few days.”
“Imagine my disappointment,” Collan grunted over his shoulder.
“Nobody invited you,” she snapped back. “And we have to do something around here while we wait for the Justices to hand down their aggregate wisdom—not to mention I don’t intend to sit and knit socks while Vellerin Dombur and Glenin Feiran take their time doing whatever it is they came here to do.”
“Any ideas what that might turn out to be, Cailet?” asked Sarra a bit testily. “Or are you still of a mind to let it happen as it will?”
She could have given a short lecture on the strictures imposed by her position and her ethics: that she could take no action until the enemy did. She could, for instance, kill Josselin or Jored now as a preventive measure, forcing Glenin’s hand—but she had no proof. And even if she did, killing either was not an option unless he threatened her life, or the important lives around her. She was, in a word, stuck. But she said none of this. She only shrugged and took her cup of mulled wine with her for a walk in the soft, relentless summer rain.
12
THAT evening Glenin saw her son alone for the first time in more years than she cared to think about. She’d glimpsed him at the reception in the Malachite Hall, and watched him pass by at a distance with the Captal and the other Mages and Prentices. But now, tonight, she was alone with him, her emotion too deep for words.
They did not meet openly. They could not be seen together, and he’d told her the Captal suspected something. So they stood together beneath a dripping tree in the depths of the commons, where anyone could walk of an evening. Quite a few people did, even at this late hour. The air was still rain-misted, allowing the concealment of cloaks. She wished they could have met in the private Council Gardens, but too many people who could recognize either of them, despite their hoods, might be about. Though the light was bad, with only the dim glow of tall lamps to illumine the nearby paths, still she saw at once that he had grown more beautiful than ever. The practice of magic agreed with him.