Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  He was forced from his thoughts as he reached the top of the stairs and—mercifully—some shade. He reached out to it—instinctively now—but with the collar on it felt like reaching through a grate for a key out of reach. His head began to ache even more and he ceased the effort. Channeling would not get him out of this.

  At least he could finally see where they’d taken him. They stood in the main chamber of the Senate at the top of its tiered seating structure, divided into three sections, one for each house. Stairs between each section funneled down to the central debate floor. All Senators seemed to be present, and every remaining seat was occupied by spectators. Many others stood around the upper bowl of the chamber or in the aisles. Rank odors of perspiration and anticipation filled the room like a noxious cloud. He sensed some fear too, which seemed comical considering he and Bladesorrow were the ones facing almost sure execution.

  He glanced over to Bladesorrow in time to see a Priest remove the man’s blindfold; apparently they’d led him in blind. A minority of spectators gave cries of dismay at the sight of his black eyes, but the vast majority rumbled in outrage or angered hisses. For his part, Bladesorrow kept his eyes forward, chin high, or at least as high as the iron collar permitted.

  Ferrin considered how strange it must be for Bladesorrow, being back here after all these years. And, if he was telling the truth, how degrading it must be. Angry curses rained down upon him from the gathered assembly. Wails of consternation. Gruesome death threats by methods Ferrin had never even imagined, which made him think death at the hands of the Temple might be a mercy. An unseated woman spat in the Grand Master’s face. One of the Parents made a cursory effort at admonishing her, but he clearly cared little for how Taul was treated. Ferrin almost felt sorry for him, but still couldn’t bring himself to completely trust the man.

  At the none-too-gentle prodding of several Parents, Bladesorrow began to descend towards the central debate floor. The man was bound even more tightly than Ferrin. Movement required Bladesorrow to stoop and take short shuffles, making him appear a cripple. Ferrin doubted that had been accidental.

  After Bladesorrow had descended half-a-dozen steps, a Priest with a red scarf slung over one shoulder prodded Ferrin forward. He recognized the Priest as one of the Parents who’d been at Ral Mok. The man who’d tortured the shadow children.

  The one who’d attacked Jenzara.

  He tried to lunge at Shinzar but only succeeded in nearly falling on his own face. The Priest laughed and walked away. Another Parent grabbed roughly at Ferrin’s collar and pushed him onward, sending him stumbling down the steps. As soon as he caught his balance, he irrationally began to scan the audience for Jenzara. If that Priest had returned, then she must be here too.

  Almost immediately he chided himself for being a fool. Even if she was in the City, surely Jenzara wouldn’t be at the trial. For all he knew she was back in the dungeon he’d just been dragged from. He let out a grunt of frustration and focused on his descent.

  The circular debate floor had been altered for the trial. At least, he assumed this wasn’t how it looked during ordinary sessions. Two unadorned wood tables stood adjacent to one another at the near edge of the floor. Counsel tables he surmised, though he doubted they’d actually be afforded representation. A mahogany rail bisected the floor at its center, dividing counsel and the accused from the judges. Three stone pillars, each several heights tall, stood on the other side of the bar. Stairs spiraled up the length of each column, leading to a flat perch surrounded by a railing made of the same mahogany as the one below. At the summit of each column sat a judge. Once Ferrin reached the debate floor he had to crane his neck up to see them. Each wore a powdered wig in what was a comically outdated tradition of legal styling. The chairs the judges occupied seemed intricately carved thrones.

  Historically, each of the three houses of the Senate selected one of their number to serve on the three-member panel that adjudicated serious felonies. (Lesser misdemeanors and civil matters were handled by arbitral subcommittees and rarely ever advanced to the point of an actual trial. Too expensive.) But with the Keepers now disbanded, Ferrin saw that two of the judges were Parents. One was Valdin himself.

  What a sham. Ferrin found himself reflecting on an ancient adage he’d once read—“right” is a matter determined only by those of equal power. His head grew light at how terribly accurate he realized the saying was. They might as well just get on with it and execute them now.

  The Grand Father wore an appropriately grave expression. But even from far below the man’s perch, Ferrin could see his eyes sparkling with intense interest as he followed their progress down the stairs, almost as if he hoped for one of them to trip. Ferrin felt a chill as he realized the man could likely use his powers to make one of them trip if he really wanted to.

  Once they reached the debate floor, Shinzar shoved them to one of the tables, undid the chains connecting their hands to their ankles, and secured them to a post behind the table. While Bladesorrow’s hands were momentarily free, four Priests surrounded him, threatening to skewer the man with their polearms if he so much as breathed. Ferrin looked around for chairs but saw none. Apparently they’d be facing their fate standing. Shinzar left them and began fiddling with some parchment on the other counsel table.

  Now that he no longer had to focus on not tripping down the stairs, the full gravity of the situation began to weigh on Ferrin. Here he was, in the fabled capital city he’d only ever heard of in stories, about to face trial before an audience and panel of judges who’d have no mercy for him at all, not the least of the reasons being that he’d associated with perhaps the most notorious man in the history of Agarsfar. He began to rattle at his chains to expel some of his pent-up energy and wished he could lift his hands far enough to scratch under the collar around his neck. Cold sweat covered him like a veil of doom.

  “Calm,” Bladesorrow said, keeping his eyes forward.

  Ferrin scoffed. Who’d he think he was, giving him advice? “I’ve seen very little to be calm about since we got here,” he said through clenched teeth. “And letting them see me talking to you probably won’t aid my cause.” He continued to rattle his chains, drawing an annoyed glare from Shinzar, who was still sifting through papers at the other table.

  Despite himself, Ferrin stole a glance at Bladesorrow. The man might as well have been waiting for a groom to fetch his horse, his face was so placid. This despite the fact that, if anything, the jeers had intensified since they’d reached the table. One man from somewhere high up in the gallery called them murderers with such utter hatred in his voice you’d think they’d personally killed his entire family. Actually, now that he thought about it, many of these people likely thought just that of Bladesorrow. Many souls had perished at Riverdale. He looked over to the man he’d known as Erem, once more trying to picture him killing innocents. He couldn’t.

  Despite the repugnance of the crowd weighing on him like a boulder, the buzzing in Ferrin’s muscles eased somewhat at the sight of Bladesorrow’s face. Breathing deep, he looked past the man, out to the view of the North Sea that lay beyond the trio of judicial pillars. The rear of the Senate hung over a cliff, the southernmost point of Agarsfar, right over the North Sea, so called for being north of Sykt, the land from which Agarsfar’s founders had fled. Ferrin shut his eyes and took in a breath of the salty air.

  “ORDER.”

  The Grand Father’s voice boomed off the walls of the Senate chamber. Ferrin’s eyes snapped open to the sight of Valdin rapping his staff upon the floor. The resulting slam slam slam was much louder than it should have been. Hairs on his arms rose in response to the channel that amplified the sound. The assembled crowd fell silent. Light reflected off crystalline ornaments that hung from the chamber’s ceiling.

  A smooth-faced Parent stepped from behind the Grand Father’s pillar, up to the bar. Ferrin might have thought him only an acolyte, but surely only a full Parent would be chosen to serve as bailiff for such a proceedin
g

  “Oyez, oyez,” he cried. “By Ral’s hammer, and Trimale’s bell, and Agar’s sword, and above all Tragnè’s spear, this tribunal is called to order. Let none but the truth be spoken here.”

  “By Agar’s sacrifice let it be so,” the crowd murmured in reply.

  Ferrin reflected sourly to himself that Trimale had been a shadow attuned and the blasted Northern capital itself was named for her, yet she’d somehow remained in the ritual opening.

  “Bailiff, thank you,” Valdin intoned. A clerk seated at a small table off to the side of the three pillars scribbled furiously, recording all that was said. The scratching of his quill sounded like fingernails on the inside of a coffin. “On behalf of my esteemed colleagues,” Valdin continued, nodding to the justices to either side of him, “I thank the Senate and all the good people of our great City who have joined us. Bailiff, call the case if you please.”

  Ferrin’s stomach bubbled at Valdin’s casual formality. There was a grim satisfaction in the man’s eyes. And why not? Bladesorrow was twenty heights away from him, beaten and chained to a pole. The Grand Father wouldn’t be embarrassed this time. Ferrin practically shook with the indignity of it all.

  The young Parent stepped up to the bar once more. “This will be case 1030 AA, Special Edict Session 1, People of Agarsfar versus Ferrin, Orphaned of Ral Mok, and Taul Bladesorrow.”

  The gallery erupted with angry howls before Taul’s name had finished its passage from the bailiff’s lips. Someone tossed a rotten melon from above that very nearly hit Ferrin in the head. Its blood-red insides splattered across the expanse between the counsel tables and the bar, sending nauseating fumes into the air, which was already saturated with the musk of sweating men. Valdin had to slam his staff half-a-dozen times to regain quiet. He opened his mouth to admonish the crowd, but was cut off by another.

  “It is Grand Master Keeper Taul Bladesorrow,” Taul said in a quiet but firm voice, looking up at Valdin. “I move to amend that caption.”

  Ferrin had to actively tighten the muscles in his jaw to keep his mouth from dropping to his ankles. He’d have found the brazen gall of the man inspiring if they weren’t about to be put on trial for their lives. But as it was, he squirmed in his shackles as every pair of eyes in the chamber fell upon them in shocked silence.

  “You are out of order,” snapped Valdin, voice rolling down from his pillar like slow thunder.

  Bladesorrow was undeterred. “There has never been a formal vote to strip me of my title. I’ve the right under law to be named correctly. Of course,” he paused, letting the Grand Father and those assembled soak in his words, “we could adjourn this proceeding while the Senate takes up the matter.”

  Valdin’s eyes blazed down at them, and Ferrin feared he might strike Bladesorrow down where he stood, just as he’d done to Raldon. Someone in the congregation coughed and he nearly jumped. You could hang the carcasses of slaughtered livestock from the line of rage that started at Valdin’s eyes and ended at Bladesorrow. Despite himself, Ferrin felt a minor surge of pride at being associated with one as brave as this.

  “Fine,” Valdin finally grated. “Motion granted. Let the caption be amended. But speak out of turn again and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

  Bladesorrow gave no indication of hearing and went back to staring straight ahead, stoic as ever.

  Valdin’s eyes bored down at Bladesorrow a moment longer before he continued. “Priest Shinzar, are you ready to proceed with the land’s case?”

  The red-sashed priest answered in the affirmative, blustery and confident. He sounded like a man who didn’t expect much hardship ahead of him. And why should he?

  “And defendants, I see you’ve no counsel.” Valdin didn’t bother to mask the smugness in his voice. “Of course, if a member of the Senate would be willing to volunteer their services, let him or her rise and give it now.”

  Silence.

  Valdin didn’t smile, but his eyes practically cackled as he made an exaggerated spectacle of peering around the chamber. Many bowed their heads as if afraid that even making eye contact could be construed as volunteering.

  “Well. Seeing no volunteers, we will—”

  The main doors to the chamber opened with a whoosh, splashing rays of noon sunlight onto the debate floor. The audience audibly turned to the door as one body, like a regiment coming to attention in unison.

  “Wait, wait,” came a voice from the doors, arrogant and impatient, yet somehow also a hint gleeful. “Now wait just a minute. I’ll represent these men.”

  And there, striding down the stairs, face framed by the blinding sunlight behind him, was a man thin as a torch. He wore a frazzled powdered wig that looked as if it’d been struck by lightning. A pair of too-small spectacles perched at the tip of his nose. He carried before him a ridiculously oversized tome cradled on his forearms rather than grasped with his hands. And he smelled suspiciously like rotten eggs.

  But there was no mistaking the Angel’s aloof saunter as he made his way down the stairs. Devan sidled up to their table—every pair of eyes in the Senate glued to him—and slammed the book down upon it. The Law of Things was emblazoned across the leather-bound volume in radiant gold script.

  “Lawyer lesson number one: Always carry the biggest book you can find into court,” Devan chortled to Ferrin and Taul, as if he hadn’t just barged into the trial of the century. Though, for a being who was centuries old, perhaps barging into the event of a century carried somewhat less meaning.

  The Angel thumbed the spectacles further up his nose.

  “Cutting it close, aren’t we?” Bladesorrow said. Ferrin would have sworn the man smiled, but when he snapped his head around to inspect the man’s face, he saw only his typically taciturn expression.

  “Yeah. Where have you been?” Ferrin said as loud as he dared.

  “Oh, working on some other projects,” Devan continued in a tone that seemed totally oblivious to the fact that half of Tragnè City was gaping at him, eyes agog. “Got held up a bit. The Path doesn’t revolve around you, don’t you know, young Ferrin. Though, I have come to some interesting conclusions after my latest bout of reading. We’ve some things to discuss later.”

  What did that mean?

  “Held up?” Ferrin hissed. “Couldn’t you have just, you know, done your time travel thing?”

  Devan rolled his eyes. “No, no. Can’t re-cross my own timeline, etcetera, etcetera. The Grand Master’s right. You really don’t listen.”

  Ferrin gave the Angel a blank stare.

  “Oh, never mind. We’ll talk later.” He turned back to Bladesorrow. “Grand Master. Glad to see you’ve finally ditched those spectacles.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” bellowed Valdin from his perch, apparently having recovered from the audacity of Devan’s entrance. “You will make your appearance before this tribunal and state your identity for the record. Who are—”

  At that moment, Devan whipped the spectacles off his face and stepped forward. Valdin’s face went whiter than his robe, eyes bulging. Ferrin felt an adolescent surge of glee at the man’s expression.

  Devan let Valdin’s shock reverberate around the hall for a moment. “My apologies, Grand Father Valdin.” Devan said the words as if he’d just made a joke. “Devan um... errr... Smith. Time Smith. Yes, that will do.” Devan winked over his shoulder at Ferrin. “Devan Timesmith, entering appearance on behalf of the accused. Jointly, of course.”

  Valdin spluttered, lips moving without forming coherent words. The stenographer glared up from his parchment at the Grand Father, quill hovering over the page, as if to say he couldn’t record such babbling. Then he seemed to realize just who he was glaring at and snapped his face back down to his record.

  Finally, Valdin managed to choke out, “This tribunal does not recognize your qualifications to practice here.”

  “Huh ho!” Devan bleated out in reply. “A debate on credentials, eh? Are you sure that’s a dialectic in which you wish to engage, Grand Fat
her?”

  Ferrin could almost hear the fury radiating from Valdin’s eyes. The clerk looked up from his parchment expectantly, waiting for Valdin to speak, pen quivering above the page.

  “Appearance noted,” Valdin finally uttered. He looked as if he’d just swallowed a Parent’s mace.

  “Grand Father, I thank you.” Devan swept back to the table, flipping The Law of Things open to a random page.

  Valdin continued to try boring holes through Devan with his eyes. The Angel pretended not to notice, but Ferrin could see the effort he was making to restrain a grin.

  “Grand Father?” One of the other justices cut in, speaking in a pitched, watery tone. The panel’s representative from the Commons. He was a slight man, balding. “Shall we proceed with the bill of particulars?”

  “No need,” Devan said without looking up, flipping through his book. “We waive the reading. My clients plead not guilty to all counts.”

  Shinzar cleared his throat and rose. “Your honors, the land wishes to proceed with the bill.”

  “Granted,” Valdin growled. His eyes were still wide in the direction of Devan, and Ferrin thought much of the color was still absent from his face.

  “Bailiff. Proceed.”

  Devan made as if to object further, but then shrugged.

  The bailiff hurried out from behind Valdin’s pillar once more and cleared his throat. He made a great show of unfurling a roll of parchment that reached nearly to his toes. Ferrin saw Devan look up to the ceiling from the corner of his eye.

  “Grand Master Keeper Taul Bladesorrow. Charged as follows: One count, high treason; one count, conspiracy to commit high treason; fifty-seven counts, pre-meditated murder; one count, harboring a shadow attuned; one-thousand-three-hundred-forty-eight counts, conspiracy to commit murder; one count, aiding and abetting the harboring of a shadow attuned; nine counts, felony shadow channeling; one count, shirking official duties.”