by Bryan Davis
When her feet landed at the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and gazed at the wide corridor leading back to the vestibule. The palace official dressed in orange and black was nowhere in sight, yet it seemed that a phantom stood at her side, watching, waiting. Might all this really be a dream? No dream had ever felt this real, had it? How many times had she dreamed, thinking her imagined world the real one, only to learn the truth at the break of dawn?
She pinched her wrist. Her skin crumbled at the pressure point. As she stared at the bloodless gash, a thin stream of dust from the stairwell banister swirled toward her arm, gathering at the site until it patched the wound. After a few seconds, her skin appeared as it did before, whole, yet ghostly pale and still cold, very cold.
Marcelle shuddered. What could this mean? Maybe it proved she really was dreaming, that she lay unconscious somewhere, the victim of Magnar’s cooking stake. Had she conjured the journey to the Northlands with Arxad and Cassabrie? The idea that she could fashion from the soil a body that didn’t have a heartbeat, and weave clothes with such precise detail, was really hard to believe. And now regenerating it by mere thought seemed impossible.
Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on another reality, a sleeping version of herself, perhaps still cooking at the loathsome stake. Was there pain? Thirst? Any other sensation she could connect with?
After a few seconds, a hazy vision entered her mind—the sense of bobbing, pressure on her stomach, intense pain in her head, and a fistful of material in her clenched hand. Water appeared, dark murky water, barely visible as it came closer and withdrew again in a consistent rhythm. Then, the water twisted and flew away. Arms caught her, fragile arms that pushed her to her feet. Now Adrian stood in view, his feet set as a beast lunged from a marsh and knocked him to the ground.
Marcelle drew her sword and slashed at the creature, slicing through its neck, decapitating it. She gasped, her heart pounding. Adrian rolled out from under the beast, climbed to his feet, and ran toward her, shouting, “Marcelle!”
The sharp word shook the vision. As the scene dimmed, she whispered, “Adrian,” hoping to draw her mind fully into this reality, but the marsh quickly faded to darkness. She focused again on the pain, but that, too, had vanished. Did this mean she was really dreaming, or was the marsh scene a dream? It seemed impossible to know for certain.
“Marcelle?” someone called. “Are you all right?”
She blinked her eyes open. Gregor stood in the corridor, a look of concern on his face. Her heart no longer raced. In fact, it no longer beat at all.
“Yes, I’m fine.” She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “Why?”
He pointed. “You drew my … uh … your sword.”
“Oh.” She raised her arm. Her fingers tightly clutched Gregor’s sword. “Something startled me.”
“And I as well. I thought I heard a growl, like a big cat.”
“A growl? How strange.”
Gregor leaned to the side as if trying to peer around her. “But it was nothing?”
“Right. … Nothing.” She slid the sword back to the scabbard. “Thank you for checking.”
“Not a problem.” He turned and walked back toward the door, patting his hip where his sword once was.
Marcelle followed. When she reached the vestibule, she crossed to the other side and entered a corridor that led to the palace’s two courtrooms, one for the noble class—the so-called high court— and one for the peasants—the commons court. It seemed unusual for a meeting of royal officials to convene in the lower courtroom, but Orion had already proven himself an unusual governor. Maybe learning what he was up to would help her cause, that is, if this was really something more than a dream.
She passed by a stairway to the nobles’ court and continued to a set of double doors that opened to a lobby. She paused at the entry and peeked inside. The familiar layout hadn’t changed—hard benches lining the walls, another set of double doors to the left leading to the courtroom, and a vaulted ceiling with a rustic candelabra hanging low and providing flickering light. In contrast, the high courtroom lobby had energy channels in the walls, providing radiant light that bounced off a central crystal chandelier and spread an array of glittering rainbows throughout the room. It was beautiful, to be sure, but it was synthetic beauty. It was nail polish and silk stockings instead of courage and integrity.
Marcelle stepped into the lobby, touching the closest bench. If a peasant were charged with any sort of crime, he would sit at one of these until the magistrate called him in to face the charges, sometimes waiting all day. Even now it seemed that phantom peasants sat here and there, their hands wringing as they wondered what lay in store. A man might get a small fine for forgetting to tip his hat to a lady of high rank, or he might be shackled in the pillory for a day and a night, losing his wages for the duration. Of course, real criminals found themselves in the dungeon or dangling at the end of a rope, but too many fell victim to the inconsistent enforcement of fickle customs, a weapon for those in the noble class who bore grudges.
The courtroom doors were open, an odd sight, and the guard who usually stood there during trials was nowhere to be seen. The various judges enjoyed secrecy, allowing them the freedom to accept bribes in proportion with their mercy and exact penalties in keeping with their mood. A bad cup of morning brew or a lingering spat with a spouse could mean a doubled fine or extra time in the pillory, so the peasants prayed for blessings on the judges’ heads while waiting to stand before them.
Using the open door as a shield, Marcelle skulked to the courtroom entry. As she drew close, a voice from inside became clear, a masculine voice forced into an unnaturally low register.
“So as your new governor, I have implemented these reforms for the good of all, to ensure fair treatment for all classes of society. Even my decision to gather in this courtroom has symbolic purpose. Trials here will be for nonviolent offenses, regardless of class, while charges regarding violent crimes and crimes against nature will be heard in the high court. Social infractions will no longer be prosecuted, except, of course, for spitting and profane words and gestures. These reforms should break down the divide between those of more substantial means and those of less fortunate circumstances.”
Governor Orion took a breath. “Are there any questions?”
As he paused, Marcelle peeked inside. About ten rows of benches stood on either side of the courtroom with a carpeted aisle down the middle. Richly dressed men and women filled the front half, some fidgeting, obviously not accustomed to wooden seats that lacked cushions for their delicate posteriors. One woman in the second row squirmed mightily, tossing a tall purple feather on her hat back and forth.
A solitary man wearing a rust-colored tunic and trousers sat in the back, left row, his shoulders straight and his head erect. Bending low, Marcelle sneaked in and took a seat to the man’s right.
He blinked at her, apparently taken aback by her appearance.
“I’m Marcelle Stafford,” she whispered, unable to suppress a shiver, “the banker’s daughter.”
“Yes, I know.” He took off his outer cloak—woolen and forest green—and laid it over her shoulders. “I am Philip.”
She gave him an appreciative nod and, staying low, turned her attention to the front where Governor Orion paced on a rostrum, two steps up from floor level. Marcelle glanced around, hoping to spot her father. With only backs of heads visible and many of them sporting neatly brushed gray hair, he could be any one of twenty men in attendance.
Stopping at the center of the stage, Orion waved a hand. “Come, now. With all these changes, I am sure there are many questions. These reforms are without precedent, and it will take time to grow accustomed to a new set of norms. Feel free to express your views. This is a new day. No one will be persecuted for a civil statement of opinion, even an opposing point of view.”
A man in the front row stood. When he turned to the side, his identity became clear—Issachar Stafford. “Governor Orion,” he said
in his most courtly tone, “the greatest concern I have, and I assume I speak for many others, is the release of dungeon prisoners. I understand your point that this new era of freedom of speech cannot allow for political persecution. That is all well and good, but we know that some of the former prisoners went far beyond speech when they protested Prescott’s regime. I know of two in particular who resorted to arson, which, I am sure we all agree, is an uncivilized way of expressing one’s views.”
Marcelle smiled. Although father looked frail and worn, at least he was speaking with vigor and standing without teetering. Maybe he had successfully avoided the poison.
“So, I am wondering,” he continued, “what you can do to assuage our fears that such menaces will not ignite their fires of rage again.”
“Justice,” Orion said without hesitation. “Uprisings have their birth in injustice. There is no other source. And our show of mercy toward those whose frustrations led them to violence should be enough to quell future expressions of rage. Yet, even though we will tolerate all forms of opposition in speech and print, any violence from this day forth will be dealt with swiftly and with a firm judicial hand.”
As her father took his seat again, apparently pleased with the answer, Marcelle scanned the room. The smiles and nods of heads gave silent echo to Father’s approval. Yet why would that be? Orion fed them nothing but words, well-spoken words, to be sure, but these were the same promises Governor Prescott made. He never prosecuted anyone for simply speaking out against the regime. He just found ways to charge them with other crimes. It seemed that a change in administration simply meant a shift from one liar to another, but few took notice. Those carrying a favored status cared little about the backsides of the oppressed as long as their own remained covered and cushioned.
The woman with the tall feather stood, her silky ivory gown accentuating a svelte figure. “These new norms,” she said with perfect poise and enunciation, “are certainly borne of noble intent. Justice should be applied uniformly across the classes, and mere disrespect of distinguished personages should be handled with delicacy and utmost tolerance.” She scanned the courtroom, her pointed nose seemingly probing for a reaction to her dramatic pause. “So, I wonder, dear Governor, if you will be employing similar reforms to the enforcement of laws against sorcery. The witches and Diviners have always risen from the peasant ranks, so if the classes are truly equal in value and nobility, does not common sense teach us that such sorcery should be discovered equally among the classes? If so, will you test every pubescent girl among the nobles as you have among the peasants?” As murmurs buzzed through the audience, she waited through another pause until the buzz subsided. “Or will you cease the practice altogether? With your experience and wisdom, I am certain you understand all too well the inherent risks associated with either option.”
The lady sat again, now perfectly still, as if her speech had expelled whatever had been wiggling inside.
“Allow me time to give your question the deliberation it deserves.” Orion began pacing again, his hands clasped behind him and his tall frame slightly bent.
During the new pause, Marcelle leaned toward Philip, whispering. “Were you the only one invited from the working class?”
He shook his head. “All were invited, but few could afford the time. Even fewer thought it worth the trouble. I was elected as a reporter of sorts while the others pitch in to take care of my horses.”
“Do you operate a livery?”
“No, the military barn. Orion requested my transfer here. We are breaking in new horses.”
Marcelle gave him an inquisitive look. Mesolantrum had been at peace with its neighbors for years. Why would they be training new horses? She scanned the courtroom again. No military uniforms adorned any shoulders. Although the last war had become merely a memory, the officers still maintained military discipline, which included the spit and polish of perfect dress-uniform assemblage, from reflective black boots to shiny brass buttons to shoulder pads that accentuated even the frames of those lacking in masculine muscle.
Orion stopped again at the middle of the rostrum. “Katherine has raised a question that exhibits her acute grasp of fairness as well as her valid concerns. If I were to expand my search for those who practice sorcery to include young ladies whose delicate constitutions could not fathom the reason for such an examination much less tolerate its rigor, I could do great damage for no good reason.” A wry smile broke out on Orion’s face. “It would be as if we were conducting a search for dust devils in Katherine’s closets, for we all know how meticulously clean her household is.”
A few chuckles passed across the audience. Katherine looked at the man next to her, a smile dressing her profile.
Marcelle nodded. Katherine was her manners instructor only a few years ago. Although she was a busybody who could display a hot temper at times, she didn’t mind a joke told at her expense, at least most of the time.
When the laughter stopped, someone walked in from the entry and slid onto the bench across the aisle. Marcelle ventured a glance. The man in black and orange stared at her, his jaw still grinding.
Jerking her head toward the front, she began breathing in a slow, natural rhythm, hoping to mimic normal respiration. Obviously this man was suspicious, but as long as she had a sword at her side, no rookie guard was about to do anything she couldn’t handle.
Orion, his expression now serious, continued. “I believe it is better to err on the side of freedom than on the side of security. I prefer to withhold trauma from the obviously innocent and trust in the quality of our citizens. We are a courageous people, so we can withstand the risk of allowing sorcery to rise among us. If it rears its ugly head, we are strong enough to sever it from the serpent’s body. We have nothing to fear. Therefore, I have decided to cease all routine examinations. No one will be tested to see if she is a Diviner unless she publicly engages in sorcery.”
As new murmurs spread across the room, Orion waved his arms, his palms down, as if batting the noise toward the floor. “There is no need to fear. I have created a new enforcement position and appointed the perfect man for the job.” As his gaze reached the back of the room, his brow shot upward. “Ah! There he is. Leo, come forward and allow me to introduce you.”
Marcelle lowered her head. This would not be a good time for Orion to see her.
As Leo slid toward the aisle, Marcelle watched his polished boots out of the corner of her eye, feeling his stare burn into her. When the sensation eased, she looked up. He strode toward the rostrum, his gait confident as he clutched the hilt of a curved dagger attached to his belt by a leather loop. Sharply serrated and gleaming in the light, it seemed odd that it wasn’t in a sheath.
He leaped over the steps, vaulted up to the stage, and made a graceful turn toward the audience, his chewing no longer evident.
“Leo,” Orion said, clasping his shoulder, “was one of three ministers serving the king’s court in Tarkton. He was in charge of locating and executing Diviners and witches, and he had great success even without routine examinations. He is able to detect sorcery whenever he is in its presence, allowing him to investigate the suspicious rather than the innocent. This way the daughters of every class will be protected.”
As polite applause broke out, Marcelle mumbled under her breath. “Then that makes him a Diviner, doesn’t it?”
“Did you speak to me, Miss?” Philip whispered.
She shook her head. “Sorry. Just concerned, that’s all.”
“As you should be. I know this man. If I were you, I would leave. He has his eye on you.”
“I noticed.” She touched the hilt of her sword. “But I’m not one to run from trouble.”
“I have heard tales of your prowess, but I have also seen him ply his trade.” He leaned so close the warmth of his breath caressed her frigid cheek. “Please trust me. Leave while you have the chance.”
When the applause settled, Leo stepped to the edge of the rostrum and spoke in an even tone.
“I am here to do the Creator’s will, to cleanse the land by uprooting any foul weed that threatens to spread its seeds on Mesolantrum’s fertile soil.” Leo locked gazes with Marcelle, his stoic expression unchanged. “For a while, the stench of burning witches will spoil the air as the purifying flames devour the devils, but a time will come when no hint of sorcery will darken the sky, for once the roots are burned, no shoots will be able to sprout.”
As a new round of applause erupted, Philip whispered in earnest. “Go! I will create a distraction.”
“Okay, okay.” Marcelle slid to the edge of the bench. “Create your distraction.”
“Stay low.” He touched a sheathed knife at his hip. “You’ll know when to leave.”
As soon as Marcelle ducked, Philip stood on the bench and shouted. “I know who you are, Leo. The Tarks call you …” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. The people of Tarkton call you Maelstrom, because you are a vortex that absorbs power. You find sorcerers by identifying those who are able to resist you with their dark arts.”
Leo kept his body straight, one hand on his dagger’s hilt. “You speak the truth, my good man, but why are you engaging in this noisy display?”
“Because …” Philip stepped over Marcelle and jumped down to the center aisle. “Because I want the people to witness your abilities. It seems to me that their applause is premature. Shouldn’t they see what you do before they show their approval?”
Leo nodded genially. “A fair statement. What do you have in mind?”
“Demonstrate your skills on me, but I beg you to spare my life.”
A smile spread across Leo’s face, making the bulge in his cheek visible. “I will do as you ask. What sort of demonstration shall we arrange?”
“Try to stop me!” Philip drew the knife from its sheath and charged down the aisle, screaming a battle cry. Just as he leaped toward the stage, Leo raised a hand as if signaling for him to stop. Philip halted in midflight, bounced back, and fell to the carpet, writhing in pain. With every eye locked on Philip, Marcelle tiptoed out the door, then quickly spun and peered around it.