Finally, Lyseira found her voice. "Father, I heard no—"
Marcus leaned back again. "I have been questioning Helix all week, Lyseira. He continues to claim his innocence, but he has unwittingly dropped bits and pieces of his plan that have allowed me to understand my Communion. I wish to use these pieces to weave a tapestry that can be presented to the holy judge, but if I cannot, I will return to questioning Helix. Tonight. And I will continue until the morning.
"I've been a bishop of the Tribunal for a long time, girl. There are ways to make him tell the truth about what he has done, believe me. But none of those options are as clean as this one.
"I lay this choice at your feet. You can speak tomorrow and reveal what you know. Or I can return to questioning Helix until he tells me the truth, using whatever means are necessary."
This can't be happening. A drop of sweat trickled slowly down her back; her stomach roiled with nausea. "Bishop, I'm sorry," she said at last. "But I… I'm having trouble recalling the conversation you referred to."
"I understand," he said, and he sounded as if he truly did. "I know this is hard for you. You said you've known this boy your entire life?" She nodded. "And you have now discovered that he is a cutthroat, this childhood friend of yours. Furthermore, if you had only reported the conversation you overheard to your temple's Keeper, the murder may have been averted. So the sin of it falls on you as well.
"Admitting these things to the judge will be painful. They require you to set aside your pride and your mortal loyalties, and profess to a greater calling. Doing such a thing would be a tremendous sacrifice for the good of the Church.
"A sacrifice as great as Elynor Highlund's."
Lyseira dropped her eyes, her feelings churning. Her outrage at the bribe should have towered like a storm, but cutting through it, insidious with surrender, was a small voice. Maybe it's true. If Akir told him in a communing, maybe it's true. He'll be found guilty no matter what I say, anyway.
This is my only chance.
"I understand, Father." She didn't recognize her own voice. "I'll do as you ask."
His smile made her want to retch.
ii. Helix
Helix jerked awake from some formless nightmare. He sat bolt upright, his eyes wide.
His body retaliated with a cry of protest. His legs and arms were stiff as boards, and bent nearly as well. The sudden burst of stale pain in his muscles sent him to his back with a groan.
He hadn't stretched in days.
They had put him in a jail wagon on the night Matthew had been killed. Little more than a barred cell on wheels, the wagon had probably been meant for Matthew. The only break in the tiny chamber's floor was a small hole in the corner, cut to allow use of a chamber pot below. While the cell looked rough, the construction was as sturdy as any castle's dungeon.
Helix knew; he had tried everything he could think of to get out.
The next morning, they had erected a small tent around him. Helix hated it — it blocked out the sun and made it harder to tell what time it was — but he imagined waking under a mountain of snow would be worse.
Deacon Annish pushed through the tent flap, pouring sunlight into the darkened cell. Helix recoiled from the sudden brightness.
"Good morn," the Father said. He wore a heavy winter cloak, and carried a modest tray bearing Helix's breakfast: bread and cheese. This he pushed between the bars, and stepped back from the wagon to wait.
Helix grabbed the hunk of bread and bit into it. The meal had been the same all week, but by the time he got it each day, he was too hungry to care.
"Father Elmoor asked me to speak with you. He arrived four days ago."
Helix knew something had changed; it was louder beyond the tent, and the few times he had stolen a glance outside, he'd seen tents and soldiers.
"Who is that?" he croaked.
"Your judge."
A burst of fierce hope rippled through him, but Helix kept his tongue. He must have protested his innocence a hundred times in the last week. He'd resolved not to say anything else until his trial. His calm was a mask, though; inside, he was terrified of being found guilty.
Impossible, he thought for the hundredth time. The holy judges were supposed to perform a special miracle, one that let them know a lie when they heard one. This is all just a misunderstanding. He'll know that I'm not lying. I just have to wait for the trial.
He swallowed his cheese, and said, "When?"
"The trial will be this afternoon. Father Elmoor will have the truth of it. It would be best for you to admit what you have done now, and ask forgiveness. If he learns that you protested your innocence, the punishment will be more severe."
I didn't do anything! he wanted to scream, but he refused to give the new Keeper the satisfaction. Instead, he gave him a vicious glare and bit off another mouthful of cheese.
"It will go easier for you, and your family."
Helix chewed, staring at the wagon's floor. The solicitations died off.
When Helix had finished eating, the cleric stepped to the cage again and slid a tiny cup of water through the bars, which Helix downed at once. It was cool and fresh, and gone far too soon. He set the cup down next to the bars and scooted away. The deacon took it and left.
This time Helix stole a look outside before the tent flap fell, but nothing he saw changed his situation. The light snowfall had almost completely melted away, and tethered horses and other tents still packed the field outside.
He stretched his stiff legs as best he could. The little wagon was too short for him to stand upright, but if he lay on his back he could nearly manage to stretch out fully. It felt good to work out the kinks in his legs, but it wasn't enough. If I don't get a chance to walk soon, my legs will shrivel up and fall off.
He spent the day rehearsing what he would say at the trial, forced to act on the assumption that the holy judge would be just. He didn't see any other option; if the man was like Marcus, unwilling or unable to see the truth, Helix was doomed anyway. But if he were fair and Helix assumed otherwise, he'd be stuck in a cell like this one for the rest of his life.
Or worse, he thought grimly. If Marcus had his way, he'd undoubtedly have Helix killed. The bishop hadn't touched him—a fact Helix was profoundly grateful for, after what Matthew had said about the Tribunal's methods—but he had badgered him constantly, demanded to know who his accomplice was and why he'd done it. He was convinced of Helix's guilt. Again and again, he'd rejected Helix's version of events.
Once, Helix had snapped. You came here to jail him anyway, he'd accused. Quit acting like you care who killed him. Marcus had scribbled this into a book as though capturing a confession.
The glow of the sun was favoring the tent's western side when the flap was finally lifted again. One of Marcus's Preservers flowed like a shadow into the canopy, followed by Marcus himself, his other Preserver, two soldiers, and a knight of Locklyn. Earlier, Helix had entertained the notion of attempting escape when his captors came for him. In an instant, any such delusions were broken.
The first Preserver unlocked the cage. He regarded Helix as a cat would a mouse, and opened the door.
"Step out," he said.
Helix slid his feet to the ground, testing to be sure his legs would take his weight. The muscles felt like baked mud suddenly exposed to rain, but he didn't falter.
The soldiers took his arms.
"Can you walk?" Marcus said.
"Depends on where we're going," Helix answered.
Marcus didn't smile. "See that he keeps up," he said to the soldiers. "He may have trouble on the hill." With that he and his Preservers left, and the soldiers fairly hauled him outside.
In the failing light, Helix could finally make out the full size of the camp. A motley collection of tents was strewn about the area behind the temple, with soldiers, initiates, and the odd knight dicing, fencing, or eating. The space had been a grassy slope a month before; now, the turf had been trampled down everywhere, and clots of mud littere
d the grass. The smell of horse manure clung to the air like a wet shirt.
The tent housing his jail wagon stood at the edge of the camp, just off the road. Helix guessed that position would make it easier to get moving again, rather than driving it through the beaten grass and lumpy earth to somewhere more secure. But it also means I'm close to the road—very close. Visions of escape burst in his mind like sunspots, but then the soldier on his right jerked him toward the hill, and the sudden, aching flare in his legs forced his attention to more immediate matters.
By the time they had climbed the hill and reached the temple, his legs felt like they were burning off. He struggled not to let the pain show on his face and forced his legs to bear his weight. He refused to be dragged to his own trial.
Several of the pews had been moved from the floor to make room for a table and some chairs, and a little desk rested on the altar for the judge. In the back some pews remained, and he saw Lyseira as he entered, wearing her finest Dawnday dress. She caught his eyes with her own, and he read a glimmer of surprise or shame there before she glanced away. Do I really look that bad? he thought ruefully, and then figured that he must; in the week since she had last seen him he hadn't shaved, bathed, or eaten a full meal once.
It wasn't until he was seated at the long table near the altar at the front of the room that he thought to wonder why she was there at all. His family wasn't present, though he had hoped they would be; nor were any of his other friends who might be able to vouch for him. He craned his neck to look around. Knights and soldiers ringed the room, each of them armed with a longsword, and a small huddle of junior clerics gathered in the pews along with a boy of roughly Helix's age that he didn't recognize, but the only friendly face he saw was Lyseira's.
Then the front door opened again, and Galen Wick entered. The Justicar wore a heavy, velvet-lined cloak over light leather armor festooned with the sigil of a tiger, as well as the five-pointed God's Star. He glanced around the room, then strode down the aisle between the remaining pews and approached Bishop Marcus.
Helix watched the Justicar as he passed by, his stomach twisting at the sight. Sir Wick's sword hung at his side, swaying easily as he walked. Rich, mahogany leather wrapped its hilt, and below that its cross guard was fashioned to look like twin angel wings, the symbol of the Justicars. A similar adornment had been mounted on the knight's helm, Helix remembered. When he'd entered Mellerson's inn, for a second they had looked like...
Demon's horns. Finally, the memory that had been tickling at his mind all week burst into his thoughts as if he were seeing it for the first time. It was the wings! his thoughts screamed. An image of the murderer above him, framed by the moon as his horse reared, flashed through Helix's mind in an instant comparison with Galen Wick coming through the door of the inn, the sun blazing past the wings of his helm and twisting them into horns as he entered the dark interior. He was the only Justicar in the village. It was him! It had to be him!
He leapt to his feet and screamed, "Marcus!" He shot a finger at the Justicar, who whirled toward him. "It was him!" Helix yelled, his heart racing. "It was—"
He didn't even see the bishop's Preserver move. In an instant the man had grabbed Helix's outstretched arm and twisted it behind his back; at the same time, he flashed a sharp kick into one of Helix's aching legs. He felt a burst of pain from his tailbone as he collapsed back into his chair. The fall twisted his arm up behind him, and he gave a wounded shout. When the man released his arm, Helix clutched at his elbow, wincing as he tried to keep the pressure off his shoulder.
A gravelly voice cut through the din.
"What is this?" Father Elmoor demanded. He stood in the door to the Keeper's study, behind the altar. The bishop was an older man, his thin, grey hair receding from his forehead like a low tide. His eyes held a hint of indignation or disgust as they trained on Helix. "You will have your chance to speak, Helix Smith. Rest assured. And you, Seschar." He flicked his eyes toward Marcus's Preserver. "The boy has been caged for a week and has no weapon. I think there is no need to beat him." From the corner of his eye, Helix saw Bishop Marcus nod. In a heartbeat, the Preserver had returned to his bishop's side.
Judge Elmoor walked stiffly toward the table that had been assembled for him on the altar, and seated himself. His Preservers towered behind him like pillars of stone.
"We are gathered because of a man named Matthew Rentiss, a lost sheep of Akir's, who was murdered as he passed through Southlight just a week past. It is ever the hope of the Church to discern the truth in matters of justice, and that is why I'm here. Akir has blessed me with his gifts, and by his divine voice, as spoken by our Fatherlord, I have been granted the honor of presiding over such trials as this." He raised his left hand palm up, the sign to pray.
The pain in Helix's arm slowly subsided. The urge to hurl accusations at Galen Wick buzzed in his thoughts, but he forced himself to calm down. He had decided days ago that the best decision would be to speak his grievances during the trial, he reminded himself. He would be given a chance to speak. With a tremendous effort, he closed his eyes and lowered his chin.
Bishop Elmoor's prayer was in the First Tongue, as all ritual prayers were, and so Helix had no idea what he said. It was the longest prayer Helix had ever heard.
When it finally ended, Father Elmoor said, "Bishop Marcus, proceed."
"This need take little of your time, Father," Marcus said as he rose. "It is a simple matter, made simpler still by the words Akir has shared with me. First and most greatly, I have Communed with Akir regarding this matter, and He has spoken to me in certain terms, saying that the boy Helix Smith is guilty of this crime. His divine wisdom has granted me the knowledge that the act was premeditated, that Helix expected payment for his deeds, and that he did not act alone."
The words slammed into Helix like bricks, forcing him to his feet to defend himself. "Father, that's a lie!"
Again Marcus's Preservers' eyes snapped to him, but this time neither of the men moved. The soldier to Helix's right dropped his hand to his sword.
"Helix Smith!" Elmoor snapped. "I will tell you but one more time. You will not speak until I ask it of you! If you talk out of turn again, I shall make my decision without listening to your words at all!"
Helix swallowed and sat back down, his cheeks burning and his pulse racing. Sehk, he thought miserably. Shut up, Helix! You're going to get yourself killed!
Marcus had never looked away from the judge. When Elmoor nodded to him, he continued. "As you know, however, mortal minds are weak and may not be able to hear the voice of Akir accurately, and so I have determined other ways by which you may determine the boy's guilt as well.
"Firstly. I found him on the night of the murder in a stupor next to the corpse. He was covered in Matthew's blood and held a bloody sword in his hands, which he had no doubt used, moments earlier, to deliver the death blow to Matthew's chest. It is my belief that Helix had never killed before, and after having committed the deed was so aghast at the strength of his rev'naas that the force of it sent him into shock, leaving him too senseless to flee before being caught. I have seen this happen to many men in my years in the Tribunal, Father. When faced with the true magnitude of their own evils, most men are struck dumb."
Helix breathed deeply and looked away, forcing himself to stay calm. You'll get your chance, he told himself. Stay quiet.
"Secondly, the boy claims that a mysterious horseman murdered Matthew, and that he arrived only in time to witness the killing. He says this horse struck Matthew with its hooves, causing him to fall, and that it bore the murderer away after the deed. Yet when we examined Matthew's body there was no sign of the wounds a horse's flailing hooves would leave, nor, when we searched the earth behind Master Smith's house, did we find any sign of horses other than our own. Whether these fabrications are delusions Helix created to spare himself the misery of the truth, or simply outright lies, only you can determine. But clearly they are not the truth."
No tracks? No
wounds on the body? There had to be wounds on the body; Helix had seen the horse strike Matthew so hard the man had crumpled from the blow. That's impossible! he wanted to shout, but again, he clamped his teeth shut.
"Finally." Marcus gestured toward the rear of the room. "The girl in the back is named Lyseira Rulano. She has tended this temple for many years, and I understand that Abbot Forthin thought to recommend her for initiation before his death. She is well known and well trusted among the villagers here, and has known Helix Smith since they were both children. She came to me last night and told me of a plot she overheard between Helix and his accomplice, which she would like to share with your court."
A wave of vertigo crashed over Helix. No, he thought limply. Lyseira. As he heard the rustle of Lyseira rising to her feet, he felt paralyzed. He wanted to face her, but his muscles held no strength.
"Father," she said. He could hear the slightest hint of a tremble to her voice. Bitch, he thought impotently.
The holy judge nodded twice. "Proceed."
"I…" she began, then stopped. A sudden silence engulfed the room. Someone coughed.
"Say what you have to say, girl," the judge prompted again.
Something in her voice made Helix twist to look at her. She stood in the middle of the room, in the center aisle between the pews, her hands clasped. The pulse in her neck was so fierce he could see it. Lyseira...
"I heard no conversation," she said, and Bishop Marcus gestured immediately. Two soldiers, standing at either side of the main entryway, started up the aisle behind her. "Helix didn't kill Matthew and Marcus has been lying since he opened his mouth." Her eyes flashed. "I don't believe the Communing ever happened."
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