Mitrian found herself in the largest room she had ever seen. A man nearly her father’s age, with honey-colored curls that swept over his head and into a healthy beard sat on a leather-padded chair on a dais to her right. A semicircle of fourteen guards separated him from the others in the room. Directly in front of Mitrian, six men waited, dressed in the silver and black of Santagithi’s guardsmen and surrounded by Pudarian tower guards. She recognized all the prosecutors by name, and her presence did not go unnoticed either. Bartellon caught her gaze, said something softly to the others, and they turned as one to face her. Tense whispers traversed the group. To Mitrian’s left, unfamiliar, well-dressed men and women sat on benches.
The sentry led Mitrian and Arduwyn past Nantel’s men and over to stand before the king. She curtsied pleasantly as Arduwyn bowed. Then she saw Garn standing alone between two Pudarian guards. Mitrian gave him a reassuring smile before heading to the indicated bench in front of Garn and to King Gasir’s right.
The king raised a hand. Gold bracelets slid over muscled forearms and beneath his sleeve. His gesture silenced the room. “Zaran of Santagithi’s Town. You raise the complaint, so you speak first.”
The balding, round-faced guard replied from amidst his companions. He regarded the king directly as he spoke. “I was walking through town with our leader, Nantel, and four other soldiers. Nantel noticed his cloak pin missing. It’s a family heirloom, gold braid twisted into the shape of a swan.” He simulated the figure with his hands. “I glanced down the alley and saw Garn, here, holding it.” He inclined his head in Garn’s direction. “Now Garn’s a known thief in our town, and he’s already hunted for being an escaped slave and for viciously disabling and killing some of our guards.” Zaran’s gaze skimmed the Pudarian guardsmen, aware his final statement would likely whittle away at Garn’s base of support.
Zaran continued. “Someone yelled, ‘thief.’ Garn turned and attacked us. Nantel tried to stop him with an arrow, and Garn saved himself by sacrificing an innocent bystander. Then he charged us. I was the only one who survived.”
Mitrian’s hands balled into fists. Zaran’s story was lacking key points she wanted to correct, but she knew she would have to wait to be addressed. Though few disputes had been so severe as to require Santagithi’s judgment, he did have a courtroom. Mitrian had watched enough cases to have a grasp of procedure.
King Gasir barely stirred. “Do you have anything else to add, Zaran?”
There were nudges and whispers among Santagithi’s men. Zaran spoke up. “Only, sire, a reminder that Nantel was well-known to you and your people. He was honest, competent, and our leader’s confidante and second in command.”
“I thought you said third,” Arduwyn hissed in Mitrian’s ear.
Mitrian considered. Rache commanded more men than Nantel, but she could see where Nantel’s knowledge of strategy would make him a better leader. If her father had died, she suspected Rache would have turned down the general’s position. In reply to Arduwyn, she shrugged, doubting the exact number bore any significance to the case.
King Gasir turned his attention to Garn. “Would you like to speak in your behalf?”
“Yes, sire.” Garn executed a graceful bow, apparently having learned the proper amenities during his three weeks among the guard force. “Zaran’s story is mostly right.”
Arduwyn grimaced as if in great pain. “Firfan. The idiot’s going to convict himself.”
Arduwyn’s lapse spurred fear in Mitrian. Until now, confidence in the hunter’s mediating skills had kept her composed. Now, she huddled on the brink of hysteria. “You told him to just tell the truth,” she shot back.
“I assumed he had a normal survival instinct. Damn it, he needs to tell the story from his own side. He’s got legitimate arguments, but they aren’t going to sound right from anyone but him.”
“What are you saying?”
The king’s glare silenced Mitrian and Arduwyn.
Apparently oblivious to the exchange, Garn amended only one of the omissions and errors in Zaran’s description. “The bystander was a beggar, and he handed me the cloak pin.”
Silence followed as the entire courtroom, including Mitrian, waited for Garn to continue.
After a time, King Gasir cleared his throat. “Have you nothing more to say, Garn?”
Garn shook his head. “No, sire.”
Arduwyn knotted his hands in his lap, avoiding Mitrian’s stare.
Garn glanced around self-consciously.
“Where is the cloak pin now?” The king addressed no one in particular.
An inappropriately long pause ensued before one of the guards surrounding Garn replied. “I have it, sire.” He gave Garn an apologetic look. “We found it in Garn’s pocket.”
The king crooked a finger.
The guard who had spoken approached and dropped the trinket into King Gasir’s hand. He examined it from all sides before passing it to one of the sentries to his left. “Is this the missing object?”
The guard carried it to Nantel’s soldiers. They gathered around, bobbing their heads and murmuring assent. “That’s it,” Zaran confirmed at length.
King Gasir regarded Santagithi’s men and Garn in turn. With a shrug of contrite resignation, he addressed the soldiers. “What sentence are you seeking?”
Zaran did not falter, despite the harshness of his words. “Considering the seriousness of the crime, the confessed murder of a visiting diplomat as well as an innocent Pudarian citizen, we believe Garn’s execution is not too much to ask.”
Whispers rumbled through King Gasir’s courtroom. Sharp pain speared through Mitrian’s chest, and she felt suffocated, fighting for each breath. She latched onto Arduwyn’s arm so tightly her nails bit into flesh.
Arduwyn gasped in pain, the sound lost in the swell of speculative whispers.
With no trace of emotion in his voice, the King asked, “Is there anyone in this courtroom who can give evidence that this sentence should not be carried out?”
Mitrian’s scream and Arduwyn’s calmer, “I can,” sounded simultaneously. All eyes whipped to the pair on the bench to the king’s left.
King Gasir’s expression remained unchanging, but his shoulders fell slightly, as if in relief. “Who would speak first?”
Arduwyn disengaged his arm from Mitrian’s fingers.
Flushing, Mitrian released Arduwyn, recognizing blood spots through his sleeve. Shocked by the violence of her grip, she withdrew to let him speak, using the time to gather her control.
Arduwyn stood. “My name is Arduwyn. I’ve been a citizen of Pudar for the last five years, making my living honestly as a hunter and selling for merchants in the marketplace. I have a wife and three children.” Having established himself as a stable citizen and therefore worth listening to, Arduwyn continued. “My objection is not to the punishment; the murder of a diplomat second in line of succession might well demand execution.”
Mitrian seized Arduwyn’s leg, not daring to believe what she was hearing.
Arduwyn ignored Mitrian’s hold. “But, for justice to be served, the execution must be granted to Nantel’s murderer.”
The background level of noise increased as conjecture about Garn’s fate turned to questions about Arduwyn’s sanity.
King Gasir leaned forward and to the right, as if to hear Arduwyn better. He looked more interested than perplexed. “Are you trying to say Garn didn’t kill Nantel?”
“Honored sire, did you at any time during the testimony hear either party actually say that Garn killed Nantel?”
The response to this question was a general silence as every person in the room tried to relive the statements. The hunter refreshed their memories. “Zaran simply claimed he was the only survivor. Garn did not bother to contradict him. No one actually lied. Zaran’s motivation confuses me. Garn’s, I understand. Wouldn’t any good husband spare his wife’s life in exchange for his own?” Arduwyn offered a hand to Mitrian. “This woman killed Nantel. For that, the court
has already decided she should be executed.”
Stunned, Mitrian stared at Arduwyn’s hand without taking it.
The courtroom erupted in a wave of excited chatter that even the king’s raised hands could not stop. It was not until those guards nearest the king bared weapons that the room settled back into a tense near-silence.
King Gasir addressed Zaran. “Is this true? Did this woman kill Nantel?”
“Yes, sir,” Zaran mumbled, falling back into Santagithi’s convention in his discomfort. At a nudge from one of his companions, he corrected his error. “Sire. But. . . .”
The king did not allow Zaran to finish before confronting Garn.
Garn did not speak. He answered by lowering his head in acquiescence.
“So be it.” King Gasir spoke with routine confidence, but the grin Arduwyn hid behind his hand cued Mitrian that there was a game going on beneath the obvious pronouncement. “Garn’s wife killed Nantel. Garn killed a bystander and some of the men under Nantel’s command. Those crimes seem nearly equal. I sentence them both to be executed on. . . .”
“Wait!” Quillinar, the burliest of Santagithi’s guards shouted. His deep bass resonated throughout the court. More fighter than arbitrator, he abandoned formality. “You can’t kill Mitrian.”
His companions made exaggerated nods of agreement.
“Are you saying you’d like to change your sentence?”
“Yes, sire,” Quillinar and Bartellon chorused together.
“On what grounds?”
Bartellon took over the negotiations. “Sire, if you please. On the grounds that the sentence of a slave can’t be applied to a noble lady.”
Still condemned to death, along with Garn, Mitrian found the subtleties of the courtroom too difficult for her. “What’s going on?” she whispered to Arduwyn. “Am I going to die?”
Arduwyn sat in order to discuss the situation in confidence. “The king was in a bad situation. As it stood, the evidence would have forced him to condemn one of his guards to death in front of the others. Not good for morale or loyalty. I gave him a way out. I guessed from your friendship with Nantel that his fellows wouldn’t let you be killed. Apparently, King Gasir trusted my judgment. I think, I hope, he’s playing along.”
King Gasir’s cheeks darkened, and his expression hardened to indignation. “We have no slaves in Pudar. To us, Garn is a guard and Mitrian a citizen. Their stature is the same, their crimes similar. Therefore, they should be sentenced equally.”
Dangerously angry, Quillinar grabbed for the hilt of a sword that no longer graced his side. “This is madness.”
One of the huge man’s companions seized his arm, restrainingly.
Quillinar turned on his friend with a shove that sent him sprawling into the Pudarian guardsmen, and a hiss that threatened further violence. “This is a joke! Anyone who would compare a vicious, barbaric gladiator to Santagithi’s daughter answers to me.” He leapt into the crowd of guards before the dais.
Steel flashed as swords, spears, and axes formed a protective wall before King Gasir. Quillinar disappeared beneath a huddle of pounding fists and elbows. The circle of tan-clad sentries tightened around Santagithi’s guards.
Shortly, the knot of Pudarian guards separated to reveal Quillinar sagging between a pair of men, arms pinioned behind him.
“Take him out until he calms down,” the king instructed. As his guards obeyed, he turned his attention to Mitrian. “You’re Santagithi’s daughter?”
Mitrian nodded, too dazed to bother with amenities.
Arduwyn stared, mouth open but uncharacteristically silent.
“Then,” the king continued. “Why are you letting these soldiers speak for you? You’re the highest ranking official present from your town. Do you feel in a position to make a just sentencing?”
The suggestion startled Mitrian. Unlike most of the Westland towns, which were ruled by an aristocracy, Santagithi’s Town placed little emphasis on bloodlines. “Against me and Garn, sire?” Regardless of title, it seemed unrealistic to expect the accused to decide her own penalty impartially.
King Gasir nodded.
“I don’t know, sire,” Mitrian said honestly. She glanced at her father’s men, watching them fidget in discomfort and frustration. “But I’ll try.” To insist on no penalty would be blatantly unfair, and she knew it would serve Pudar, Nantel’s memory, and Santagithi better to at least seem just in her decision.
The room went still as Mitrian considered.
A long time passed. The court and its other occupants seemed to disappear around Mitrian while she reached deep inside her mind for an answer that would appease both sides. Nantel’s killing still ached within her. “I know my father. He would never condemn a man to death for winning a fair fight, no matter the cause. He knows, like most of you here, that the worst punishment a loyal guardsman can suffer is loss of his leader’s trust, his position, and his income. Therefore, I would sentence Garn to permanent dismissal from his duties as a Pudarian town guard.” Mitrian’s gaze strayed to Garn, who squirmed in helpless distress. “As to me, I’ll never serve Pudar as a soldier.” Mitrian choked out the last words. She knew the ruling was fair and necessary, yet, after years of dreaming about leading legions to war, it hurt to bar herself from one of the few armies that might have considered taking women.
Mitrian looked up. Only then did she notice the twisted expression of discomfort on the king’s ruddy features. He hitched long, straight fingers through the curls of his beard. “To me, that sentencing seems harsh, though I will accept it. If Nantel was nearly as fine a swordsman and captain as I’ve heard, the man and woman who bested Nantel and his men would make outstanding additions to any army. Santagithi knows the value of a good sword arm. At least, my acceptance of this judgment should demonstrate that Pudar has taken this unfortunate event with the seriousness it merits.”
Santagithi’s men said nothing. Four of them scowled. Zaran hid his face in his hands, and Bartellon looked stricken.
King Gasir directed his next question to the guardsmen in black and silver. “Do you have something more to say?”
“Quillinar, sire?” one reminded.
“Given the circumstances, I won’t press any charges for the disruption in my courtroom. He’ll be freed when this case is finished.”
“Sire?” Bartellon stepped forward, the repetitive tensing and loosening of the sinews of his upper arms the only clue to his nervousness and diplomatic inexperience. “Might I speak briefly with Mitrian?”
King Gasir made a lazy gesture toward the bench, but his guards did not move aside.
Bartellon’s gaze scurried about the courtroom. Then, accepting that he would not be permitted to talk in private, he called to Mitrian. “Your father loves you very much. He sent us to bring you home. I don’t know why you’re protecting Garn, but if it means that much to you, we’ll drop the case. Just come home. Please?”
Bartellon fell silent, and every head in the courtroom swung toward Mitrian. She licked her lips, unable to keep her thoughts from rushing into memory: the damp, fresh smell of spring in her town after a frigid winter; walking through woods crisp with autumn leaves of multiple hues while Santagithi told tales of the West and of his soldiers’ courage; her mother’s soft-spoken gentleness and concern over her only daughter’s every discomfort. Her thoughts turned to Rache, his sword skill as constant and elemental as the seasons, his golden grace and beauty so riveting she never tired of watching him. And thoughts of Nantel followed naturally, his gruff exterior hiding a kindness and loyalty Santagithi had recognized long before his men had.
Tears brimmed in Mitrian’s eyes. Her gaze found Garn, a shifting blur of tan ringed by tan. She did not need to see him clearly to know what he was. “Thank you, Bartellon,” she said in a coarse voice she hardly recognized as her own. “I know my parents love me, and I love them. I love my people. I loved Nantel.” She caught herself before she added Rache. She knew her coupling with Garn would deeply scar Rache
, the only man who had encouraged her hopes and dreams to the point of defying her father. To lump Rache’s name in with the others would belittle an apology that could only be properly spoken in person, but to add any special messages for Rache would enrage Garn. Wisely, she chose to avoid the subject. “But Garn is my husband, and the father of my child. I love him, too. Tell my father that Nantel’s death was an accident I wish I could undo. But until he and his men learn to treat Garn with the respect he deserves, I can’t go home.”
Arduwyn clasped Mitrian’s hand, a gesture that seemed as much aimed at stopping her before she further angered Garn as to congratulate her for a case well-handled.
“Adjourned.” King Gasir dismissed Santagithi’s men.
As Bartellon and the others filed from the courtroom, Arduwyn faced Mitrian directly. “Nicely done. Though I could have helped more, quicker, and with less worrying had I known you were a princess. When you said Nantel held the third highest rank, did you place yourself second?”
Mitrian shook her head. “First, I’m not a princess, just a general’s daughter. And, no, I didn’t place myself second. Nantel was the captain of archers. Officially, I believe the guard captain, Rache, would be first in succession after my father.”
“Rache?” Arduwyn repeated. A look of shock quickly muted to understanding.
Intrigued, Mitrian wiped away tears, her grief restrained a while longer. “You’ve heard of Rache?”
Arduwyn nodded. “But I’m sworn not to tell.”
Mitrian tightened her grip on Arduwyn. “If you know something about Rache, you have to tell me. It’s more important than you know.”
Arduwyn snorted at the understatement. “Nothing is more important than not violating the confidence of a Renshai. I’m sorry, Mit. I doubt you’re capable of imagining punishments beyond what Colbey could inflict if he ever learned I broke a promise to him.”
Mitrian frowned. “But why would Colbey . . . ?”
Arduwyn cut in, pressing a finger to Mitrian’s lips to silence her. “Please. You know I can’t answer that. Just trust me that Colbey and I have Rache’s best interests in mind.”
The Last of the Renshai Page 53