“How?” Sharryn said.
“It is the first spell every physician learns after his Talent manifests itself, Seer,” Petros said. “Blood is the foundation of life. The health of the blood is the health of its owner. Every diagnosis begins with the blood spell.”
“Have you examined the body of the child?” Crow asked.
“Sword, I have.”
“And the cause of death?”
“A blow to the head by a small object, struck hard enough to cause a significant impression on the skull.” Petros’s mouth was a straight line. He took no joy in the tale, and Crow liked him the better for it. “I shaved the skull and found something imprinted in the skin over the broken bone by the force of the bone. I traced it, here.” He held up a translucent piece of parchment, and they saw the unmistakable outline of the small, fierce hawk on Naiche’s seal.
“Naiche must be allowed to speak to the charges laid against her,” Sharryn said.
“It is not our way,” the count said.
“A woman to speak in open court,” his son said. “Impossible. Father, the people will not stand for it!”
“You mean the men won’t,” Sharryn said.
An ugly look crossed his face, and he half raised his hand. Crow stepped between them, her back to the Seer. She was a little taller than Kerel. He didn’t like it. His sneer deepened, and Crow felt something building in the air around him, pressing against her spirit, something dark and spiteful and menacing. She gave Kerel a thoughtful look. It was something very like what she had sensed during the attack on the road to Ydra.
“If you must speak with Naiche, you must,” the count said in a mild voice, and the feeling vanished as Kerel gaped at his father. “Kalliope is a full signatory to the Great Charter and the Treaty of the Nine. We are bound by those accords.”
“Father!”
Moris continued as if his son had not spoken. “I will have the court cleared, however. Whatever she has done, my daughter shall not be so shamed in public.”
You mean you won’t, Sharryn said, but only so Crow could hear her.
The hall was cleared but for Sword, Seer, Count Moris, Viscount Kerel, Sergeus, Petros, and the bailiff, and somehow the Bard had managed to remain behind as well.
Sharryn was incredulous. He wants to sing about this?
It’s what he does, Crow said. He bears witness to the tale, then he tells the tale everywhere he travels, so that all of Mnemosynea may bear witness through his songs. Loukas knew what he was about when he created the King’s Singers.
Sharryn sighed. I suppose an eyewitness account is better than a wild rumor.
Naiche appeared promptly, attired in the same simple black dress. On the surface she was very calm, too much so for one on trial for her very life.
Crow came directly to the point. “Naiche, daughter of Moris, Viscountess of Kalliope, you are called to answer for the murder of the infant, your brother’s son, your own nephew. How do you plead?”
Naiche looked at Count Moris. “Father?” she said. He would not meet her eyes. “Father, please?”
There was no response. Sharryn shifted in her chair.
Naiche turned to face them, her face flooded with color. She started to speak, failed, tried again. At last she gathered what appeared to be every scrap of courage she had, and said in a voice that started small, “I am innocent of this crime. I did not kill the babe! I am innocent!” The last sentence came out with a force and passion that startled everyone, even the speaker. “I am innocent of this most foul crime,” Naiche said more calmly. “Aside from every other consideration, I am Kalliopean. I could not raise my hand in anger to a babe, but most especially I could not raise my hand in anger to the heir to the stewardship of Kalliope.”
“Step forward,” Sharryn said crisply.
Numbly, Naiche did so.
“Place your hand upon the staff.”
Naiche’s eyes widened, but she did as she was told, one shrinking hand laid against the silver-chased Staff.
“Again, Naiche, daughter of Moris, lady of Kalliope. Did you kill your brother’s son?”
Naiche closed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath. “May Freya attest to my honor! I did not kill the babe!”
There was a charged silence. Nothing happened. The Staff did not wax wroth at a lie spoken in its presence.
She’s telling the truth.
Don’t sound so surprised.
There is something, though, Sharryn said, something she’s more afraid of than being found guilty of murder. Aloud, Sharryn said, “Where were you the night of the Festival of Freya?”
Naiche started, flushing crimson, but Sharryn was inexorable. “Where were you on the night of the Festival of Freya?”
“I—I—”
“Come, come,” Sharryn said impatiently, “you were with someone, the rituals of the Festival of Freya are well-known across Mnemosynea. Do you not understand yet, daughter of Moris, that whoever you were with, provided you were with him long enough, he is the one man who can corroborate your testimony and clear your name?”
Naiche shook her head. “I cannot, Seer. I must not!”
Sharryn leaned forward, and said fiercely, “And I say you must!” The Staff gave off a faint glow. “Speak!”
Naiche tugged frantically at her hand, but the Staff had caught it fast. The sweat beaded her brow and the pain drove her to her knees but she did not cry out, and still she would not speak.
The count looked on, impassive. Kerel looked on, gleeful. He was enjoying this, and again Crow felt that stirring of some unnamed force, growing ever stronger, as if magick invoked in its presence fed on it.
“Stop!” Sergeus said. “Stop this now!”
Surprised, everyone looked at him, with the exception of Crow, who happened to be looking at the count. The count was regarding his shoes with an impenetrable expression. Her gaze traveled to the count’s son and heir, who, as Sergeus spoke, looked in turn astonished, revolted and, finally, enraged.
Uncaring of anything his betters might or might not be feeling, Sergeus strode forward and raised Naiche to her feet. He glared at Sharryn.
Well?
Let’s see where this goes, Crow said.
Sharryn shook Naiche’s hand free of the Staff and bent a stern look on Sergeus. “You have something to add to your testimony?”
“The lady was with me that night,” Sergeus said flatly.
The viscountess stood erect next to him, head high, not looking at her father or her brother.
“For how long?” Sharryn said.
“The whole night,” Sergeus said. “I went to her chambers after the feast, just as the bell sounded the first exchange of favors. She met me there within five minutes. I didn’t leave her until dawn.”
“Is this true?” Sharryn said to Naiche.
The viscountess, still with her head carefully turned away from her father and brother, said, “Seer, it is.”
What’s all the fuss about? Sharryn said. The Festival of Freya was specifically engineered by Ophean to mix up the Kalliopean gene pool, to try to up the birth rate and increase the viable births.
I get the feeling the plan wasn’t meant to include royalty mixing in with the common clay. Kerel is very unhappy about it. Moris is either better at hiding his outrage, or he doesn’t feel any. Sharryn, we haven’t asked the question. Who benefits from the murder of the child?
Sharryn cast Crow a quick, startled glance. No one that I can see.
Nor I, and that’s the problem. What would Naiche gain? It’s not as if she would become heir after Kerel, not in Kalliope. She had no reason to kill the babe.
Then who did?
Out loud, Crow said, “The Sword summons Moris Naupactus, Count of Kalliope, to testify in this matter.”
What! Crow, what in the name of the nine gods do you think are you doing?
“Lord,” Crow said into the shocked silence that had fallen over the room, “come forward and place your hand upon the Staff.”
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“What do you mean by this!” Naiche said. “Surely you do not suspect my father!”
Kerel said hotly, “Father, do not! This is some witch’s trick!”
Crow met the count’s eyes. She and Sharryn between them could compel Moris to testify, and he knew it.
“Lord,” Sergeus said, and was stopped by one raised hand. The count stepped forward to stand before the dais and without hesitation placed his hand upon the Staff. He met Crow’s eyes without fear. “Ask your questions.”
But it was Sharryn who spoke first. “Was the babe healthy?”
The count looked at first startled at the question, then reddened with understanding. “Seer, he was,” he said curtly.
“No physical imperfections?”
“None.”
He’s lying, Sharryn said.
I don’t think so. “Did you murder your grandson?” Crow said baldly.
There was a collective intake of breath around the room, not excluding Sharryn. “No, Sword, I did not,” the count said.
The Staff remained quiescent. Truth, Sharryn said, sounding relieved. Finding the hereditary ruler of one of the nine provinces guilty of infanticide might be a little more justice than even King Loukas the Just had bargained for.
The count looked only at Crow, however, and in his eyes she fancied she saw a plea. “Tell me about your grandson, lord,” she said softly.
There was a brief, charged silence. “He was a babe,” the count said at last, heavily. “Handsome, healthy, cheerful. Innocent, as yet unformed as to character.”
Crow said, “Whereas your son, his father, was not?”
What? Sharryn said.
Kerel hissed. “Insolent bitch! Who are you mongrel Hestians to call the rulers of Kalliope to account for any action!”
“What has your son done to displease you, lord?” Crow said without looking at Kerel, though she could feel the Summoning, and when Sharryn tensed next to her, knew she had felt it, too. Once felt, two years before, at the burning of Nyssa, the last, most powerful, and most vengeful of the Dark Wizards, it could not be mistaken for anything else. Sword and Staff responded as if to a call to arms, and Crow took a firmer grasp on the hilt, which had begun to vibrate within her grasp.
For the first time, Moris looked Kerel full in the face. “Sword. Kerel, son of Moris, Viscount of Kalliope, has been practicing the dark magicks.”
Crow looked at Naiche, who looked agonized but unsurprised.
She knew, Sharryn said.
They all knew, Crow said, looking from Naiche to Moris to Sergeus, the court physician, the bailiff. The Bard was the only one who appeared surprised. Aloud she said, “The study of dark magicks has been outlawed since the signing of the Great Charter by the Nine.”
“Sword, it has,” Moris said.
The Summoning gathered in strength, amassing like an invisible black cloud around the count’s son and heir.
“When did you discover your son was practicing the dark arts?”
“Sword, I—had suspected for some years. Things happened around him. Accidents at first, small injuries to people who challenged him or disagreed with him. His nurse fell ill. One of his tutors suddenly lost his Talent and was dismissed. Then a boy who defeated him at sword practice died. A rival suitor was maimed horribly in a fire. And there were other incidents. Just before the babe was born, I confronted him with the knowledge. He didn’t deny it.” The count looked again at Kerel then, and away again, as if he couldn’t bear the sight of his own son. “He didn’t deny it.”
Oh, Sharryn said. I had thought the child was deformed, and had thus been destroyed according to Kalliopean custom. But that wasn’t it at all, was it? “You decided to disinherit him,” she said out loud. “When your grandson was born, you had an alternate heir, and you were going to disinherit Kerel in favor of the child.”
The count’s chin lifted. “I had no choice,” he said bleakly. “I knew that Kerel’s taste for black magicks would be found out sooner or later and that Kalliope would suffer as a result. Loukas has been very clear on that. I had to act for the good of the province.”
“But you made the mistake of telling Kerel what you were going to do,” Sharryn said.
Crow looked at Kerel. “And Kerel killed his own child.”
In one swift smooth movement that Crow recognized from the encounter on the road to Ydra, Kerel pulled his sword, its length lit with a red glow. “Yes!” he cried, “I killed him! I threw him from the edge of the cliff with mine own hands! And with that death my Summoning of the dark power was complete! No one can defeat me now!”
“You are wrong,” Crow said, and she leapt from the dais to confront him, Sword raised. The two blades crashed together with a crackle of power that rang off the stone walls.
They fought the length of the Grand Hall, Kerel at first very much on the attack. Crow let him beat her back, watching for an opening. He didn’t offer many. She dropped her guard once and received a cut on her sword arm to remind her to be more careful, and after that she was.
They both had the Talent for making war. He had more muscle and a longer reach, but she had far more experience, and she fought a delaying action, exerting every skill she had with wit and guile, making him work for every lunge and thrust.
After what seemed like hours but what Sharryn told her later was less than fifteen minutes, Kerel was sweating and exhausted. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet to drop to one knee and left himself wide open. Crow gripped the Sword in both hands, turned on a graceful half step, and swung the blade in an arc to deliver the coup de grâce.
Kerel, enervated, defenseless, screamed. “Father! Father, help me!”
Moris did not move.
Crowfoot was the Sword, and the Sword was Crowfoot, and with one will they came around in a sweeping arc. But as the edge touched the skin on Kerel’s neck, it froze in place, reverberating all the way up Crow’s body.
She felt the words bubble up into her throat and opened her mouth to let them out before they choked her. “Let the Sword sing!”
The silver runes on the blade of the Sword glowed with a piercing light. “Lord,” Crow said, “call your court back!”
The blade of the Sword made a tiny cut in Kerel’s skin, and blood trickled into his collar as the room filled again with an awe-struck crowd, silenced by the display of the magick that bound the provinces together, wielded by the instrument of king and mage.
Sharryn, her voice cold, clear, and commanding, spoke. “In the matter before the sitting of this Assideres—”
The Sword’s hum became audible to all.
“—in the city of Ydra this third New Year in the reign of King Loukas the Just, I, Sharryn the Seer, find Kerel, Viscount of Kalliope, guilty of the wanton murder of his own son, by words out of his own mouth, and in trial by battle.” She paused, waiting for the cries of astonishment and fear to die down. “Let the Sword of Justice render judgment!”
The Sword raised its voice, a clear, cold call that could not be denied.
Kerel tried to jerk back from its edge, only widening the cut on his throat. “No! Keep it away from me! Father, Naiche, help me!”
The Sword rose in Crow’s hands, held before her as an ensign of her command, as an emblem of the King’s Justice newly wrought upon a war-torn, weary land. The blade brightened to a silver that seemed almost transparent, the blue sapphire on the hilt as bright with right and rage. The court of Kalliope cried out and cowered before its might.
When Crowfoot spoke, her voice was as cold as Sharryn’s and as clear as the song of the sword. “In the name of the Great Charter of Mnemosynea and the Treaty of the Nine, by the power vested in me by king and mage, let justice be done!”
And then something odd happened, something Crowfoot the Sword did not know could happen, a power manifesting itself in her and through the Sword that until that moment she had not known existed. “The Sword speaks,” she said, her voice a deep, resonant roll of sound clearly audible to everyone in
Ydra Keep whether they were in the room or not. “Draw near and heed the word of the Sword of Justice.”
She felt rather than saw Sharryn come to stand beside her, the Staff brought to stand next to the Sword.
“Let it be known that the Sword names Naiche, Viscountess of Kalliope, as the true heir of Kalliope. Kerel, son of Moris, is heir no more. He is stripped of Talent and wears the brand of the Sword, so that all who look upon him for the rest of his life shall know him for the murderer that he is.”
Kerel screamed again, the miniature brand of the Sword etching itself upon on his forehead as Crow spoke the words. The Sword released him, and he fell back to the floor, sobbing. He clawed at his forehead, tearing at the skin, but the sign of the Sword shone clear and merciless through the blood.
“Further,” Crow said, “it is the Sword’s judgment that from henceforward, all men of the province of Kalliope shall wear upon their foreheads the brand of the Staff of Truth.”
There were screams and a frantic scrambling among the men present, but there was no escaping the unbending justice of the Sword. “By this brand shall the men of Kalliope be known among all other men of the nine provinces, for a generation to come.”
The men of Kalliope looked at one another, incredulous, each raising his hand to touch the miniature Staff as it was carved into his forehead.
“If, at the end of that generation, all men of Kalliope have served the heir to Kalliope wholeheartedly and well, the mark of the Staff will disappear.”
Crow’s voice deepened. “If the Lady Naiche, viscountess and heir to the throne of Kalliope, is for any reason unable to fill out her allotted span, no Kalliopean man will ever father another child on a Kalliopean woman.
“And the mark of the Staff will be worn by every generation of Kalliopean men, down through the history of recorded time.
Unusual Suspects: Stories of Mystery & Fantasy Page 26