“It is precisely his trip to the glade, and the destruction he caused to the altar,” Ghelvon said, raising his voice above the din, “for which we are convened here today, his advancement, as you name it, has to be first approved by the mekala, so we will proceed as a council.”
“Wouldn’t it be wiser,” Avril noted, “to proceed as if he were a full kailu, that way there could be no doubts raised later on as to his status?”
The question hung in the silence for a moment before Ghelvon replied. He looked to those seated around him, ignoring Avril; the other three kailum at the table each shook his or her head.
“Let it be noted by those assembled and written in the record that, by a three to one vote, the council has decided to try Klaybear as an apprentice, since his advancement has not been confirmed by the Assembly.” He paused, looking around the hall; he then looked down at Klaybear. “Klaybear, apprentice,” he emphasized the word, “of the Headmaster, you are accused of high treason for your wanton destruction of the sacred altar in our secret glade. Do you understand the charge against you?”
Klaybear nodded curtly, his stomach twisting and writhing inside, making him feel sick.
“What was that? I did not hear what you said; you’ll have to speak louder,” Ghelvon said. Myron and Avril exchanged a worried glance.
“Yes, I understand,” Klaybear choked out, and in that moment he hated the Master of Arms.
“What is your plea? And before you answer,” Ghelvon went on, “an admission of guilt at this stage might move the council to leniency, stripping you of all powers, and exile rather than death.”
Klaybear swallowed hard before answering, trying to hold the nausea at bay. “I did not destroy the altar; I am not guilty of high treason,” he stated, voice still quavering.
“I submit to the council that the charges against my apprentice be dropped,” Myron said.
“On what grounds?” Mistress Storga Keney asked; the Mistress of Novices was thin, her face hawk-like, and her hair turning gray from its normal black.
“On two grounds,” Myron replied. “First, that Gar is responsible for damaging both the altar and my apprentice; second, that the altar has repaired itself of the damage.”
“What?” asked the three other council members, each looking surprised.
“Nonsense,” Ghelvon said. “As I told all of you, I was there the morning after this apprentice was there and the altar lay in ruins.”
“We were there early the same afternoon,” Avril said, pointing to Myron, “and the altar had nearly repaired itself.”
“Altars don’t repair themselves,” Ghelvon remarked. “This is a desperate ploy by the headmaster to save his apprentice; look here,” he finished, and lifted his staff, now glowing with red light, and drew a small circle of fire on the desk. When the circle was complete, he lifted the staff from the table, drawing an arch in the air over the circle, touching the staff to the opposite side of the circle. The lines of red fire were replaced by a black shimmering that became a three-dimensional picture of the secret glade, looking at the ruined altar. Sweat poured down Ghelvon’s face.
A sharp intake of collective breath followed Ghelvon’s action, then mumbling filled the hall. One of the council members, Master Wegex Deruney, spoke the question filling the room. “How did you do that?” The Master of Novices was spouse to Mistress Storga; a shock of gray hair stood straight up from the top of his head, and he wore a perpetual grimace on his bony face.
Ghelvon feigned surprise. “Can’t everyone do this?”
Myron and Avril exchanged worried glances.
“When did you learn this?” Master Ghreis Prokarts asked. The Master of Soldiers was a short, blocky, brick-like wethi with brown hair that hung straight to his shoulders.
“Why didn’t you share it with us?” Mistress Storga asked.
Before Ghelvon could answer, Klaybear heard a sound and turned his head to see a figure, shining golden in the dimness of the hall, step out of the seats and onto the floor. Blakstar pulled his sword from its sheath and spoke. “Only special artifacts are capable of doing this action. My sword, the sword of Sir Karble, can open such a window, with much more ease than Master Ghelvon, for I will show you a true vision of the glade, as it is now, rather than his illusion.”
Everyone on the floor and at the council table were surprised by the sudden appearance of the kortexi. Klaybear turned toward Blakstar, and all watched in stunned silence as he mirrored the actions of Ghelvon with the point of his sword: his lines were of golden fire, his circle much larger, and his arch large enough for four abreast to enter. Like a bird flying out of the window, the scene in Blakstar’s arch, appearing out of the gray shimmering, soared out of a window and circled the school, all there seeing the sun just above the horizon to the west, precisely where it was out of the high, west windows. The view flew off toward the north, following the route every kailu took to go to the glade, through the woods, near the waterfall, entering the narrow cleft, pausing to open the door into the glade with a clear view of the altar, looking as it had always looked in the memory of every kailu assembled in the hall. Klaybear wondered how Blakstar had passed through the door without a kailu symbol, but no one else noticed or mentioned this anomaly.
“Can you turn the view around,” Myron asked, “so we can see the entire glade?”
“I think so,” the kortexi of Karble replied.
The scene inside the arch jerked once, then turned smoothly around, showing the glade as everyone assembled who had entered the secret place remembered: the tall ancient trees, the clear running stream, the stone shaped roughly like a chair, with the pile of broken stones next to it. The view returned to the altar, then moved as if they walked around the altar.
“Can you show us the surface of the altar?” Myron asked.
The kortexi nodded; the view moved up to look down upon the altar. Klaybear gasped as all saw that the surface of the altar was as it had always been, free from any mark. A sharp intake of breath followed; whispering echoed around the hall.
“You can see the symbol has now been completely erased,” Myron noted.
“How is this possible?” Mistress Storga asked, repeating Master Wegex’s question.
“Thank you, Sir Blakstar,” Myron nodded.
The kortexi lifted his sword, the view winked out, the golden light surrounding the blade and pommel of the sword winked out, and he slid his sword back into its scabbard; the steely sound hissed around the chamber.
“Sir Blakstar,” Myron went on, “would you hold up the container of the Waters of Life, so that the council can see the symbol?”
Blakstar detached the container from his belt and held it up for the council to see.
“Now turn around,” Myron added, “so that all those assembled can see.”
The kortexi did as asked, holding up the container and turning in a circle; a few surprised gasps were heard. He stopped in front of the council, moving closer so each could get a better look. Ghelvon barely glanced at it; Avril and Myron both watched Ghelvon. Mistress Storga asked if she could handle it. Blakstar moved back to where she sat and handed her the container. She took it, examining it closely. She removed the stopper, took a drop from the end of the stopper with one finger, and touched it to her tongue. She frowned.
“He is Sir Blakstar eli kerdu ghebi,” Myron spoke in a loud voice, “recently raised kortexi bearing the equipment, devices, and sword of the first kortexi, Sir Karble.”
Someone at the table snorted. “How do you know this?” Master Ghreis asked.
“I have heard his story,” Myron replied, “and recognize his devices.”
“An easy forgery,” Ghelvon said, “anyone could have equipment made with the devices of Sir Karble.”
Three council members nodded agreement, but Avril snorted.
“Have you lost all your sense?” Avril asked incredulously. “No kortexi would stoop to such a fraud–he would be torn apart by his order for such presumption!”
“There are two here,” Myron answered, “who could not be cured by our arts, yet both were healed, almost instantly, by drinking the Waters of Life carried by Sir Blakstar.”
Master Deruney frowned. “Can we see them and question them?”
Myron turned to where Blakstar had been sitting. “Delgart, Marilee, could you step forward for the council to question you, please?”
Delgart and Marilee got up and stepped into the center of the hall, the ruined halves of their faces away from each other and still covered with bandages.
“Why are they bandaged?” Storga asked.
“Please remove your bandages,” Myron said.
Reluctantly, both unwound the bandages covering their faces. Gasps and whispers circled around them from the benches filling the room.
Ghelvon smiled. “Healed, you said,” and he laughed. “What happened to their faces? Why are they bandaged?” he asked, now grinning like a fiend.
Myron shot a glance at Avril, who raised an eyebrow. “That is all that remains of the illness with which they were both afflicted: Marilee before she came here, Delgart sometime during the first night after I brought him here,” Myron noted.
“Wait,” Storga interrupted, “are you saying he was inflicted with this illness that we could not cure after he entered the infirmary?”
“When I retrieved him from Kalamar, he was only wounded by a splinter of oar that pierced his side and back, just above the hip. Sometime after his wounds were dressed last evening, he was afflicted with the same illness that has left them both marked as they are, in spite of the Waters of Life.”
“Yes,” Ghreis began, “and I recall that the Waters of Life are supposed to cure all illnesses; and yet, as we can all see, these two have not been completely healed. This fact plainly casts doubt upon your claim that the devices of this kortexi are genuine.”
“Further,” Storga added, “what you are implying, Headmaster, is that someone in the infirmary inflicted this wethi with the illness; no one else would have been permitted in the infirmary during the night.”
“That seems to be a logical conclusion,” Avril agreed.
Ghelvon banged his staff on the floor to silence the mumbling whispers filling the hall. “This line of thinking is irrelevant to the matter at hand. We should table this question until after that matter of Myron’s apprentice is decided.”
“On the contrary,” Myron disagreed, “it is at the very heart of the accusations raised against Klaybear. Sir Blakstar has presented evidence that the altar has repaired itself, and so the accusations are unfounded. If you wish to test the Waters, then bring one of the injured here from the Infirmary and try them.”
“No, Myron,” Ghelvon said, “your apprentice is accused of destroying the altar and marking it with the sign of evil. I saw the altar destroyed. Whether or not it has repaired itself, as you claim, is irrelevant to the charge against him; he is accused of treason for destroying and defacing the altar, which would have been repaired anyway. Therefore, I move that this line of questioning and the evidence presented by this kortexi and these two people,” he pointed first to Blakstar, then Delgart and Marilee, “be tabled and removed from the present trial.” He looked to each council member and saw three nods and one shake. He banged his staff on the floor again. “Motion carried by a three to one vote.” He looked at Blakstar, Delgart, and Marilee. “You three will return to your seats.”
Klaybear noticed that anger flashed across Blakstar’s face, and Delgart placed one hand on the kortexi’s arm; Ghelvon grinned at them maliciously, almost challenging them to act. They turned away and moved back to their places. Klaybear turned back to face the council, the knot in his stomach so tight it made him grimace. Ghelvon moved from behind the council table to stand facing Klaybear. “The proof of this apprentice’s turn to evil is plain for all to see,” he pointed to the mark burned into Klaybear’s forehead, “and to show you just how far he has sunk into evil, observe.” As Ghelvon reached his hand forward to touch Klaybear’s forehead, Klaybear thought that he saw something in Ghelvon’s eyes, the hint of red light behind his brown eyes, but before he could recall where he had seen red light flash behind someone’s eyes, Ghelvon’s pointing finger touched the mark on his forehead; fire exploded inside his head, filling his head with pain and chasing all thought from his mind. From a distance, he heard himself cry out in anguish; images crashed through his head, repeating flashes of the vision he had seen, repeating chaotically amidst the flashes of fire and pain, except that this time, one image repeated and floated to the surface: the shadowy hand reaching toward his forehead juxtaposed over the image of Ghelvon in the present, reaching for and touching his forehead, shadow flipping to color flipping to shadow, the hint of red flashing behind eyes, and a voice coming from a distance, echoing the words he had heard when the mark was first burned into his head and hand: Now your waking will be little better than the nightmare of your sleeping. Awake, the sign will mark your separation from those whom you would save. Asleep, the sign will open visions of your future, and the horror of your visions will leave you sleepless. Then, perhaps, you will truly taste the bitterness of being chosen. Fire and pain, shadow and color, flashing red eyes and echoing words, nightmare and reality, shadow hand and Ghelvon’s hand withdrawing, pain and fire subsiding to a dull throbbing in his forehead; he could see the glow of his forehead in Ghelvon’s eyes, staring at him triumphantly. External sounds penetrated his pounding head: Ghelvon was again speaking.
“You see,” Ghelvon said, “he cannot endure the touch of good!”
Klaybear felt his right wrist grabbed roughly, his arm raised into the air; fire burned in his palm when Ghelvon pointed to and touched the mark burned there. Again, he was hurled into the maelstrom of his vision, the shadowy hand touching his hand and flipping to Ghelvon touching his hand, the echoing words and the flashing red eyes. Ghelvon’s hand withdrew and the pain in his hand subsided to a throb. Before Klaybear could regain control of his thoughts, Ghelvon pressed the right hand he held onto Klaybear’s forehead, bringing the two marks into contact with each other; fire and pain, greater than before, exploded inside his head, hurling him back into the mental gyre of his visions. From a distance, Klaybear heard himself howling, felt his body slump to the floor, his screams of anguish punctuated by the clinking of the chains with which he was bound. He felt his wrist released, his hand and arm fall, his cry of pain becoming in his ears a sob followed by a sigh that trailed into silence. As the images whirling in his head slowed and faded, he could see angry red light pulsing in his right palm and knew his forehead must also be pulsing with the same red light. He suddenly became aware that the room around him was silent, the only sounds his panting for breath. He raised his head and dimly saw Ghelvon moving away, returning to his position behind the council table; he saw his master’s face wrinkled with concern; he saw Avril’s face mirroring Myron’s, saw the faces of the other three council members filled with fright; he knew that Ghelvon had won; a sob escaped him.
Ghelvon looked to his right and left before speaking. “Can there be any doubt of his fall?” he asked in a soft voice. “I move, therefore that we vote: All in favor . . . ,” he began.
“Wait!” Myron interrupted, “as Klaybear’s counsel I have a right to speak before you vote . . . ,” but Myron broke off, hearing a noise behind him. They all turned and looked; Thal was coming forward, his flaming hair more disheveled then usual and his face still pale; he had tripped on the last bench and stumbled into Klaybear, causing the latter’s chains to clink.
Thal moved woodenly, not responding to anyone or anything, consumed with feelings of loss. He took no notice of his surroundings, uncaring of the people filling the Assembly Hall, or of the figure in chains something told him he should recognize. The trial began, and he heard arguments against the Headmaster’s appre
ntice. A figure cloaked in red light led the council seated before them and spoke against the accused; a second figure, whose aura pulsed with green light, defended the accused, but he had been given little opportunity to speak. After a time, a third figure, shining bright with golden light, came from beside Thal and used his golden sword to give a view that changed, first looking at the sky and sun, then flying through the air and entering a peaceful glade by means of a curious doorway through solid rock. He saw huge cedar trees, a small stream, a stone chair, and an altar that seemed to be the center of the trial. Two other figures, whose auras were indistinct but shining, stepped forward after the kortexi–Sir Blakstar, he realized–showed the mekala his flask. Blakstar’s aura flared, then the three figures returned to sit next to him.
Moments later, the master with the red aura moved to stand in front of the accused, whose green aura had dimmed, and pressed a red-glowing finger into the kailu’s forehead; a red symbol pulsed, the symbol of Gar. He suddenly knew the accused–Klaybear, one of his fellow chosen, or so the Headmaster had named them. Klaybear slumped, causing the chains to clink loudly in the silent hall. A second symbol of Gar began pulsing in Klaybear’s hand, and Thal heard his new friend cry out in anguish.
Thalamar! a voice boomed inside his mind, causing him to jump.
Mother? he thought, recognizing the voice and tone of command. But you’re dead! he thought, feeling the aching stab of pain and loss.
Cease this behavior at once! she commanded. You have work to perform–we didn’t train you to have you sit by idly and watch one of your fellow chosen destroyed! Wake up and act, now!
He struggled to his feet and started forward, tripping as he stepped off the lowest bench and catching himself on Klaybear’s shoulder.
“As a maghi of Melbarth,” Thal croaked, his voice sounding strange to him, “all of whom are experts in logic and reasoning, I cannot sit idly by while this young kailu and friend of mine is convicted on the grounds of circumstantial evidence.” He looked at Ghelvon. “May I speak?” he asked.
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