by Scott Rhine
“I’m sure that members of the royal court don’t travel as well as we have this last week,” Brent said sincerely. After a sigh, the boy asked, “Why do they hate us?”
Jotham smiled, and patted his ward’s hand. “They don’t even know us. How could they hate what hey don’t know?”
“Even I have learned that people hate best what they don’t know,” Brent insisted. It was the priest’s turn to chuckle. “They hate your order, our order. Why?”
Jotham remained quiet for a time, listening to the plodding of the oxen. “At first, I would have said jealousy. We had access to the words and ways of the gods when no one else could. The Messenger spoke only to us. Then, when He fell silent, they blamed us. We were like a family member tolerated for his money. When that was gone, they fell on us for our homes and the belongings we carried. Nobody bothered to gather the true treasure—our writings. Nobody considered that one of the Traveler’s children would be best suited to coax him into speaking once again. Sometimes I don’t think that humans are fit heirs to the Dawn race.”
The guards of their small caravan stopped at the city gates for further instructions. The silence soon became too oppressive for the boy and he mumbled, “Maybe the Dawn people didn’t deserve it either, from what I’ve heard.”
The entourage was directed to the great cathedral in the center of town, near the walls of the Green Castle itself. Green Castle was the only royal residence whose courtyard was roofed with living trees, some over a hundred feet high. The upper branches provided look-out perches better than any tower made by man. In their wisdom, the founders had planted many fruit trees around the perimeter, and channeled a stream through the middle. The Garden of Semenea was considered one of the wonders of the civilized world. As they approached the mighty structure built flush against its walls, they heard the sound of many voices weaving together in harmony.
On the steps of the cathedral, young children in brown robes sang sweet melodies to encourage the masses to enter and worship. The entourage of the accused passed without slowing. When Brent looked away from the window slot in the side of the wagon, he noticed that the white-haired Imperial was gently weeping. The boy said, “Don’t worry; I remember everything you told me. I’ll be a good lawyer, sir. They won’t keep you long in prison.”
Jotham shook his head. “The singing. It’s just so beautiful. I had almost forgotten.” But he could never go back to those days. Jotham had seen too many things, done too many things, and chosen.
When the boy remained puzzled, the Tenor explained, “It was my youth. They turned our lovely temple into a prison. I was one of the singers responsible for entertaining our jailers. We performed every day, at every meal. They dined on gold-rimmed plates with silver cutlery. I still remember salivating over the roast pig they sat on the table in front of us. One unfortunate made the mistake of stealing the apple from its mouth. I never knew that food could be used to choke someone to death.”
The older man’s eyes no longer saw the interior of the wagon, and the choir sang a different tune. “Refusing or making an error was punishable by severe beatings. We subsisted on donations from others. When kindness declined, so did we. My masters ceased our training and starved themselves in protest, increasing the food for the young. Normally our captors allowed nature to take its course inside their walls, but when the supply of new prisoners dwindled, they took steps to conserve. We were permitted our own wing by the inner chapel. The chapel became a small world unto itself, a place of growth, of wonder, of safety.”
Jotham wiped his eyes. “For the most part, we were left alone to study the old ways. In exchange, we had to help conserveto maintain our warden’s lifestyle. I was a very good Tenor and near the age where my voice would be changing. After the sickness weeded most of the prison population, they couldn’t risk losing their dinner choir. Our wardens took my manhood to keep their illusion alive.” The priest trembled, turning his face away in shame.
“How did you escape?” the boy whispered, changing the subject.
“Through the Holy of Holies, the Inner Sanctum. When the high priest lay on his deathbed, a handful of us still hadn’t renounced the Way or died in prison. I was the only member of the choir left. He gave me a sacred book and told me to read every page. He named me high priest in his place. By then, our wing was self-sufficient, isolated from the prison at large. After many years of meditating on the words, I finally understood. My teacher could have been free from that prison at any time, but had refused to abandon us in our troubles. When I was the last priest remaining, I departed through a special door only a chosen few can use.”
Brent leaned closer. “A secret passage?”
“Directly into the Halls of Eternity.”
“Could I ever use that door?”
“Pray you never have need.” Jotham struggled for a while with his words. Passing over the threshold involved a complex, metaphysical exercise which took years of training to master. He couldn’t describe the magnitude of the ordeal to the child or the many strange and horrible things held behind that door. “Not all things eternal are beautiful. None are easy. What happened to me that day was not natural. It turned my hair white before its time.”
“Then why does that door exist?”
“Why does any door?” said the priest.
“To keep people out?” guessed the boy.
Jotham nodded. “In truth, I didn’t belong in that place. I fled through the first door back that I could find. By miracle, I ended up in the Great Library.”
Brent wrinkled his brow. “You must have had a very long walk.”
The priest sighed. “Indeed, but no farther in distance than this carriage to that doorpost. In the undergirding, you move as in a dream. When you awake, you could be anywhere. Just passing through that place has changed me.” Jotham paused, making his tone one of timid confession. “I see things, feel things which should have been buried in the tomb of the past. Touching an item, I can often hear the echoes of places it has been. The longer an object remains in one place, the stronger the taste, like tea steeped in a cup.”
The wagon halted again. Brent whispered, “Do you think this gift is from the door or because of the mantel you wear? The Sons of Semenos seemed to think you’d know things just because of your rank, sir.”
There was activity at the rear of the vehicle. “Mention none of this,” Jotham hissed. The accused man remained silent as the guards separated him from his student and hauled him into the depths of the church stronghold. The roots of the cathedral walls went down into the dirt as far as the spires went above. The Tenor chuckled at the metaphor for their society. In seventy-two steps, he was wrapped in darkness deeper than night. But the ghost of the choir lingered in his ears.
Brent was taken in front of a very important-looking scribe. The man had thick robes and was surrounded on all sides by stacks of books and scrolls that blocked the room’s only window. A lackey cleaned off one of the velvet-covered chairs for the interview. When the important scribe reached a convenient stopping point in his work, he raised his nose from the ledgers. Quite a prominent nose it was, too, thought Brent. It was all he could manage not to stare at the large wart on its tip. No one else in the room gawked or giggled at the sight. Brent reasoned that the scribe must be a very important man indeed for this to happen.
The thick-robed man pushed a document across to him, barely looking up. “Sign this.”
Brent began reading, squinting at the minute lettering. “There’s a mistake here. It says that I want to quit.”
The scribe glanced over his pince-nez glasses, seeing the boy for the first time. “You’re being excused because you’re just a child.”
“I swore to help him.”
Accompanied by his most scathing glare, the scribe said, “You don’t have anything to do with this man’s heresies do you?”
“I’m not on trial,” Brent answered quickly. “And heresy has not yet been proven.”
The man’s frown to
ld him that charged and proven were synonymous in the eyes of this court. “The High Gardener himself has taken an interest in this case and has named himself senior judge.”
Brent, having no idea who this agricultural enthusiast was, said, “That’s nice. Jotham can talk to him about herbs.”
The scribe removed his glasses. “Child, the High Gardener is the leader of this kingdom’s religious and judicial order. When he tries a case, the lawyer suffers the same fate as his client.”
Brent puffed out his chest, trying to look older and unafraid. “I know he didn’t steal the ox, and we can prove it.”
The man, hunchbacked from his duties, grabbed another document with a public seal and green ribbon affixed to the bottom. “This waives the theft charges. If I give it to you, will you sign the resignation?”
Brent grew agitated at the bullying. “The fact that it has been sealed already means that my answer doesn’t matter. The decision has already been made by the judge. You’re trying to trick me.”
The hunched scribe grabbed his shoulders and said earnestly, “I’m trying to save you, boy, the way I’d pull a man out of burning building.”
Brent drew back. “It seems to me you’re trying awfully hard to burn that building with my friend still in it.”
“He’ll have a fair trial,” insisted the scribe.
“Without a lawyer?” Brent scoffed. “I heard that you don’t even let accused heretics speak in open court for fear they would taint the souls of the audience. That would make for a pretty short trial, wouldn’t it?”
“There is one accepted defense for heresy that does not require words,” the hunched man explained. “It’s all part of the ceremony. The judges also hear his his glaswords in private session.”
“They just don’t get written down,” Brent guessed. “He’s also accused of another crime. I suppose he has to face that one if he survives the heresy charge.”
The scribe shrugged. “It’s the law of the gods.”
Brent thought the reasoning convenient, as the only ones able to contradict this logic could be sentenced to death by the same law. “When does this trial start?”
The scribe gave up on his crusade to save the child. “Tomorrow at dawn. You’ll be summoned when the court is ready for your plea. The moment you walk out that door, I can no longer protect you.”
Brent fumed, trying to hold back his anger at the unfairness. “Do we get anything to eat for dinner?”
“You may eat with the children. The accused must use this time to reflect on his sins. Perhaps he may yet repent and by his example lead others to safety.”
Brent bowed respectfully and left in search of the promised meal. As it turned out, children in the employ of the church got paid for their services in food and a safe place to sleep. The meals were communal and didn’t begin until the completion of morning prayers, afternoon chores, or evening services respectively. As a general rule, if a child didn’t and participate, he received no meal. Therefore, Brent was forced to sit through an interminable church service. The singing wasn’t bad, but the ceremony was unfamiliar and overly serious. The gist of the sermon seemed to warn against the dangerous contagion of heresy. He dozed off briefly but was awakened by one of the young candle-tenders at the end of his bench.
“Thanks, I’m new here,” remarked Brent while people milled about after the end of the service.
“I understand. If you want to repay me, help put out these candles back here. When I do it alone, I get to dinner late. Some people are starting seconds before I get my first plate.”
Brent pitched in and both reached the dining hall in a reasonable amount of time.
While eating his fill at the children’s table, he made sure to pocket what he could. After the meal, he turned down several offers of play.
Just after dark, the determined, young lawyer finally reached the prison where his client was being held. The guard searched him and found the stash of food. The keeper apologized, but explained that no food or light sources were allowed. Heretics had to appreciate the depths of their plight. Thus Brent groped his way down a dark corridor. The damp floor scurried with untold vermin. Eventually, Jotham answered his call. Following his teacher’s voice, the boy located the cell and a small bench against the wall outside. Brent took advantage of the bench to pull his feet into a position of safety up off the floor.
The boy tried to keep his tone cheerful. “I had a meeting with somebody who works too much, followed by a sermon by a priest who talks too much.” This earned him a chuckle from the prisoner. “They won’t let me bring you a meal.”
“I’m sure you tried. How did the legal meeting go?”
Brent sighed. He decided not to mention the punishment rules. “The most important people they have are going to send for us tomorrow morning. We’re going to participate in some sort of opening ceremony for the trial. The scribe said that there would be an opportunity for you to prove your innocence without saying a word. Do you know what they want?”
Jotham grunted. “They like to read a prophecy from the Book of Mourning.”
“Sounds cheerful. Don’t these folks ever do anything fun?” Brent asked.
“Other than bonfire parties, you mean?” countered Jotham. “The book is a short one, describing the Herald of the New Emperor. Priests of the Traveler are all outlawed except the one who heralds the coming of the next dynasty. Of course, even the true herald would be condemned in this place unless he announced in favor of the Pretender who already holds the northern throne.”
“Where does the wordless defense come in?”
“The High Gardner should be more careful what he asks for. He really doesn’t want to be recipient of the sign. Tell him that tomorrow,” said Jotham. “If I remember correctly, the herald opens his mouth and fire pours out, consuming his accusers, and launching the next decisive war for the Imperial throne.”
“Wow,” said Brent, trying to come to grips with the new scope of the trial.
“The irony is that the Gardener’s power is strongest now, with the status quo. By pushing to change that, he could lose everything,” Jotham explained.
“What are you going to do?” asked the boy.
“Remain neutral. Tell him enough of the truth to keep him worried but in the dark. Accusations of this magnitude require at least two witnesses. They currently have only one, and we must avoid providing them with the second. Force him to be the one to resolve the dilemmas. We use his very strength to keep him bound or at least honest. And we hope for enlightened self interest to guide his way,” the Tenor summarized.
“Great. What do I do?”
“Try to counter anything they say with simple facts. Ask them to prove any legal accusation or article of faith they profess. I’ll be right there with you. But don’t worry; they won’t let us do much talking for the first day or two. For now, you should get some sleep,” Jotham said. Unwilling to leave his friend alone in the pit, and afraid of more tricks from the opposition, Brent made a rough bed on the bench and stayed the night. His neck might hurt a little in the morning, but his conscience would be unbent.
****
In the dead of night, in the walled town of Cardinado, a team of eight Babliosian spies landed on the shore in a longboat that had been painted black. Their entry into the city was easier than anticipated because most of the garrison was now scouring the hills, attempting to stamp out the followers of a new heretic. It took the southern men little time to find and cut down the decomposing body hanging from the scaffolding. Their informant in the city provided the name and rank on the papers the corpse had carried, as did the notice hanging in the town square.
The leader of the expedition sighed. His orders were very specific concerning this matter. Upon confirmation of the offense, the entire town was to be torched in its sleep as a lesson to the people of Semenos. The conflagration should be big enough to signal his commander, and the troops massed on the border, that the next succession war had begun.
; Few if any of the spies would survive the retribution to follow, but the message had to be sent. Archers would guard the town cistern and warning ben the square while the rest of them paired up to visit the fish-oil warehouse, the street of wood carvers, and the garrison bunkhouses. Survivors would then target the town’s numerous barns in order to spread the blaze beyond control, inflict economic damage, and sow confusion. The bucket brigades, once established, would fight amongst themselves, unable to decide which building to extinguish first. Any saboteurs still alive at that point were free to grab as much loot as they could before fleeing the same way they arrived.
The longboat never left at dawn as scheduled, but the column of smoke from the fish-oil warehouse could be seen (and smelled) for many leagues.
Chapter 29 – The Trial
“It’s dawn. The jailer will be coming soon,” said Jot
ham through the door grating.
Brent rubbed his sore neck groggily and asked, “How do you know? It’s pitch-black in here.”
Jotham half smiled to himself. “I heard it.”
“A rooster?”
“No,” the priest said. “The sun itself. There’s a reason that the magic of the Compass Star functions best at night. The light of the mortal sun interferes with that of Osos. A sensitive Imperial can hear the difference. It’s a trick I perfected during my previous stay in prison.”
The boy’s mouth formed a small ‘o’, and he tried to change the subject. “How did you sleep?”
“Very little. The negative history in these walls is very strong. Every time I nodded off, I awoke to the screams of someone else being tortured in the name of the Gardener.”
“That’s horrible.”
“I thought it ironic; rather like being beaten in the name of the Healer.”