The League counselor laughed. “There’s no threat—”
“Don’t interrupt.” Grant turned back to the jury council. “The League knew that this family—or their daughter anyway—was sympathetic to the Sheason. So, they tested their loyalty.
“And now two more have been caught in this shameless plot, two boys who freed a man innocent of the crime that nearly condemned him. Set them free. They may have interfered with the execution of the regent’s order. But in doing so they answered the higher law of the Charter. They’re blameless.”
“This is careful logic,” the League counselor exclaimed. “We still have men defying the law—”
“The question before the Court of Judicature,” Grant declared, “is this: A Sheason who saved the life of a poisoned child, an innocent man accused of conspiracy, and the two boys who preserved the life of that man are all caged in your pits.”
Grant’s voice fell to a whisper. “The only lawbreaker here is Leia, a brave young woman who sought out Rolen to save her sister. The law condemns her for seeking the Sheason’s help. But I put it to you now: Is she truly guilty?”
A long pause stretched throughout the assembly.
Grant sat again beside Vendanj, who nodded a subtle thanks.
Slowly, low voices began muttering to one another. No one attempted to quiet them.
And that’s when Grant saw it. Nothing more than a look passed between the League counselor and the jurors.
Bastard rigged the outcome.
The robed council sat still, their faces unreadable. Each would arrive at their own decision. Then individually they would stand and indicate their support. Majority ruled. And by law, even then, the regent could overturn a decision—though he couldn’t remember it ever happening. Some Dissents had been known to have jurors sit for three days before rendering a judgment.
Abruptly, one of the council members stood. Her robe fell in long, deep folds. Then other members stood. One by one. Helaina nodded and the council juror on the far left raised an arm in the direction of the first counselor’s table. The man next to her did likewise.
In turn, each lifted an arm, the wide sleeve hanging in a low arc beneath his or her wrist. Each arm pointed toward the first counselor and his companions. The chatter in the gallery grew with each vote. Gasps of surprise and delight and uncertainty escaped hundreds of mouths at once, followed by a renewed furor of speculation.
The accounting continued, council votes pointing toward the distinguished men in their fine black attire. Looks of self-assurance replaced the austere severity in their hollowed cheeks. Every hand confirmed the merits of their prior judgment. All save the last, whose arm lifted calmly toward Grant.
The court erupted. Shock stirred the chamber, all eyes falling on the final voter. This last juror looked directly at Grant, then at Vendanj, and then at Leia. She didn’t seem to be seeking approval for casting her vote in their direction, more that she wanted them to know her disappointment with her fellow jurors.
Grant nodded appreciation.
A court recorder raced forward and produced a ledger into which he began to make an inscription.
“Your pardon,” Vendanj called with his resonant voice.
The Court of Judicature quieted, and the diminutive recorder lifted his pen from his book.
Vendanj pushed back his chair and came around the table. He disregarded the counselors opposite him. He disregarded those still holding their arms to designate their votes. He approached the regent. He came to the foot of the marble stair and placed one boot upon the first step. He stood staring at Helaina, who returned his fixed gaze for several long moments. The two appeared locked in a contest of wills.
“Regent Storalaith, look past the judgment of this court. I appeal to your privilege as regent.” Vendanj lowered his voice a note. “Set these men free. Trust me that it’s the right thing to do.”
“Sheason,” Helaina took a long breath, “I respect your Order. I have championed its seat at my table. But this council is just.”
“My lady,” Vendanj persisted. “Isn’t it possible that after all the words are spoken we’ve not yet arrived at the truth? Or that what is lawful is still not right?”
“I’ll not argue philosophy with you, Vendanj.” She spared a look at Grant. “But if you ask me to rule according to my conscience and ignore the mandate of this court, you’d not like my conclusion.”
Vendanj didn’t immediately reply, seeming to consider alternatives. He half-turned and looked at Grant. The flinty look in his eyes was unsettling. Then he turned back to Helaina.
“Will you follow us to this Archer’s cell?” Vendanj asked. “Look upon the accused once before closing the ledger on this matter?”
Her eyes narrowed as she held Vendanj’s gaze, seeming to search for his motivation.
“No,” she finally said. She summoned the recorder, who rushed to her side with his book. As she signed the ledger she pointed to the First Counselor. “You’re dismissed.” She then looked up at the ascending circular rows of the assembly. “You’ve seen the work of justice and reason. Now go into your homes and keep it yourselves.” Her voice rang like iron from a clear throat.
The hall began to empty. Vendanj didn’t move. The council folded robed arms and passed back through the doors by which they’d entered. In moments the great round chamber had been vacated.
Wendra appeared from the crowd and rushed to Braethen, taking him into a firm hug. Penit stuck out a hand and greeted the sodalist in formal fashion. Braethen smiled and shook the boy’s outstretched hand.
“You look well,” Mira commented, eyeing Wendra and Penit.
“We’re fine,” Wendra said.
“Very fine,” Penit added.
Braethen held on to Wendra’s hands. “There’s a lot to tell you.”
“We’ve stories of our own,” Wendra said, rolling her eyes in exhaustion.
“Enough time for that later,” Mira cut in, turning as Vendanj and the regent crossed toward them.
A tall man with dark skin hugged Wendra and promised to see her later before taking his leave.
Helaina called the door guard to her. “Escort the girl home,” she said, indicating the witness. “See that she’s not bothered for her testimony here today.” Leia bowed and followed Mira and two soldiers out of the chamber. Then Helaina turned to Grant. “I can’t believe you came back here, Denolan.… You’ve hardly aged.”
“Call me Grant,” he said without any real anger. “And you’ve not changed either.” He looked around at the empty court chamber, remembering their last meeting in this place.
“You’re an ass,” the regent said icily. “And don’t either of you ever try to strong-arm me in my own court again.” She gave Grant and Vendanj a withering look. “But I’ll go with you to see this Archer, in deference to the Sheason.
“Now … Grant,” the regent said, “take my arm and assist me to these strangers you care so much about. And if fortune favors you, I won’t remind my guard that your return to Recityv warrants execution.”
Grant extended his arm. She linked elbows with him and together they started out.
“What would have happened if I’d eaten the confection?” she asked, as they left the court chamber.
He had to smile, weary though it was. “Not a damn thing. League swept the house clean days ago. Your counselors couldn’t be sure, though. Their reaction was what I wanted. But you know as well as I do that they poisoned the child.”
* * *
Mira led Leia back to her mother before she would join the others. The girl’s small hand in her own was cold and trembling. Through a narrow hallway the two soldiers led them to a dimly lit room beneath the raised court gallery. The weight of expectation hung heavy on the air as she and the child entered.
The woman, Leona, got up from a low chair, and her daughter ran to her. The two fell into a close embrace as Mira stood just inside the door.
Then the woman looked at Mira, a question in he
r eyes.
The silence enveloped them.
Mira steeled herself. “I’m sorry. The Dissent failed. The ruling on your husband stands.”
“Papa,” the child cried. “Papa.” And buried herself in her mother’s side.
Leona tried to hold strength in her face and deny the tears. But the finality of it all overwhelmed her and her tears came. She fell to her knees, unable to support herself against the grief, and continued to hold her little girl in her arms. Together they wept for the loss of a father and husband. Wept for the failure of the girl’s honesty and bravery to convince the court that this was a mistake.
As Mira watched them grieve, she thought about their future without the support of the innocent leagueman. If they had no other family or means, the city had few options for them. And what they had to sell would be taken roughly by men with liquor on their breath.
The loss and sorrow of it swirled in Mira’s head as she stood witness to this private scene of heartache and hopelessness.
Not this time.
Mira crossed the floor and dropped to one knee in front of the mother and daughter. She again took up the girl’s hand and drew her attention. “Leia, listen to me, and mark what I say. You take heart and give your mother the strength you showed today in the court. Can you do that?”
With a bit of hesitation, the girl nodded. “Yes, I can.” She looked at her mother. “I’ll help you, Mama.” Then she looked back at Mira. “What are you going to do?”
Determination filled Mira as she looked at the child. “I’m going to free your father.”
The girl stared at Mira with large tears standing on her cheeks. “Can you really do it? Can you save Papa?”
From the distant past, Mira heard her own questions about her lost parents. And she thought about what she was preparing to do now to keep her promise to this young girl. There were costs. But the right costs. And Mira wasn’t about to let doubt enter in.
She gave Leona a confident look, then took the girl’s wet face in her hands. “I believe I can. You hope, and I’ll hurry.” And with that, Mira gave mother and daughter’s hands a squeeze and left to catch the others, thinking through precisely what must be given to keep her word.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Standing
It’s hard to say what happens at the time of Change. But ask any man and he’ll tell you: mistakes weigh heavier in the years afterward.
—Interpretations of Accountability, a survey of men sentenced to die
The ache of hunger woke Tahn. His mouth was sour and pasty. His bruises and cuts had oozed and swollen further while he slept. Breathing hurt his ribs. His muscles burned from rigid immobility. When he attempted to reposition himself on the hard stone, iron shackles scraped over raw scabs. And today was his Standing.
He could hear a sleeper’s breath in Rolen’s dark corner. In that, Tahn found a small comfort.
Tahn clenched his teeth and sat up. His chains rattled loudly in the cell.
“Today’s your Change.” Rolen sat up, too, his chains also rattling in the stillness. “I’ll stand First Steward for you if you’d like.”
Tahn had resigned himself to ending this day without the rite or ceremony meant to mark it. The Change meant less to him now. Whatever lay on the other side of this day could look no better from where he currently stood, bound and starving.
“No,” Tahn answered. “Not here. It doesn’t make sense to celebrate in this place. I’m not sure it matters now, anyway.”
“It always matters. And perhaps here more than anywhere else,” Rolen said, his voice mild and instructive. “Don’t let your circumstances rob you of what you cherish. It’s an unfortunate truth that in the midst of celebrations and food and song, the meaning of this day sometimes goes unrealized.”
“Unrealized?” Tahn asked.
Rolen didn’t immediately speak. But moments later, his voice rose in the stillness. “Every child becomes accountable, Tahn, each of us comes of age. But not all of us Stand. Standing requires a steward, and during those moments of change, the steward may impart a portion of his spirit to the one passing into adulthood. It’s a unique gift. Something many are robbed of because they’ve no one to stand with them, or because their stewards have forgotten there’s a gift to bestow.”
Tahn stretched a cramped arm and winced against the scrape of iron on his tender skin. “You could be my steward?”
“Stand up,” Rolen said, his chains rattling again.
The Sheason rose to his feet and began shuffling toward him. Tahn stood, biting back oaths as his muscles and skin stretched. A moment later a ghost of a man stepped into the light falling down from the cell door window.
White, smudged skin clung tightly to bone, revealing sharp features. Wavy brown hair hung in matted clumps, some spots on Rolen’s head thin or bare. A wiry beard filled Rolen’s face, covering his mouth. His robe hung from his shoulders like a sheet on a dry-line. Whatever meat there’d been to him before he came here was gone. Dark half circles under his eyes spoke of many sleepless hours.
A vague smile played on the man’s lips. But the look in his eyes captured him most. Against the backdrop of slate darkness, hunger, and indignity, Rolen looked at him with gentle hope. He looked not at all like a man in chains or nearer his earth with every breath. He might have been standing at the head of a great feast, his children at his feet, his wine cup full, and surrounded by friends.
The Sheason beckoned him with a gesture, and Tahn scuttled forward. “Do you know which way is east?”
Tahn nodded. It was an intuition that never failed him—his daily ritual with dawn.
“Look that way, then.”
Tahn turned and stared into the darkness as Rolen shuffled and took position on his left and half a pace back. The Sheason put his right hand on Tahn’s left shoulder and looked east with him into the darkness where no sun would ever rise. Into the cool, stale air he spoke with a soft clear voice.
“From the cradle you came, through the march of a hundred days, a thousand, and more. You crawled. You walked. You ran. You clutched a mother’s finger, then carried stones, then learned to write. But you did these things for yourself. And never owned them.”
Rolen’s warm tones deepened in his chest. “Your days walk out before you now like a string of pearls. Valuable and imperfect. These imperfect moments are the choices you’ll make. Some good. Some selfish. And many times you’ll know the difference by the ripples they cause in the lives of others. But good or selfish, they are now entirely yours.”
Rolen paused. Warmth spread in Tahn’s chest and arms and legs. Heat flushed his cheeks, and the cold of his prison receded for the moment.
“I pledge to be your marker.” At this, chills swept Tahn’s newly warmed skin. “To help you see the ends you might create. To be a memory, a companion. Because the ends you create will now prove or condemn you.”
Tahn raised his hand and covered Rolen’s fingers. He hardly heard the rattle of his chains. He stared into the blackness of the room and forgot the rasp of irons, the emptiness in his gut. All the hell of this place remained, but seemed of no consequence. He stood with his cellmate at his back and looked past this day.
“The inclinations of youth aren’t gone. And the Change doesn’t leave behind all that you have been.” Rolen turned Tahn around, clasping his shoulders with both hands, chains dangling and rattling impertinently in the stillness. “So be careful. Your course is a deep river, Tahn, filled with currents that pull and rush. Those currents will sometimes seem separate from you. But they’re not. They’re yours. As surely as your own breath.”
Rolen’s voice now quavered, his words coming in snatches, as though he reported images flashing before his eyes. “Beware though, Tahn. The line that separates light from dark is an easy place to lose your conviction. It is the dark backward, the light upside down. It invites but confounds. It’s a stupor of thought that eases you toward the Whited One. And the foulness beneath his façade will corrupt
the soul you wish to preserve … your own.”
Tahn frowned at the words. But Rolen only patted Tahn’s shoulder, causing his chain to clink unmusically. “I might still have hoped for a roast goose to endfast with you today.” He gave a crooked smile.
“Is this the Change?’ Tahn asked. “Is this all?”
“What more would you have it be?”
“Sutter and I have waited for so long,” Tahn lamented. “Girls…” An embarrassed grin flickered at the corners of his mouth. “We always just thought that…”
But secretly, Tahn had always hoped the Change would restore the childhood he couldn’t remember, disclose the secrets of the words he was compelled to speak whenever he drew his bow, reveal the face of the man in his dreams. A heavy sadness crept into his heart.
“I know,” Rolen said, mildness in his voice. He squeezed Tahn’s shoulders to force his attention. “But it’s no less important than you’d hoped. I’ve given you a gift of myself, one your own father surely meant to give. It can be a fire inside you, if you’ll let it.”
Tahn stared blankly.
Rolen looked back with understanding. “It’s not something you feel right now, I know. But trust me.” He dropped one arm, grimacing with pain as he did so.
Tahn remembered the moment of warmth that had come over him as Rolen had spoken, and wondered if that was the gift he meant. But he felt none of it now. Instead, he felt only a new burden.
Rolen chuckled warmly. “Don’t despair, my friend. The Change isn’t a revelation. It’s not some granting of wisdom or strength.” He took a breath and said simply, “It’s the freedom to stand or sit in your chains. To bear the bite of steel on flesh. To endure your hunger. To feel peace at the thought of death.”
That peaceful look returned to the Sheason’s weary features. He looked like a man who’d suffered well. Tahn wondered if he’d ever again run through the Hollows’ groves in autumn and kick at the fallen leaves simply because they heaped into drifts on the forest floor.
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