“Of course, you aren’t going to die,” Raine said. “You still have acorns to plant.”
“Aye.” Raven’s hand went to the small pouch at his belt. “I’d forgotten that.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall.
“I must go,” Raine said, shifting back into a mouse as the guard came to the door.
“Talking to a mouse, Roark?” the guard said with a malicious chuckle. “Gone soft in the head thinking o’ that basilisk, eh?”
Raine scooted out the slot in the door and ran up the corridor. An hour later, she darted out of the dungeon and scurried over to the tree where Mauric waited.
He jumped down from a branch. “What took you so long?” he demanded. “I was starting to worry.”
“There are four gates and a front door between here and Raven,” Raine said. “I had to wait at each one for someone to pass through.”
“How is he? Did he tell you something that will help?”
“No,” Raine said, “but, on the bright side, I think I cheered him up.”
* * * *
Mauric escorted Raine to the trial the next morning.
“Where are Tyra and Luanna?” Raine asked as she climbed into the carriage that would take them through town.
“With my mother,” Mauric said. “Mother and I talked it over and decided ʼtwas best that my sisters not attend. Luanna has been in a swoon since Raven was arrested.”
“And Tyra?”
His mouth curved. “Every day, she hatches a new plot to free Raven. That’s one reason Mother and I decided to keep her away from the proceedings. No telling what she might do.”
“She is fearless,” Raine said.
“Aye, she knows not the meaning of caution. Once the trial is done, I’m taking Tyra back to Sea Watch.”
“Oh, no,” Raine cried. “Why?”
“You know why, lass. The games. She could have been killed.”
“But she wasn’t,” Raine said. “She and Carr won.”
“The outcome makes no difference,” Mauric said. “I aged ten years that day. My sister must be protected from herself.”
Mauric’s jaw was set, and Raine knew that no amount of persuasion would change his mind. She lapsed into dismayed silence. Tyra was her friend, and, soon, she would be gone. She brooded over the unfairness of it all for a few moments, then set her distress about Tyra aside. Merciful God, Raven could die today, and she didn’t know what to do.
The trial was being held outside the Bear Gate in a sunlit field not far from the blackened ruins of the stadium. People and monsters had turned out in numbers. The crowd shifted, and Raine spotted several cloth pavilions on the grass. The rowan’s flag snapped in the breeze above one of the canopies. A long table had been placed at one end of the field for the judges. Next to the judges’ table were a pair of thrones for the rowan and Hedda.
Standing apart from the rest was a lone tent.
“That is where the judges will withdraw to decide Raven’s fate,” Mauric said, noticing the direction of Raine’s gaze.
Grandstands had been erected along the sides of the meadow. The stands were already full. The spillover from the stands, human and monster, lined up along the green. Folk from far and near had turned out to see the roark stand trial, and there was a buzz of excitement and expectancy in the air.
Mauric paused to search the faces in the crowd.
“Seratha is in the stands,” Raine said. “She’s sitting with Queen Balzora.”
“Is she?” Mauric guided Raine to a pavilion where Brefreton, Glory, and Alden waited. “I wasn’t looking for her.”
“Uh huh,” said Raine.
Raven had asked Brefreton to present his case to the panel to spare Gertie the painful duty of defending him. Brefreton got to his feet when he saw her. He’d abandoned his dog-eared brown garments for clothes of Tannish green and gold, and his red hair had been brushed until it shone and tied back with a ribbon.
“Bree, is that a new cloak?” Raine asked, much surprised.
The wizard rolled his shoulders. “Yes, and it feels strange. I’m glad you’re here. I was worried. Glory insists you’re the key to this thing.”
“Raine will save Raven,” Glory said in her placid way. “I have seen it.”
“Of course, you have.” Alden brought Glory’s hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “But perhaps you could be more specific? Exactly how is Lady Raine going to save Raven?”
“I don’t know how,” Glory said, snatching her hand away from him. “I just know. Go away. You bother me.”
Alden grinned. “I know, my siren, and ʼtis an excellent sign.”
“You’re impossible,” said Glory.
Alden bowed. “This I know, as well. ʼTis part of my charm, is it not?”
Brefreton drew Raine aside. “Alden’s right. I need something, Raine. Anything.”
“I’m sorry, Bree. I’ve been in the library for days, but I’ve found nothing.”
“Great,” Brefreton said, throwing up his hands. “Wonderful. Simply marvelous.”
A horn sounded, and the rowan and Hedda processed slowly down the center of the green to take their places on the thrones. The rowan’s usual air of vitality was gone, and he looked old and worn. Next came the judges, a panel composed of four humans and five monsters: a dignified centaur with a long, gray beard, a sly-looking satyr, a strange, many-eyed creature Mauric told Raine was an oculus, a bashful wood nymph, and a troll.
“Malryn is a judge?” Raine said, her heart sinking when she recognized Lord Korek. “That’s terrible. He’s Hedda’s man.”
“Aye,” Brefreton said, “but we have the troll.”
Raine took a closer look at the troll, and her eyes widened. “It’s Ilgtha.”
“Aye,” said Brefreton with satisfaction.
The judges took their seats.
“Brace yourself, lass,” Mauric said. “Here comes Raven.”
Raven was marched down the field in chains and placed to the left of the judges’ table, for all to see. He stared straight ahead, without expression.
Hedda gave a little shriek as Gertie rose from the grass at the foot of the thrones, her red fur ruffling in the breeze.
“Merciful Tro,” Hedda said, placing her hand on her heart. “I cannot abide trolls. Sneaky, creeping things.”
Ignoring the insult, Gertie stepped up to the rowan. “I would speak with you.”
The rowan regarded her impassively. “Speak then.”
Gertie drew a deep breath. “For more than three thousand years I have served Finlara,” she said. “I have fought beside her warriors in battle, tended her wounded, healed her sick, served as her trusted minister, ambassador, and counselor. I have even, at times, been the royal midwife.”
“Finlara is much in your debt, Glogathgorag,” the rowan said, inclining his head.
“Never once have I asked anything for myself,” Gertie said as though he had not spoken, “but the reckoning is due. Spare my son, Gorne Lindar, and the debt will be paid.”
Raven stirred with a rattle of chains. “No, Mor,” he said. “I am guilty. I ask no boon of him, nor will you.”
Gertie’s fierce gaze did not move from the rowan. “You will not kill my son, Gorne.”
“Your son?” The rowan slammed his hand on the throne. “He is my son. I am his father.”
Gertie growled. “Raven is my cub. He’s been mine since birth, and by gods, I won’t give him up, not to you or anybody. I’ll fight you, Gorne. So, help me, I will.”
Leaning forward, the rowan said something to the troll in a strange language. Gertie blinked rapidly. She gave the king a stiff nod and stalked off the field.
“What did you say to her?” Hedda demanded. “What language was that?”
“No matter,” the rowan said. “ʼTis between me and the troll.”
Hedda pressed her lips together tightly and sat back on her throne.
The crowd parted, and a unicorn trotted up to the judges’ table. The creature’s white beard was plaited with ribbons, and he wore a caparison embroidered in black, silver and orange, the combined colors of Finlara and Udom.
“What’s Gowyr doing here?” Raine asked.
“He’s the Inquisitor.”
“Oh, no.”
“Exactly,” Brefreton sighed.
“The accused has confessed,” the unicorn said. “Let us dispense with the trial and move to the stoning.”
The panel stirred uneasily.
“They don’t know what to do,” Brefreton muttered. “Not only is the rowan’s son on trial, he’s confessed.”
Ilgtha, the troll, said something rapidly in Trolk. The rowan gestured and a short little fellow with green skin and hair hurried forward. His round cheeks and chin were hairless, and his dark eyes glinted with excitement.
“Who’s that?” Raine whispered to Mauric.
“Birch Elmstock, a woodling, and the Court interpreter. Not everyone speaks Trolk. Hedda, for one, refuses to learn it.”
“What’s a woodling?”
“During the Cataclysm, a group of miners from Northern Sethlar fled into the Amedlaran Forest,” Mauric said. “When things settled down, their families went looking for them, but they were never found. Seems the nymphs took them in. The woodlings are the result of their…er…union.”
“What happened to the miners?” Raine asked.
“No one knows, but I can guess.” He waggled his brows. “Nymphs are beautiful but insatiable.”
“Oh,” Raine said. “Oh.”
The woodling cleared his throat. “The esteemed troll judge says that the law provides for a trial, and a trial there will be.”
The rest of the panel murmured in agreement.
“This is a waste of time,” Hedda said. “He has confessed. Stone him and be done.”
“No,” the rowan said. “The trial will proceed.”
Hedda gave her husband a malicious smile. “You’ve an interesting choice before you, Gorne. Uphold the law or save your precious bastard.” Her cold gaze shifted to Raven. “Raven will make a handsome bit of statuary, I think. After he’s stoned, I mean to place him in my garden, so I may gaze upon him every day.”
The rowan’s jaw worked. “Inquisitor,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Proceed with the trial.”
Gowyr lowered his head. “As you wish, sire. Bring out the stones.”
Three carts pulled by ogres rattled onto the field. The carts were filled with statues. The ogres unloaded the effigies and placed them in neat rows near the judges’ table. Though the figures were both human and monster, their faces were transfixed in identical expressions of horror.
“Oath breakers,” Mauric said. “They were found guilty and petrified.”
Raine began to shake. This was the fate that awaited Raven?
“Bring out the maker,” Gowyr intoned, warming to his task.
With tender care, two young women led a golden-haired lad across the field. The boy stared ahead with sightless eyes. In his arms, he carried a small woven basket with a lid. Inside the basket, something hissed.
“Tro, I hope the top stays on that basket,” Mauric said. “If that basilisk gets loose…”
The crowd eyed the basket uneasily, watching as the two maids guided the boy to a chair near the jury panel. He took a seat and set the basket in his lap. Raven glanced once at the boy, and turned away, his expression stiff.
The unicorn trotted up to the judges. “The Inquisitor calls as his first witnesses, the harpies, Izil and Blez.”
Nothing happened.
Lowering his head, the unicorn blew a single note on his spiral horn. “Izil and Blez,” he said again.
With a raucous shriek, two large, winged creatures landed in front of the judges. The harpies were identical in appearance: a woman’s head on a vulture’s body, dirty gray feathers, and talons of dull brass. A suffocating stench settled over the field.
Raine coughed. “Good heavens, they smell.”
Cackling with glee, the harpies hopped into the witness box, a circular patch of lime in the grass at one end of the judges’ table. Four wooden cages filled with tiny brown birds were placed at even intervals around the perimeter of the circle.
“Fibbers,” Brefreton said to Raine. “Exceptionally keen of hearing, fibbers. They shriek when they hear a lie. Keeps those within the circle honest.”
Holding his breath, Birch, the woodling, handed the beautiful blind boy and each of the judges a scented handkerchief, then placed a bag over Gowyr’s nose.
“Thang you, labender helps,” Gowyr said with a thick snuffle. “Izil and Blez, if you would, telb the judges what you witnished that day between the rog troll, Blederak, and the human, Reaven Gorne.”
“What’s a rog troll, Blez?” Izil asked her sister.
“I think the nag means ‘rock troll,’ Izil. He don’t talk so good wiv that bag on his nose.”
“Oh.” Izil preened her feathers. “It was like this, see. Me and Blez was sitting in a tree having a laugh at old Blederak. That was the way of it, weren’t it, Blezzy?”
“Aye,” her sister said. “He done got hisself stuck to a cliff wall by a wizard.”
“We was thinking about having a bite or two of Blederak—harpies not being bothered by rock troll blood, you know—when along comes this delicious black-haired warrior and a great big dog.’”
Blez sighed. “The warrior was full o’ juice, and no lie. He can wallow in my droppings any day.”
Izil nudged Blez with her wing. “Hush, dear. He’s right there. He can hear you.”
“Beak and feathers, I forgot,” Blez squawked, fluttering her wings.
The judges coughed and wiped their streaming eyes.
“As I was saying,” Izil said when Blez had settled down, “this warrior—the delectable bit over there—comes up with the dog and starts asking Blederak questions.”
“What kimb of qwestions?” Gowyr asked.
“Let’s see,” Izil said. “He asked the rock troll about the lady wizard. Said he was looking to bring her back, though what she was doing in Udom, I couldn’t say.” The harpy drew in a breath. “Blederak tells the warrior that the girl glued him to the mountain and left. Called her a goat, which the warrior didn’t like.”
“’Scuse me, Izil, but Blederak called her a cow, not a goat,” Blez said.
Izil tilted her head. “You may be right, sister. At any rate, the warrior didn’t like what Blederak said and stuck a fang in the rock troll’s tail.”
“Knife, sister,” Blez said. “Humans don’t have fangs.”
“Right,” Izil said. “Blederak was screeching like a banshee and begging the warrior to take the knife out of his tail.” She belched. “You tell the rest, Blez. All this talking is giving me the wind.”
“Blederak starts chattering,” Blez said, continuing the story. “Tells the warrior he had to help the lady, ʼcause she knew the binding word.”
Gowyr whinnied nervously. “Doh deed to say the word out loud.”
Blez glared at him. “I ain’t stupid, nag. I know better ’n to say the binding words in front of humans.”
“Sowee,” Gowyr said. “Meant no offense. Pleash contin-yoo.”
“Seems Blederak tricked the lady,” Blez said. “Led her around until the sun come up and the binding word—which I’m not stupid enough to say—weren’t good no more, and then he tried to kill her.”
“Did he kilb her?” Gowyr asked.
“Nah,” Blez said, “but the warrior didn’t take it kindly when he heard the rock troll had tried. This funny look come over his face, and that’s when he killed Blederak.”
Gowyr looked around in triu
mph. “Wud you repesh that pleez?”
“He killed the rock troll with his sword,” Blez said. “Busted old Blederak open like a ripe corpse. It was scrumptious. Brains and bits of rock troll everywhere.”
“Thang you, ladeez,” Gowyr said, and trotted away.
Brefreton strode out of the tent, halting in front of the harpies.
He bowed. “Ladies, my name is Brefreton and I will be presenting the case on behalf of the accused.”
Blez poked her sister with the tip of one wing. “I like this one, Izil. He looks tender.”
Izil was staring at the handsome red-haired wizard. “And he ain’t wearing a nose bag, either.” She cocked her head. “Harpy stink don’t bother you none, sweetie?”
Brefreton smiled. “I don’t smell anything.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Mauric said in Raine’s ear. “Gertie gave him some nose drops. He won’t be able to smell for a week.”
“Objec-shun,” Gowyr said, trotting up to the judges. “Coun-thul for the defensh ish obvish-lee trying to influence the witneshes.”
The judges put their heads together. “Overruled,” a human judge said from behind his handkerchief. “You may proceed, wizard.”
“That man’s name is Stavv,” Mauric murmured. “Not a bad sort.”
“Ladies,” Brefreton said. “You said something about a binding word.”
“We won’t tell you the binding word,” Izil said. “No matter how tasty you are.”
“Of course, not.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Brefreton strolled up and down in front of the judges’ table. “I’m interested in something else. What did you say Blederak tried to do to the lady when the sun came up?”
The harpies put their matted heads together, muttering.
After a moment, Izil said, “Blederak said he led the woman around until the sun come up, and then he tried to kill her ʼcause she knew the binding word.”
Gowyr pawed the ground. “Objec-shun. There ish no proof the victim tried to kill the lady, other than thish con-fer-sa-shun.”
Brefreton smiled at the judges. “Other witnesses will testify to the same thing, Your Honors.”
The panel conferred, and Ilgtha said something in Trolk.
Holding his handkerchief over his nose, Birch translated. “Goes to show motive. Overruled.”
A Muddle of Magic Page 41