“No. I used my wizard stone.”
Brefreton’s brows shot up. “You are a wizard?”
“Training to be one.”
“Odd. You have no stone.”
Raine blinked at him. “What?”
“A wizard requires a wizard stone. Where is yours?”
“Oh.” Raine murmured a few words and her wizard stone popped into view. “Here it is.”
“Excellent. Show the judges, please.”
Raine held the stone for the judges’ perusal.
“Thank you,” Brefreton said. “Raine, why did you glue Blederak to the cliff?”
“Because he tried to kill me.”
Brefreton cupped a hand to his ear. “Again, please.”
“Blederak tried to kill me.”
“Do you have any doubt he meant to do you harm?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Thank you,” Brefreton said. “Your witness, Inquisitor.”
Gowyr trotted up to the circle. “Would you lie for the accused?”
“Yes, if I thought it would help,” Raine said.
Gowyr wheeled to face the judges. “You heard her. The witness has admitted she would lie for the accused. Her testimony must be stricken as biased and unreliable.”
“I said I would lie,” Raine said, “not that I did. What good would it do, when the stubborn man keeps confessing?”
There was a ripple of laughter from the throng.
Brefreton cleared his throat. “Let the scribe record that the fibbers are silent, which indicates that she’s telling the truth…about lying, that is.”
Gowyr tossed his head. “Fibbers are not infallible. They can be fooled, if the liar is accomplished.”
“I’m not lying,” Raine said. “Blederak tried to kill me.”
Gowyr curled his lip. “Prove it.”
“This is absurd,” Brefreton said to the judges. “How in thunder is the witness supposed to prove Blederak tried to kill her—raise him from the dead?”
Raine jumped to her feet. “That’s it, Bree. That’s the answer.”
Holding her wizard stone aloft, she opened her mind to the swell. Power rushed through her in an exhilarating rush.
“Blederak,” she shouted, raising her glowing arms to the sky. “Show yourself.”
The rock troll materialized on the green before the judges’ table. “Hello, Tidbit,” Blederak said.
There were gasps from the crowd as the rock troll’s head split down the middle and plopped into the rock troll’s waiting paws. With a hideous grin, Blederak began to play with the broken pieces of his skull.
Gowyr pawed the ground. “I object. A witness cannot call another witness.”
Raine looked at Brefreton. “Bree?”
“Eh?” Brefreton dragged his gaze from Blederak’s gruesome juggling act. “Yes, of course. With the permission of the court,” he said, addressing the shaken judges, “I call the rock troll, Blederak, to the circle.”
“Absurd,” Gowyr said. “The creature is merely an illusion produced by this gester. Obviously, she is desperate to free the accused and will resort to any chicanery.”
“Ooh,” Raine said, glaring at the unicorn. “I’m glad you got stung.”
“Never mind,” Brefreton told Raine. “There’s no reasoning with the old dobbin. How do we prove Blederak is not an illusion?”
“How am I supposed to prove a ghost is real?” Raine said. “It’s a ghost.”
“Raine.”
Raven’s deep voice cut through Raine’s agitation. She looked at him.
“Perhaps Ronnie could be of assistance?” he suggested softly.
“Silence,” Gowyr said. “The accused is not allowed to speak outside the circle.”
“Ronnie?” Raine said, ignoring the unicorn. Raven raised a black brow, and her eyes widened. “Oh, Ronnie. Of course.”
Stavv spoke from the judges’ table. “The Inquisitor makes a salient point, milady. Magic is viewed with deep suspicion in Finlara. Can you prove the shade’s authenticity or not?”
“Yes. May I—or, rather, may Brefreton—call one more witness?”
Stavv sighed. “If you must, but these proceedings grow tedious.”
“All in the hallowed cause of justice, Your Honor,” Brefreton assured him. He looked at Raine. “Er…who is it you want to call?”
Raine motioned him closer and whispered the name in his ear.
He started. “Really? It’s a bit unorthodox, and he might not answer.”
“Do it, Bree,” Raine said. “Please. If we can’t prove Blederak is not a product of magic, they won’t let him testify, and it’s important. I feel it.”
“Oh, very well, but, if he gets out of sorts, remember, this was your idea.”
Brefreton strode a few paces from the witness circle and raised his wizard stone. “The defense calls the god Kron,” he said in a loud voice.
The crowd muttered in alarm.
Please, Kron. Closing her eyes, Raine pictured the god’s broad hands and fathomless dark eyes. Please answer. We need you.
A beam of light shot from the sky and the god appeared. The crowd swayed and cried out, and the monsters at the judges’ table were overcome, and fell to the ground.
“Who summons Kron?” the god rumbled in his thunderous voice. He was massive, as tall as a giant, and he pulsed with power.
“Brefreton and I did,” Raine said. “Raven needs your help.”
Gowyr gave a nervous whinny. “Very clever, young woman, but how do we know this isn’t another of your tricks?”
Kron’s lightless gaze fell on the unicorn. “What means the creature, daughter?”
“He thinks you’re an illusion,” Raine said. “My illusion, to be exact.”
“I, the product of a wizard’s fancy?” Kron boomed. “Ludicrous.”
An oppressive heaviness settled over the monsters and humans on the green, as if the grinding weight of heaven pressed down upon them. The crowd groaned under the pressure. Hedda cried out and the rowan clasped his head in his hands. Even Blederak’s ghost felt the force of the god’s implacable will. He dropped the halves of his ruined skull and shrank belly-first to the ground.
“F-forgive me, Great Kron,” Gowyr said, cowering beneath the god’s displeasure. “I was wrong. You are no illusion.”
Kron relented and the crushing constraint eased. “Why have you summoned me?” he asked Raine.
Quickly, Raine explained the situation to the god. “So, you see,” she said, pointing to the rock troll, “if I don’t prove Blederak’s ghost is . . . um . . . real and not a wizard’s trick, the Inquisitor won’t let him testify.”
Kron regarded Raven in amusement. “This is a fine coil. You should have accepted my offer of asylum.”
“I thank you, Lord Kron, but, in honor, I could not,” Raven said. “I violated my oath.”
“That oath,” Kron muttered. “This is a matter within my brother Trowyn’s purview. Why not call on him?”
“You made the Kronlings, Lord Kron,” Brefreton said. “The rock troll is your creature.”
“Yes, that is true.” Kron’s dreadful gaze fell on the unicorn. “You will accept my substantiation, Inquisitor?”
“Y-yes, Lord Kron,” Gowyr said, trembling. “Indeed, your word is sufficient. I assure you that I—”
“Silence,” Kron rumbled, his gaze growing distant. “Nebbish, your presence is required.”
The air quivered and a drab little man appeared wearing a robe the color of mist. He carried a large scroll. A feathered quill was tucked behind one ear.
“I’m busy,” he said in a querulous voice. “What do you want, Kron?”
“Nebbish,” Kron said in his deep voice, “tell these beings who you are and what you do.”
“Do?�
�� Nebbish said. “I’m the Clerk of Skelf and a never-ending thankless job it is, too.”
“As clerk, do you keep a record of the souls that enter Skelf?” Kron asked.
Nebbish shook the scroll in his hand. “What do think this is, my household accounts?”
“Then, identify this shade, please,” Kron said, ignoring the little man’s peevishness.
Nebbish squinted at the rock troll, who’d risen and returned his head to his neck. “Blederak, is that you? You’ve been marked unaccounted for. Bad business, that, leaving Skelf without permission.”
“I ain’t never left.” The rock troll jabbed a claw at Raine. “I got took, by that bit.”
“A necromancer?” Nebbish stared at Raine with an arrested expression. “Most unusual.”
“Nebbish,” Kron said. “The shade?”
“Yes.” The clerk jerked his gaze from Raine and unfurled his scroll. “Bafford…Beek…Blagg…Ah, here we go. Blederak, the rock troll, Curse of Udom, Malicious Mangler, and so on and so forth. Death by—” He looked up from the document. “It says here, your skull was cleaved in two.”
Blederak grinned and showed the clerk the halves of his skull. “Satisfied?”
“That’s him,” Nebbish said, rolling up the parchment. “Will there be anything else?”
“That will do,” Kron said.
“Good,” the mousy clerk said, and disappeared.
“Satisfied?” Kron’s black gaze moved from the judges to Gowyr.
“Yes, Lord Kron,” the judges murmured.
“Without a doubt, Mighty One,” the unicorn said with a bow.
“Blederak,” Kron said.
“Yes, revered one?” The rock troll straightened and slapped his skull back together.
“Behave.”
Kron disappeared, and there was a collective sigh of relief.
The troll judge muttered something in Trolk to Birch.
“The…er…shade may enter the circle,” the woodling announced.
Blederak slunk into the circle with an oily smirk and sat down, his barbed tail twitching.
Raine went back to the pavilion, and Brefreton stepped forward. “As a creature of Udom, you are bound by the same sacred oath as the accused, are you not?” he asked.
“You mean were?” Blederak grinned. “Thanks to the roark, I’m dead meat.”
“I will repeat the question,” Brefreton said. “In life, you were bound by the same oath?”
“Sure, sure,” the rock troll said. “Though we’d be better off without it, if you ask me.”
“Why?” Brefreton asked. “Does the oath not benefit the creatures of Udom?”
“Maybe, at first, when the monsters were scarce, but no more,” Blederak said. “I reckon it’s fine for the First Born. They get the southern reaches, where game’s plentiful.” His mouth twisted. “But it’s different for remnants in the north. Nothing to eat but one another and the occasional traveler. Is it any wonder a poor rock troll goes astray? An oath’s a fine thing on a full belly, but it does precious little to fill yer stomach.”
“Meaning?” Brefreton said.
“Meaning I done what I had to, to survive,” Blederak said. “Liberated me a few harpy eggs. Stole a troll cub now and again. Lured the occasional centaur foal into the hills. Gullible ponies.” The rock troll laughed. “Alls you got to do is promise ʼem a story, and they’ll follow you anywhere. Tasty things, colts.” He smacked his lips. “Even robbed me a stone fairy nest or two when there weren’t nothing else. Touchy little whizzers. Nothing but gristle and barb.”
“You ate your own kind?” Brefreton asked.
“Not my own kind.” Blederak looked insulted. “I don’t eat rock trolls.”
“To clarify, you ate other Kronlings?” Brefreton asked.
Blederak chuckled. “You can say monsters. I ain’t delicate. Yeah, I ate ʼem. Babies, mostly. They ain’t bound, see, so they don’t count.”
“Bound? You refer to a sacred pact between Kronlings?”
Blederak shifted uneasily. “Yes, but I ain’t giving you the binding word.”
“Understood,” Brefreton said. “You ate the unbound young of your fellow monsters. Did your appetite lead you farther afield?”
The rock troll flashed a malicious smile. “That a fancy way o’ asking if I ate people? Sure, every chance I got.”
“Finlars?”
Blederak’s red eyes widened. “Me, foresworn? No such thing. What kind o’ monster you take me for?”
The fibbers, which had been quiet, set up a clamor.
“Liar, liar, liar,” the fibbers shrieked, beating their wings against the cages.
The centaur judge leaned forward, his expression stern. “The birds say you lie, shade.”
“You got me,” Blederak said with an evil smile. “So? Maybe I did eat one or two Finlars, but they asked for it.”
The fibbers peeped shrilly again, and Blederak winced.
“Only the truth will silence them,” the centaur said.
The rock troll snarled with frustration. “Enough. You want the truth? I killed lots o’ Finlars, and not just ʼcause I was hungry. I killed ʼem ʼcause I liked it. Killing was fun.” His red eyes gleamed with malice. “Kron, the times I used to have, sneaking into villages at night and snagging the old ones from their beds. Or I’d wait by the river at dawn and catch the women at their washing.” He chuckled. “But, my favorite was the mablets. Easy as gutting a pig and tastier, too, young huu-mans.” He tapped his head with a claw. “But I was clever. Don’t get greedy, Blederak, I’d tell myself. Nab one at a time, and never from the same village twice. That way, they won’t catch on. I’d make a kill and go back into the mountains and wait. Bide my time. Make ʼem think they were safe.” He slashed his claws through the air. “Then I’d strike. Get in and out before they knowed what bit ʼem.”
“You weren’t worried you’d get caught?”
“How? I ate the evidence. Gnawed ʼem down to the bone. Gave what was left to the ogres to grind into bread.”
Brefreton looked slightly sick. “I see. Very clever.”
The judges put their heads together.
“We’ve heard enough,” Stavv said. “The witness may go.”
“Raine?” Brefreton said. “Time to send him back.”
Raine nodded. “Thank you, Blederak,” she said, striding up to the circle. “You’ve done the right thing. I’m sure you’ll rest easier for it.”
“Gah, Tidbit, spare me,” the rock troll said, and disappeared.
The judges withdrew to confer, and Raine heard raised voices in the tent. Two men were arguing—Stavv and Malryn?—and Ilgtha was barking rapidly in Trolk. The minutes ticked by. Finally, Malryn and Neld strode onto the green, their faces flushed with anger. The satyr was at their heels. Hedda leaned forward on her throne, her gaze on Malryn. He shook his head at the her, and Hedda’s mouth thinned. She sat back with an expression of disappointment.
Raine’s hopes soared. The queen’s displeasure was surely a good sign.
The field grew quiet as the judges resumed their places at the table, and Relkin blew the horn.
“Counsel and the accused will step forward,” Stavv said.
Chains rattling, Raven shuffled before the judges’ table, along with Brefreton and the Inquisitor.
“Reaven Gorne, you have confessed to killing a Kronling, thereby breaking the most sacred law of our people. The punishment for such crime is stoning.” There was an audible muttering from the crowd at this. Stavv raised his voice. “Such decree, however, must be unanimous, and the judges are not in accord, particularly in view of Blederak’s heinous and wanton crimes. The court rules six to three against stoning.”
Brefreton threw back his head with a shout. “By Rebe, we’ve done it. I was worried, I don’t mind telling you, but we’ve
done it.”
Gertie bounded out of the tent, snatched Brefreton up, and whirled him around. She gave him a sloppy kiss and set him down. “Thank you, Bree. I am in your debt.”
Brefreton was red in the face. “It was nothing. Couldn’t have done it without Raine.”
“Pet,” Gertie said, turning to Raine. “I don’t know how to—”
“Outrageous,” Gowyr said, interrupting the troll’s celebration with an indignant whinny. “I’ve had enough. This trial has been a farce.”
Twitching with wrath, the unicorn wheeled abruptly and trotted off the field. As Gowyr minced past the blind boy, his tail swished against the basket, sending it tumbling to the ground. The lid rolled away and the basilisk, a small brown lizard unremarkable but for a crown-shaped crest on its head, emerged with a hiss.
“Raine.” Shoving his guards aside, Raven jerked her into his arms and pressed her face to his chest. “Don’t look at it.”
Humans and monsters screamed and shouted, trampling one another to avoid the lizard.
“He can’t hurt you,” the boy cried. “He’s hooded.”
Raine lifted her head. Sure enough, the basilisk’s deadly gaze was shielded by a leather hood.
“There, my love,” the boy said, gently lifting the basilisk. “There, there.”
With a squeaky sigh, Gowyr collapsed on the ground.
“What is it?” the boy asked, his voice rising in alarm. “Did Hax lose his hood?”
Pushing her way through the crowd, Gertie knelt beside the downed unicorn.
“No,” she said. “ʼTwould seem the Inquisitor got a whiff of Hax’s breath. A basilisk’s gaze ain’t the only deadly thing about ʼim.”
“It’s not his fault,” the boy said, stroking the basilisk. “Something startled him. He’s usually quite gentle.”
Gertie snorted. “Tell that to Gowyr, if he lives.”
Two ogres lumbered out. The unicorn was lifted onto a makeshift gurney and taken away.
“Make sure the stable hands start him on bran mash mixed with dandelion and elderberry,” Gertie called after the ogres. “Like they’ll remember.” Shaking her head, she looked around. “Tiny? Where’s Tiny?”
A Muddle of Magic Page 43