Hands of Flame

by C. E. Murphy

  “Grace, what did you—”

  “I said don’t ask, didn’t I?” The vigilante woman pulled away, more awkward than he’d ever seen her. “We all have our secrets, Korund. Let me keep mine.”

  Alban let his hand fall. Grace stopped on the far side of the room, arms folded beneath her breasts as she turned back with challenge in her gaze. “Margrit asked what you were,” he said softly. “The first time we met, under my Trinity chambers. I said you were human. I wasn’t wrong.” The last words formed a question, though the inflection supported Alban’s confidence in Grace’s answer.

  She shook her head, one sharp motion, and after a moment, Alban nodded. It took longer to quell curiosity and bow to her wishes rather than ask more questions. Margrit would be proud of him for at least wondering. The thought brought a brief smile to the fore as he spoke. “Very well. I’ll only thank you, then, not press you.” He folded a hand at the back of his neck, massaging muscle that still held strain from captivity. “But perhaps I’m coming to learn that some burdens are easier borne when shared.”

  “Ah, and don’t I know it. But you’re not the one for Grace to make her confessions to, gargoyle. Someday, maybe, you’ll hear it all.”

  “Until then I am in your debt.”

  Grace tweaked a smile that did away with some of the fatigue written on her face. “Now that’s a thing I like the sound of, Alban Korund. Pity there’ll be no collecting that debt in the ways that would be most fun.”

  “You are incorrigible, Grace.”

  “A girl’s got to have her fun somehow.” Grace flashed a brighter smile, clearly recovering from whatever she’d done to free him, and just as clearly relieved Alban had agreed not to pursue it. He thought she would have to find some kind of answer to offer the tribunal, as a woman with the ability to break a captive gargoyle free would be of interest to all of them, but he, at least, could respect her wishes.

  “Are you ready?”

  “No.” Alban exhaled, then shook off his human form for the gargoyle. “No, not at all, but it seems I have very little choice. So be it. Take me to my leaders.”

  Grace was still chortling over that as she led him into the trial chamber, the same room he and Margrit had been brought to a few months earlier when Grace had first apprehended them in her tunnels. Now, though, there were no human children littered about, but, rather, more denizens of the Old Races than Alban had seen in one place in centuries, save the selkie show of strength a few weeks earlier.

  Six gargoyles presided, none of them friends. Amongst them, dividing them, sat Chelsea Huo, her apple-wizened face calm and her nut-brown eyes dark with sorrow.

  Janx and Daisani sat together, an unusual show of camaraderie for two ancient rivals. The gesture filled Alban with pleased bemusement; he had hardly expected to see either of them, much less presenting a front. Both inclined their heads in acknowledgment as Alban entered; it was more than the tribunal itself had done.

  Opposite them, on the other end of the gargoyle arc, stood a scattered handful of djinn and selkies. Alban knew none of them, save one: the amber-eyed male who had recently held Rebecca Knight’s heart in his hand, and who had only been stopped from doing murder by a vampire’s blood. That he was there; that anyone beyond the gargoyle tribunal was there, sent a warning through Alban. There was more at stake than just his exile.

  Grace was the only human in the room. Regret seized Alban’s heart and held it a long beat, then slipped away in a moment of clarity. It was better, perhaps, for Margrit to not attend. She would only be frustrated with his course of action, and he had no real wish for her to see him condemned. That he stood so bore less shame than watching her as his people made it moot.

  A shift signaled the last arrival’s entrance. Alban followed a dozen people’s attention as it turned to the other door in the room, knowing who he would see. He stood, in part to lord his height over Biali, and in part to make certain the other gargoyle saw Alban was free of chains.

  The scarred gargoyle faltered in his stride as he entered, curled lip losing some of its sneer as he took in Alban’s unbound form. Alban permitted himself a faint smile that darkened Biali’s countenance again, and he stalked across the room to take up a position opposite Alban. For a few seconds the room was still, each being present sizing up the others and assessing the power balance. Then one of the gargoyles shifted, drawing attention to himself, and spoke in a voice like flowing lava, hot and deep.

  “Who calls this tribunal?”

  “I do.” Grace stood, all human cockiness and casual challenge. “I’m called Grace O’Malley, and it’s me who’s brought you here to decide Alban Korund’s fate, and Biali Kameh’s, too. These are my tunnels, gargoyle. I’d ask you to name yourself, so me and mine might welcome you.”

  “I am Eldred of the clan Casmir, and as eldest of the gargoyles present, accept your call and your welcome.” Eldred bowed his head in polite admission while Alban studied him, interest piqued well outside the matter of his own trial. He had harvested the gargoyle memories for the histories of the selkies’ disappearance, and it had been this resplendently voiced gargoyle who was the last to speak with those people before they went into the sea. The memory Alban had investigated had been from Eldred’s point of view, and Eldred himself unseen in it. Still, Alban had gathered a sense of the gargoyle, and he seemed aged with sorrow, tempered with more compassion than he had been centuries earlier when he’d bid a friend goodbye.

  “Who brings complaint against Alban of the clan Korund, called the Breach?” Eldred went on without heed to Alban’s consideration, and Biali stepped forward, radiating smug anger.

  “I do. Biali of the clan Kameh, and my complaint is the death of one of our own.”

  Though they had to know the charges being brought against him, the gargoyles hardened, interest draining from their gazes and leaving stony outrage behind. “You wouldn’t have known her,” Biali growled. “She was Hajnal’s daughter, called Ausra, and grew up outside of our enclaves. She died at Korund’s hands, for attacking a human. I have it from his memories, and offer them to the histories as proof.”

  Eldred turned to Alban. “What say you to the charges?”

  “They’re true.”

  Astonishment rippled through the watchers, gargoyle or not, so palpably that unexpected humor burst within Alban’s breast. He had never considered speaking anything but the truth; it seemed others had never imagined he might, or that such a crime could be committed. Janx’s mouth tightened, less with surprise than caution, and sympathy burned Alban’s humor to a cinder. Alban’s condemnation for Ausra’s death could too easily lead to an inquiry of Malik’s, and the guilt there was spread wide. Eldred lifted a hand, silencing the gathered Old Races, and considered Alban. “Have you nothing more to say?”

  Alban turned his palms up. “I believe madness held Ausra in its grip, and that all our people were endangered by her, but that wasn’t what drove me to act. She’d murdered four human women in a matter of days and a score of others over fifteen decades. She had another human life in her hands, and I chose the human woman over her. I would do so again,” he added more softly, then raised his voice again to say, “but we’ve never, as a people, considered motive, only results. I am guilty of the crime as accused, and moreover, will not stand the trials.”

  Fresh shock rocked the meeting room, disbelief erupting from the gargoyles and quiet disapproval marking Chelsea Huo’s expression. Daisani danced fingertips against his lips as if hiding a smile, and Janx, beside him, did smile and gave Alban a slow nod of appreciation when he glanced that way.

  Biali’s fury roared above the others, cry of a man denied his vengeance. Eldred, too dignified to shout, stood and waited on his presence to calm the chattering group. “Unusual, but not unprecedented,” he murmured. “I must then ask if there is another who will stand in your place as your second.”

  Alban drew breath to deny it, and then finally, finally, finally, came Margrit, her voice clear and steady ove
r the tribunal’s murmur and Biali’s open scorn. Aghast, Alban turned from the tribunal to look toward the doorway she was framed by.

  Grace had to have helped her with the clothes. He’d never seen Margrit dressed in leather before, but her easy, confident stance made her a creature of desire and caution all at once. All that was feminine had been left behind, leaving only the female, deadly in appearance indeed.

  Her thick hair was tamed and knotted into a twist at the back of her head, showing off the strong lines of her face. The jacket she wore was fitted but not constricting, leather old enough to move easily, heavy enough to protect. It was zipped now, and a pattern of silver studs splashed over the arms and chest, marking it as belonging to Mariah, Alban’s favorite among Grace’s teens. Alban was torn between gratitude that the girl’s clothes fit Margrit, and dismay that she had cause to don what were all too clearly fighting leathers. She wore pants of the same well-fitted, heavy material, and boots sturdy enough to add an inch or more to her height without in any way being heels. She was dangerous and beautiful, and broke away from the framing doorway to stalk before the tribunal, and repeat the words that had shot dread through Alban’s heart.

  “I will.”

  FOURTEEN

  ONE GARGOYLE AMONGST the jury was on his feet, an elegant creature whose stony gray hair and craggy features made him seem older, to Margrit’s eyes, than his brethren. He watched Margrit with quiet patience, waiting for the room to fall silent again. She nodded to him and his eyes creased just slightly, as if he was amused or pleased by her acknowledgment.

  None of the other gargoyles paid her particular heed, though she was obviously the center of their discussion. There were five of them, ranging in size from two women with Valkyrie-broad shoulders to a lanky blond whose form was so different from the gargoyles Margrit knew he might have been of another race. The one on his feet was heavyset, not Biali’s aging prizefighter in form, but bulky in a way that suggested muscle and strength rather than fat running out of hand.

  None of them were as pure a pale as Alban, though none of them had Hajnal’s loamy tint, either. Margrit fought the urge to look toward Alban, bringing up his alabaster skin tone in her mind instead, and comparing it to the varied shades of light stone the tribunal shared. Of the gargoyles she’d seen and met, only Biali’s stark, unmarred white came close to Alban’s alabaster, and now that Margrit had others to liken them to, she could tell that Alban’s color was delicate, almost translucent, where Biali’s was hard and relentless.

  One of the gargoyles leaned toward Chelsea Huo to speak to her, and even in outrage, moved with the fluidity that marked members of the Old Races. The tiny bookseller looked at ease amongst the gargoyles, easily as comfortable as she’d been standing with selkies and djinn that morning. Only that morning, Margrit realized with astonishment. The day, even with a nap, had gone on forever.

  Daisani was scowling at Janx, who had kicked back and folded his hands behind his head, eminently pleased with himself. Even the handful of selkies and djinn talked animatedly, accusing gestures thrown Margrit’s way. She felt unexpectedly at home: she’d spent years as an advocate of lost causes. Law school hadn’t prepared her to stand a medieval trial as the defendant, but this was a courtroom like any other.

  “Margrit, you cannot do this.” Alban’s voice, low with strain, came from a few feet behind her. Margrit glanced at the gathering, and, confident they’d continue their arguments for a few minutes longer, turned to face Alban with a rueful smile.

  “Actually, I can. Your traditions allow for a second. Very human of you.” Her smile grew, cockiness transcending concern. “Or maybe very gargoyle of us. I wonder. Either way, Janx told me about the loophole, so here I am.” Margrit bit her lip, wanting to step closer but afraid moving farther would attract the tribunal’s attention. Uncomfortably aware there might not be a chance afterward, she was reluctant to break up their brief chance to speak before the trial.

  “Had I known you would take this sort of rash action—”

  “You would’ve tried talking me out of it, but you wouldn’t have changed your stance, because you believe you’re right just as much as I believe I am. I’ve got to give you credit for consistency, anyway.” Margrit moved closer after all, offering Alban her hand. He took it as though she were fragile, rubbing his thumb against her palm. She shivered at the spill of warmth and relaxation, a core of heat lighting at the touch. Folding her hand around his, she lifted it and kissed his knuckles, leaving her mouth against his skin as she spoke again. “You drive me crazy, you know that? Sticking with your traditions, upholding your laws, believing in them regardless of personal cost, or, yeah, maybe because of personal cost. I’m going to have to learn to live with that, aren’t I?”

  Alban lowered his head toward hers, making a private space between them. His scent wasn’t as clean as she was accustomed to, with a hint of aged dust and stone, but its familiarity, like the courtroom setting, was comforting. “I’m afraid so.”

  Margrit nodded, then tipped her chin up to smile at her serious-gazed gargoyle. “I can do that. But I can’t stop fighting for what I think is right just because we disagree.” She kissed his knuckles again and stepped back, eyebrows arched in mild challenge. “So I’m going to do my damnedest to clear your name, whether you like it or not. You can figure out your retribution later.”

  “Margrit, my retribution isn’t what you should be concerned about. You cannot fight Biali. He’ll kill you.”

  “I don’t think so.” Margrit spoke with more assurance than she felt, hoping Alban couldn’t read the tremor that ran through her. “He said once he preferred fair fights, not ambushing women in the dark.”

  “You put too much faith in our honor. First Janx, now Biali. It’s—” Alban broke off, exasperated rue flattening his mouth before he sighed. “It’s a very bad idea.”

  “You keep telling me that.” Margrit lit a smile, bright for the moment before it turned to uncertainty. “It’s a bad idea, but it’s the best one I’ve got, and if I put too much faith in the Old Races’ honor, it’s because I met the most honorable of you first. You’re a hard act to follow, Alban Korund.”

  The noise around them settled, leaving Margrit’s last words hanging in the air much too loudly. She pressed her eyes closed as blood rushed to her cheeks, then turned to face the assembly with a grimace. Janx, still kicked back, grinned openly, and her embarrassment faded beneath the desire to give in to a giggle. Reminding herself she stood in a court of law, she dragged her expression back under control and lifted her chin to meet the tribunal’s gazes.

  “The gargoyle trials have been explained to me,” she said before anyone else spoke. “A three-part test of what I understand to be essentially strength, sense and sentiment, to be undertaken to prove innocence in the face of evidence. I’m aware of the risks and willing to undergo the trial on Alban of the clan Korund’s behalf. I also gather,” she added a bit more dryly as Alban caught his breath to protest, “that having forfeited his willingness to participate himself, the defendant isn’t permitted to object to someone else partaking for him.”

  “I can.” Biali’s voice dropped to a dangerous rumble, like the distant precursor to a rock slide. “My fight’s not with the lawyer. I want Korund.”

  “You’ll have me. Margrit, this—”

  “You have refused the trial.” Eldred overrode Alban’s protest implacably. “The decision is no longer yours.”

  “It is the wrong decision!” Echoes thundered around the concrete and stone room. Margrit flinched, hands knotting at her sides. She was unaccustomed to hearing Alban lift his voice in anger, and it was easy to forget that breadth of chest could lend his words so much power.

  “That,” Eldred said, “is something you might have considered earlier. You have forfeited your place, and you will remain silent or be removed from the grounds until the trial is over.”

  Alban growled low in his throat, lifting hairs on Margrit’s arms, but he said nothing else
. Biali smirked, clearly pleased enough to see Alban put in his place that he clearly forgot for a moment that he, too, had been thwarted. That realization wiped pleasure from his face a few seconds later, and his gaze went hard and calculating as he turned it to Margrit.

  Trying to regulate her heartbeat was useless. It leapt out of her control, making a ball of sickness in her throat and flushing her body with heat. Challenging Biali was a gamble. Not a bluff, but a tactic counting on honor that, despite her arguments to Alban, Margrit wasn’t certain Biali possessed. He had lost two women he loved to Alban. Margrit’s life might seem a fair exchange, a way for him to make Alban suffer the way he had.

  His nostrils flared and his mouth thinned with dislike. “You’re afraid, lawyer. I can smell it.”

  “Of course I’m afraid. I’m reckless, not stupid.” Admitting it aloud lent Margrit some strength. She pulled her shoulders back, heart rate calming as she drew a deep breath. Then humor and honesty swept her, and she added, “Maybe a little stupid.”

  A rush of quiet laughter ran around the room, bypassing the gargoyles but touching the others. Frustration contorted Biali’s scarred face and he made a throwaway gesture. “Fighting her proves nothing. A human stands no chance against me.”

  Margrit, hands still knotted at her sides, said, “Not that I’m especially looking forward to being pulverized, but isn’t the point of this to see who dominates in the trial? The one who wins two out of three is forgiven in the eyes of God, right? Wouldn’t clobbering me put you one step ahead of the game?”

  Disgust so profound it bordered on pity wrinkled Biali’s face. “It would prove nothing.” He turned to the tribunal, a note of slyness coming into his voice. “If a second can stand in Korund’s place, then I can request a second for mine.”