Trials of the Twiceborn (The Songreaver's Tale Book 6)

by Andrew Hunter

  Garrett sighed, giving the brassy little fairy a weary glower.

  “Come on, Garrett,” Haven laughed, slipping his golden necromancer medallion over his head and buckling on his sword belt, “Try to look imposing. You are the Songreaver after all, and these people came all this way to see the show.”

  Garrett reached up to tug his hood low over his eyes, squinting against the brightness of the sun. “All right,” he said, “Let’s go.”

  He fought the urge to scratch at his wrist where the splint had been and forced himself to walk at a solemn pace with his eyes straight ahead. He felt the eyes of every fae watching him pass as he followed Shortgrass toward the town square with Haven at his side. As he approached the large space between the houses and shops of Plank, he knew this was not going to be an informal meeting with the three emissaries.

  A huge crowd of fae folk, including quite a few talking animals of various sizes and shapes, had gathered around the square and were busily discussing the imminent arrival of the new Songreaver. Garrett’s group, with the exception of the northmen and Cenick, who remained with the troops north of the town, stood talking together along the right side of the town square. The ghouls and Mujah stood with lady Ymowyn, who seemed to be engaged in a merry conversation with Mink and Luma. Apparently, her dislike of their elder, Warren’s uncle, did not extend to the White Pack as a whole. Caleb and the three fairies who had accompanied Garrett on the campaign now looked on as Timan the satyr conversed with a group of fauns, shorter than the goat-faced satyr, but sharing a similar hooved and horned physiology.

  On the opposite side of the courtyard sat the three emissaries of the Amber Court. Lady Browelle, the dryad, sat upon a large chair, wreathed in flowering vines, her eyes upon Garrett as he entered the square. To her left sat Mualip on a low stool. The little selkie was doing his best to eat a slice of berry pie and chat with a laughing centaur at the same time. Larz, the stone dwarf, or rather giant in Garrett’s estimation, still towered over the rest though he sat on the cobblestones beside Lady Browelle’s chair. He seemed to have dozed off, and Garrett could hear the rock giant’s rumbling snores even above the excited murmur that spread through the crowd at Garrett’s appearance.

  “We saved ya a seat!” Shortgrass exclaimed, beckoning Garrett toward an overturned wagon on the far side of the square, upon which someone had placed the enormous, padded leather chair that he now recognized from the parlor of the mayor’s house. It sat at a higher level than everyone, save the flying wisps and Larz the stone dwarf, and someone had taken the trouble to decorate it with a half dozen human skulls, affixed to its arms and backrest. A single horned auroch skull had been propped upon the crown of the makeshift throne, and streamers of black cloth lay draped over the piles of random bones heaped around the legs of the chair.

  “Really?” Garrett sighed.

  “I think it looks nice,” Haven said, struggling to keep a straight face.

  Garrett smiled and waved at the assembled throngs of fae folk and his friends as well. All of them seemed pleased at his appearance, waving back or shouting their approval, save Lady Browelle who simply watched him with narrowed eyes and Larz who snorted awake, blinking in confusion at the noise that had roused him.

  “Hail the Songreaver!” Lady Ymowyn cried, and Garrett’s other friends joined in, shouting, “Songreaver,” over and over again, until most of the faefolk had taken up the chant as well.

  Garrett spared a glance toward the emissaries to find Lady Browelle looking fairly unamused, but Mualip and Larz, apparently caught up in the moment, had joined in the common cry.

  Garrett nodded his appreciation as Haven helped him climb atop the overturned wagon and ascend his throne. He turned and bowed to the assembly, not really knowing what else to do, and then he sat down upon the chair to the thunderous applause of hundred of hands, claws, and paws.

  Lady Browelle stood and moved to stand before the dusty fountain in the middle of the town square. Mualip and Larz hastened to follow her, taking their places, standing to either side of her as she faced Garrett.

  “The Amber Court brings you greetings, Garre’Thul, Deathlord of the Gloaran Wastes!” the dryad woman hailed him.

  “Thank you,” Garrett said, still fidgeting as he tried to find a comfortable place to set his hands. Someone had nailed skulls to his armrests.

  “I, Lady Browelle of the Stoneroot Council, as well as Sir Mualip of the Blacksilt tribe and Sir Larz of the Onyx Halls, have been sent to investigate reports of your status as a potential Songreaver.”

  The voice in Garrett’s mind chuckled quietly.

  “We have yet to render our judgment in this regard,” Lady Browelle said, her voice dispassionate and cool, “At this time, do you have anything to say in your defense?”

  “Defense?” Garrett laughed, “Am I on trial here?”

  Lady Browelle’s eyes flashed as she regarded him sternly. “If these allegations are proven true, then you are in possession of a power that was never meant to be wielded by human hands, a power stolen from its rightful owners and put to terrible use in ages past. If, instead, you are proven to be merely a charlatan, pretending to power that you do not posses, then you have lied to agents of the Amber Court and wasted valuable time and resources of the Court, a crime that would not go unpunished!”

  A hushed murmur passed through the crowd. Garrett looked over to see the ghouls and Lady Ymowyn baring their teeth in response to the dryad’s threats. Even Caleb, as stony-faced as ever in his Cashuunite headdress, now lowered his cold dead hand to the grip of the dagger on his belt.

  “I ask again, Lord Garre’Thul,” Lady Browelle cried, “Have you anything to say in your defense?”

  Mualip and Larz regarded their companion with looks of concern but held their peace.

  You could unmake her where she stands, the Spellbreaker’s voice rumbled in Garrett’s thoughts.

  Garrett pushed the thought aside, but what little good humor his few hours of sleep had earned him was now rapidly dissipating in the heat of the dryad woman’s gaze.

  “Look,” Garrett sighed, “I’ve already freed a lot of people from the vampire spells that kept them locked up. If you wanna talk to them, I’m sure they’d be happy to tell you.”

  “I for one!” Shortgrass snapped, “and at least t’ree others on hand this very moment!”

  Sender, Mila, and Pock all flew to join Shortgrass at the foot of Garrett’s throne with angry looks on their little faces.

  “And we’ve all seen him do it too!” Warren shouted, joined by an angry chorus of ghoulish growls.

  “The testimony of these witnesses has been and will continue to be taken into consideration!” Lady Browelle shouted, “Nevertheless, even if we are to concede that this human may... may be the Songreaver, what assurances do we have that he is not simply another raving beast like the one known as Spellbreaker before him?”

  Raving beast? Brahnek’s voice hissed in Garrett’s mind, Oh, I’ll show you a raving beast, you mud-spawned twig-shrew!

  Garrett found himself suddenly on his feet, fighting an intense urge to freeze Lady Browelle’s roots to the ground, or whatever she used for feet beneath her glossy leafed dress. After a long moment, he was able to finally master the Spellbreaker’s rage within him and lifted his hands, palms open before him as he slowly lowered himself into his seat again.

  “Even now, he struggles to control his anger,” Lady Browelle said, raising her hand toward Garrett, “How could this human... this boy, ever hope to wield this power without being corrupted and destroyed by it as was the weak-willed human before him... the same human who took the life of our dear sister Elaraenu, Queen of Padras’Aal!”

  “You will not speak her name again!” Garrett shouted, on his feet again with a crackling tongue of blue flame leaping from his extended finger and a rolling mist of icy vapors pouring from his snarling lips.

  Lady Browelle smiled in triumph as she curtseyed slightly toward Garrett’s throne. “We meet
at last, Spellbreaker,” she said with her lips curled in a look of disgust.

  Garrett brought his left hand to his face, shaking off the Spellbreaker’s will as the flames flickered out on his lowering right hand.

  “Yeah,” Garrett sighed, sinking into his chair again, “I’m the Spellbreaker... I’m also the Songreaver, the Kingslayer, and whatever else you wanna call me.”

  Lady Browelle smirked triumphantly.

  “But one thing I am not...” Garrett said, his eyes shadowed in the cowl of his hood, “I’m not a boy anymore.”

  Lady Browelle started to speak again, but Garrett interrupted her.

  “You wanna know what kind person I am?” he said, “Fine, you’re welcome to stick around and watch the show, and anytime you think you’d be a better Songreaver than me, you’re free to try to take it from me.”

  “I am not challenging you to single combat, you Son of Dust!” the dryad hissed, “It is the Amber Court you must answer to!”

  “Yeah, whoever they are, I don’t care!” Garrett shouted, “And judging by the way they’ve taken care of their people, I’m not feelin’ all that threatened right now!”

  The ghouls gave a hearty laugh of appreciation.

  Shortgrass and the other fairies dove to the side as Lady Browelle hurled a sizzling bolt of fairy magic at Garrett’s chest.

  Garrett shrugged off the spell with a sneer of disdain.

  “Didn’t work, did it?” Shortgrass laughed, as Lady Browelle stared in wide-eyed shock.

  Garrett saw the terrified faces of the fae folk assembled in the square. Here and there, some of the younger ones were crying, held tightly by parents who looked on the verge of tears themselves. He stood again, smiling at them all as he pulled his hood back to reveal his face.

  “I am a monster,” he said, turning slowly to look at them all, “but I swear to you... I’m a good monster. If anyone ever tries to hurt you, ever tries to lock you in a cage and treat you like something they own... I’ll break that cage... I swear to you... you don’t have to be afraid of that anymore, because I’m your friend, and I’m way scarier than the monsters that you’re afraid of.”

  He watched as hundreds of eyes blinked, watching him in stunned silence.

  Pock flew forward with Mila at his side. He took her hand in his and lifted it as he shouted, “Songreaver!”

  “Songreaver!” shouted the ghouls, and soon the crowd joined in, repeating the chant.

  Lady Browelle regarded Garrett with smoldering contempt as he sat down again, pulling his hood back on. Haven looked up at him with a smile. Garrett didn’t really feel like smiling. The dryad’s words had hit a little too close to their mark.

  “Songreaver?” Mualip shouted in between the chants of the surrounding crowd.

  Garrett raised his head, looking toward the little selkie.

  “Songreaver, please!” Mualip cried.

  Shortgrass and the other fairies waved for silence, and soon the chanting of the people died away as the selkie stepped forward to address the throne.

  “We want to believe,” Mualip said, “We really do... we want to believe that you’re a good person... that your heart is true enough to be worthy of our trust, but...”

  “But what?” Garrett asked.

  “Show us,” Larz rumbled. The stone-skinned giant stepped forward with his enormous hands spread imploringly.

  “How?” Garrett asked.

  Mualip looked toward a small group of centaurs at the edge of the square and nodded. Two of them galloped away, reappearing a short time later, leading the captured Astorran girl by a cord bound around her wrist.

  A sick feeling went through Garrett’s stomach as he watched them lead the haggard, dark-haired girl into the center of the square. She still had the glazed look of someone bespelled, and followed her captors without protest or resistance.

  Haven shot Shortgrass a dangerous look, and the fairy raised his hands helplessly with a pained expression on his face.

  “This shufflefoot tried to kill you,” Mualip said, gesturing toward the girl, “We know that such crimes are often punished harshly among your kind, but I beg leniency on her behalf, Songreaver!”

  “You want me to let her go?” Garrett asked.

  Haven hissed through her teeth as she glanced back at Garrett with a silent warning.

  “We ask only that you give her a fair trial, Songreaver,” the selkie asked hesitantly, “as she would be tried among our kind... show us that you understand the nature of justice.”

  Garrett scoffed and looked away. “Sure, why not?” he laughed, “You wanna have a trial right now?”

  “If it pleases you, Songreaver,” Mualip said, bowing slightly.

  Lady Browelle snorted dismissively.

  “And here I t’ought the day would be insufferably dull!” Shortgrass laughed, “I suppose you’ll be tha girl’s advocate, Drypaw?”

  “Well... yes, if none other steps forward,” Mualip answered.

  “Done, then, Counselor Drypaw!” Shortgrass cried, “You kin make yer openin’ statement.”

  “Oh... ah,” the selkie sighed looking to his big friend Larz.

  Larz only shrugged his stony shoulders in response.

  “Well then...” Mualip said, searching the ground with his watery eyes for inspiration, “I suppose we might let the girl speak in her own defense... hear her side of the story... if that’s all right.”

  “Ya want me ta take tha cosheili off her?” Shortgrass grumbled.

  “Yes... if it isn’t too difficult,” Mualip said, smiling hopefully.

  “You ready ta dodge thrown knives and flyin’ insults?” he asked, looking back at Garrett over his shoulder.

  “Why not?” Garrett sighed, feeling utterly sick to his stomach now.

  Haven pulled the knife from her belt and shook the tension from her neck as she prepared to defend the throne.

  “Well then... this should be fun,” Shortgrass laughed nervously.

  One of the centaurs cut the cords binding the girl’s wrists at Mualip’s urging and then cantered clear, leaving the bewitched Astorran alone beside the nervous-looking selkie.

  Shortgrass took a deep sigh and then whispered something in Fae.

  The Astorran girl swayed a little on her feet, blinking a few times as she slowly came to her senses again. She started a little at the sight of the short, fur-covered creature standing beside her.

  “Hello,” the selkie said with a tenuous smile on his dog-like lips, “My name is Mualip, and I’m here to help you.”

  “What?” she gasped, looking around at the crowd of curious fae folk surrounding the square, “Where am I?” Her eyes rose to Garrett’s throne then, and she sneered in rage.

  “We, ah... would like to hear your side of the story,” Mualip said, “They’ve given us a chance to explain things about... well... your intentions.”

  “My intentions?” the dark-haired girl scoffed, “I intend to kill your master for murdering my lord.”

  “I serve no master, miss,” the selkie said “I, as well as my two companions here, are emissaries of the Amber Court, if you are familiar with it.”

  “I am not,” the girl hissed, her eyes still upon Garrett.

  “Ah, well, we do not serve the Songreaver, as such, and are more like, ah, impartial observers in the matters at hand,” Mualip said with a little wave of his paws.

  “Serve him or not, you share the camp of a murderer and a fiend!” the girl snapped, jabbing an accusing finger at Garrett.

  Garrett sank back a little into the shadow of his hood.

  “Well, ah, be that as it may,” Mualip said, flashing a thin smile at Garrett, “We have asked him to allow you a fair trial before passing sentence upon you, and he has, ah, graciously consented.”

  “A trial?” the girl scoffed, “It is he who should be on trial here!”

  Lady Browelle gave a bitter laugh as she glowered at Garrett as well.

  “Well, if you have evidence to, ah, implicate him
for any crime which might justify your attempt upon his life,” Mualip sighed, “now would be... well... a good time to share it with us.”

  “Evidence?” the girl shouted, “All the world saw him strike my lord down! A hundred witnesses would swear to his guilt!”

  “That was not murder,” spoke a grim voice from the doorway of a nearby house.

  Garrett turned in surprise to see Sir Baelan emerge into the light. The captured knight wore a simple linen tunic, his face freshly shaven and his hair closely cropped.

  “Sir Baelan!” the Astorran girl cried, taking a step toward the knight before stopping herself as the joyful expression on her face dissolved into a look of suspicion.

  Sir Baelan paused at the edge of the square as the fae folk stepped aside to let him pass. “Deathlord,” the knight addressed Garrett, “may I speak?”

  “Sure,” Garrett said, giving the man a slightly confused look as he waved him into the square.

  “You pay homage to the enemy now, Sir Baelan?” the girl demanded, snarling with rage.

  “I am hostage, bound by oath until released by my captors,” Sir Baelan explained as he approached the captive girl.

  “And what of your oath to your king?” she cried with tears in her eyes.

  “What of yours, Mirion?” Sir Baelan shouted, stunning the crowd with his anger, “How dare you dishonor Sir Jons’s memory so?”

  “Dishonor?” she sobbed, “I never...”

  “What would he think of you, sneaking about like a common cutthroat, Mirion?” Baelan shouted, “Would you stain his noble blade with the blood of a foe slain in his bed?”

  “He killed him, Baelan!” the girl known as Mirion wept, pointing her shaking hand at Garrett, “He cut him down like a dog!”

  “No, Mirion,” Sir Baelan sighed, his big shoulders sagging slightly, “Sir Jons fell in honorable combat with a worthy foe.”

  “You call him worthy?” Mirion hissed, spitting tears through her teeth, “The man that stabbed our king in the back?”