Halls of Law

by V. M. Escalada

  It wasn’t long until they were in the main market square, empty on this particular day. Jak Gulder led them directly across to the administration building on the south side of the square, where he dismounted immediately. With an escort of three soldiers, he led both Dern Firoxi and Tel Cursar through the open left side of the wide double doors. On the closed right leaf was carved the Polity’s circle of laurel.

  As she waited her turn to be released from her bonds, Ker took note of the streets and alleys that opened into the square before turning her attention back to the building. Like military camps, these administrative buildings were set up in much the same way throughout the Polity, and for much the same reason. From here disputes would be settled, taxes collected, and food distributed in bad times.

  And prisoners would be held, suspects confined, until their cases were brought to justice and the Halls of Law.

  Ker refrained from kicking the man who was freeing her and taking off down the street. With the archers still mounted she wouldn’t get far, though she might have tried it if it hadn’t been for her friends. She had a clear idea of what was going to happen to her when she was brought before the Shekayrin. And if she didn’t, the defaced griffin symbol on the left door would have told her. The wood had been deeply scored, as though with an ax, though the edges of the cuts already showed weathering.

  Somewhere in this building there would have been a Talent’s office—maybe even a small suite of rooms, if the area overseen by this town was large enough. For a moment Ker wished she could remember the regional maps she was supposed to have memorized, back in Questin Hall. Somewhere in this building the Talents would have sat, writing reports, keeping records of disputes investigated, facts verified. Guilt confirmed, and innocence vindicated.

  An office like that one might have been in her own future, before the Halians came.

  It wasn’t a private office they were taken to now, however, but one of the semipublic rooms on the ground floor, a place where people would take their petitions or wait for appointments. The braziers were lit, and the room was noticeably warmer than the corridor. Thinlip knocked and entered; beyond him in the room Ker saw Tel Cursar, his back against the far wall, and her heart lifted. Then she saw the shrine, with only the single figure of the Son placed on it. What had happened to the Mother and Daughter?

  Tel caught her eyes and swung his to the left; Ker glanced over. To the right as they entered was the clerk’s long worktable, backing on windows whose shutters were open, allowing the early afternoon light to enter through cloudy glass panes. Dern Firoxi was there, sitting at the far end of the long table, as if he’d called a meeting. Jerek made a soft, abrupt sound and stiffened.

  It was only then Ker saw the man sitting with his hip propped on the edge of the table, negligently swinging one foot as he waited for them. He was dressed in a blue tunic, and a black cloak lay tossed across a chair. He was wearing a mail shirt under his tunic; she could see where he’d pushed the hood and lining back off his long, bony face. His short hair stood up in dark brown tufts. When he looked up from the roll of heavy paper he was studying, she saw that a sunflower had been tattooed around his left eye, simple, stylized, matching the badge on the front of his tunic.

  Suddenly Ker smelled smoke, saw a man in a black cloak signaling, the ax rising and falling, her own throat closing over a scream. She felt pressure just above the elbow, where Sala’s hand gripped her, holding her up as her legs turned to jelly. The Flash of the slaughter in the Hall was over so quickly—and this man wasn’t the same person, her fear had deceived her—maybe no one but Sala had noticed anything.

  Except for Tel. His hands had formed into fists, and even across the room she could see how his lips had tightened.

  “Lord Shekayrin, these are the prisoners, as you requested.” Jak was standing near Tel, not quite at attention. “Wynn Martan, an archer of the Eagle Wing.” His voice was dismissive, and Wynn wrinkled her nose. Jak gestured at Ker. “And this is the one I told you of.” He fell silent as the Halian lifted his hand, index finger extended.

  “Are all these men necessary?” he said. His voice was rough, but had a hint of humor in it. “The prisoners are unarmed and bound, are they not? You three—” He waggled his finger at the guards. “You may wait outside the door. See that we are not disturbed.”

  Ker realized this was the first time she’d ever heard any of the Halians speak. His accent was strange, though he spoke Faraman fluently. Paraste. Since her meeting with the griffin, it was becoming second nature for Ker to Flash people. Now she saw yellow, blue, and green, plus purple, and finally a strange webbing of red, not superimposed on his aura, as she’d seen it in Jak’s, but growing from within it, like the trunk and branches of a tree within the canopy of leaves.

  The Shekayrin looked directly at her, his eyes narrowing. As the guards cleared the room, he straightened to his feet and approached her, examining her closely from head to toe. Ker hastily thought her closing word.

  “She doesn’t look very dangerous, does she?” His long face was made squarer by a spade-cut beard that emphasized his bony cheeks and forehead. His skin was remarkably smooth.

  “She hasn’t been dangerous that I’ve seen,” Jak said. “Of course, she’s still a Candidate, so that might make a difference.”

  The man nodded and spoke without moving his eyes from Ker’s face. “And this last person?”

  “A Ma’lakan,” Jak said. “She acts like a soldier, but I believe they found her in the mines of the Serpents Teeth.”

  “The Serpents Teeth.” The Shekayrin swung away from Ker and approached Sala. “Have you seen anything like this?” He produced from an unseen pocket a jewel, the same deep red as the one Luca had shown them in the mines, but this one faceted. The shade of red, Ker saw, matched the tattoo on his face and the crest on his tunic.

  Ker felt a shudder rising through her and stiffened, clenching her teeth. She couldn’t be sure without Flashing him again, but the pattern of the jewel’s facets looked to be similar to the webbing she’d seen in his aura. Every hair on her body felt as if it was standing up, and nausea clutched at the back of her throat. Luca’s jewel had been inert, pretty, but a stone like any other. This one was the jewel as she’d Flashed it, active, and somehow alive. She felt a sudden warmth between her breasts flare up and die away. When she raised her bound hands to investigate, she felt the familiar shape of the griffin’s claw she’d been carrying next to her skin so long she’d forgotten it.

  She lowered her hands, linking her fingers together. Instinct told her she needed to disguise her reactions, to hide that she knew what she was looking at.

  Sala raised her eyes from the jewel in the Shekayrin’s hand and looked at him the sour way a teacher looks at a pupil who will bring her nothing but disappointment. Just as the man opened his mouth to ask again, Sala looked away, her eyes focused on the wall behind him, her face a mask.

  “No hurry.” He pocketed the jewel and turned to take them all in at once. “My name is Peklin Svann. I am the Sunflower Shekayrin recently placed in charge of this district,” he said. “You may think of me as having the same authority as one of your military governors.”

  Ker swallowed. A Polity military governor was answerable only to the Luqs. That meant he had the authority of life and death.

  “We will not be needing the boy,” he said to Jak. “One of the men at the door may take him away for now.”

  Jerek looked between her and the Shekayrin. “I’d rather stay.”

  Svann made a shooing gesture with the back of his hand as he settled himself again on the edge of the table. Jaw tight, Jerek left with his chin up, not waiting to be dragged like a child.

  Once he was out of the room Peklin Svann pointed at Tel.

  “Now, Gulder. You say there is some reason you have kept this young man separated from the others?” Svann smiled again, and Ker was surprised to see genuine f
eeling in it. His teeth were good.

  “Further contamination with the witch was my first concern, of course,” Jak said. “But I think it would be worth your while to jewel him, Lord Svann.”

  Wynn made an abrupt movement, like a horse shying from a fly, but the only sign that Tel was shaken was the slow closing of his left fist. Ker was ready to swear she herself hadn’t moved a muscle—but her intertwined fingers suddenly hurt.

  The Halian made a face. “‘Jewel’ is not a verb, Gulder. Nor is every stubborn Faraman soldier’s life worth preserving. Tell me why this one’s is.”

  “His long association with the young witch, if nothing else, can give us insight into their way of life, and their thinking.”

  “If you can tell me what any woman’s thinking, ever, you’re a better man than I.” Tel’s tone made Ker stifle a grin.

  Svann barked a short laugh, looking between Jak and Tel as if he were attending a stage play. “A good answer. I like it.”

  “He’s lived with the witch,” Jak persisted, “and he’s been through the mines of the Serpents Teeth. Twice.”

  “Jak’s just upset because they wouldn’t let him in.” Tel shrugged.

  Peklin Svann nodded, one foot beginning to swing. “Possible. But I find myself inclined to Gulder’s way of thinking. My lord,” Svann addressed Dern. “May I have you escorted to your suite? I fear this grows tedious for you.”

  “I suppose it does.” Dern took his time getting to his feet. Doesn’t want it to look as though he’s just been ordered out, Ker thought. She hoped her smile looked just as nasty as she felt.

  “What about Jerek,” she said to Dern Firoxi’s back. “What about your son?”

  Dern looked back into the room from the doorway. “Stepson,” he said, as the door closed.

  Jewel in his closed fist, the Shekayrin made a beckoning gesture and Tel jerked forward, walking with dragging feet to the chair placed close to the table. Once seated, he struggled as if to rise, but though nothing tied him down, it was clear he couldn’t stand. His head didn’t turn, but his eyes swiveled to meet Ker’s, and Ker shivered. She stepped forward, hands outstretched, but Sala hauled her back. Wynn had her hands clamped over her mouth.

  Jak came around to confront Kerida. “Don’t worry, witch. He’ll be free of you soon.”

  Ker bared her teeth, and deliberately spat on the floor, as close to him as she could get.

  Oblivious, Svann stood, idly blowing on the jewel, polishing it on the front of his tunic as he approached Tel.

  Tel stopped struggling and looked the man in the face.

  Svann gave a short nod, as if of approval, before reaching down and placing the flat side of the jewel against Tel’s forehead. Wynn, her eyes shut, tucked her head into the hollow of Sala’s shoulder, both women hunched up as if bracing for a blow. Ker was glad that Jerek had been sent away.

  At first she saw no change. Then Tel’s eyes opened wide—wide enough that she could see the whites all around. Paraste, she said, and instantly the room was filled with a kaleidoscope of colors. She concentrated, her hands in fists, and her teeth clenched. There! There was Tel’s aura, splashy and vibrant as always. Svann’s colors, steadier, less chaotic, became more distinct as well. Ker had already seen how yellow, blue, and green were common to all people, while Feelers and Talents had two additional colors, purple and orange. Now she realized that while Svann’s aura had purple in it, like any Talent or Feeler, it lacked orange, showing only the dominant network of red.

  Tel cried out and Ker found herself pushing against a barrier she could not see, her own aura lashing out to the colors just beyond her grasp. She clenched her teeth against the cry that wanted to escape her throat.

  Tel’s eyes were open again, his face contorted, the muscles and sinews of his neck standing out. The arms of the chair creaked under his grip. The colors of his aura twisted and contorted like living ropes. Their brightness was fading, and Ker feared the worst, but the movement subsided and Tel relaxed. Not all at once, but gradually, first his limbs, then his shoulders, his neck, his face, and finally his eyes stopped staring, and his eyelids fluttered, and he blinked.

  Tel’s colors swirled more slowly, steadied, passing through the jewel and back again, though the stone never changed from its solid red. The green and the yellow and the blue, strongly showing, pulled a thread of red with them, that folded back and forth, forming a familiar pattern, thrown like a net over Tel’s aura.

  Terestre. There was nothing more Ker wanted to Flash.

  “Would you like some water?” Tel licked his lips and nodded. The Shekayrin turned to the table for the cup and pitcher, poured, and offered the cup to Tel, watching him with narrowed eyes.

  Tel took the offered cup and drank from it, and all the time his eyes stayed on Svann’s tattooed face. Tel looked relaxed now, in a way Ker hadn’t seen since they’d first met in the kitchen at Questin. She raised her bound hands and pressed them to her mouth.

  “Sit quiet and relax, Tel Cursar. You’ll feel yourself again in a moment.”

  Tel looked at her then, and Ker’s heart stopped. He had the same familiar twinkle in his eye, and she leaned toward him, hoping that he had managed somehow to trick the Halian. But his changed aura was no trick. He knew her, but she wasn’t anyone important to him anymore. If anything, in fact, his look was measuring, calculating, distrustful. After what felt like forever he turned his eyes toward Sala, and an icy hand squeezed Ker’s heart. Tel pointed with a long index finger.

  “That one, she’s a Feeler.”

  • • •

  Ker was still on her feet. She hadn’t fainted. The taste of blood in her mouth meant she’d bitten her lower lip. Jak Gulder, his sword now in his hand, had moved to isolate Sala, and Ker found she was standing with her arms around Wynn.

  Svann propped himself back on the edge of the worktable and twirled his forefinger at Tel. “Tell me.”

  Ker did her best not to listen, but Tel hadn’t got very far into his explanation of their encounter with the Feelers in the mine when Svann held up his hand, stopping Tel abruptly. “I know of these. They are witches. A different type, perhaps, but witches nonetheless.”

  “The stories say Feelers and Talents are traditional enemies.” Jak’s eyes flicked between Svann and Sala.

  The Shekayrin stroked his beard with thumb and index finger. “Interesting. They were allies long ago, or so our histories tell us.”

  “Can we use the Feelers against the witches? If half what the stories say about their Gifts is true—”

  Svann shook his head. “There can be no common cause with those who use the magic of the body.” He turned back to Tel. “What are their numbers?”

  “We only saw a few, sir,” Tel said. “But she must know.” He pointed at Sala with his chin. “They said she’s a Far-thinker. I don’t know about that, but she’s head of their council.”

  Svann indicated the chair, and Jak herded Sala into it with the point of his sword. “Will you tell me your numbers?” he asked once she was seated.

  Sala did not react at all. It was as if Svann hadn’t spoken. The Feeler had the Far-thinking look, and Ker hoped she was communicating with Dersay. Maybe there was something the other Feelers could do, even at this distance. Maybe Weimerk was out there somewhere, and could help them somehow.

  “Your numbers?”

  Sala took in a deep breath through her nose and let it out again. Her eyebrows up, her lids low, the Far-thinker was the very image of a polite but bored person coming to the end of her patience.

  If the Shekayrin was annoyed, he didn’t show it. He took out the red jewel again, and the minutest smile flickered over Sala’s lips before her face returned to its impassive mask. Murmuring something Ker couldn’t hear, the Shekayrin placed the jewel on Sala’s forehead. Though her insides crawled, Ker lifted her arms from around Wynn. They had to be re
ady to take advantage of any opening that might occur while Svann was distracted. The Far-thinker would be the first to tell her to grab any chance to get away, even if it meant leaving Sala herself behind. Ker tensed, ready to bolt for the door. As if he’d been watching her, Tel placed himself in front of it.

  Both Feeler and Shekayrin were still as statues, Sala with her face turned upward, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. She was shorter than Tel, and her head pressed against the chair, prevented from tilting any farther back. Svann stood over her, a look of mild curiosity on his face, exactly like what Ker had often seen on the face of her Hall teachers, when they waited for one of the students to complete some classroom task. Polite, nonjudging, patient. He touched the jewel to Sala’s forehead.

  Ker took a deep breath. Paraste. The room filled with color once more.

  Red lines—red must be the mark of the Shekayrin—reached toward Sala, and her aura moved to enclose her in a loose sphere of pulsing color through which Ker could only dimly Flash her. The sphere solidified further as the red lines continued to probe and stab, finally forming into an opaque multicolored orb with Sala at its center.

  Ker’s heart rose as she saw Svann’s red begin to withdraw, unable to penetrate Sala’s shield. But her satisfaction quickly died. The strands of red reformed into a net, and became thicker, completely enveloping the orb that sheltered Sala. Before Ker could finish taking a breath, the net contracted, and the orb of Sala’s aura shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Ker threw up her arms to shield her face from the flying shards of color only she could see.

  The red net sank through Sala’s skin, and suddenly every muscle in her body contracted. The sinews and tendons in her neck and face stood out in rigid relief, so clearly that the Feeler looked flayed. There was a dull cracking sound, and a bend appeared in Sala’s right arm between elbow and wrist as the paired bones broke.