A Season of Rendings Page 16

  "That's all right. Blesséd sehk," he repeated. "Syn, that's . . . you're a genius."

  "I know!" She restrained her smile, but her eyes were shining. She beamed at him, beautiful and glowing, and he tried to kiss her.

  He didn't mean to. The impulse rose and for once—because he was tired or hungry or giddy—he didn't tamp it down fast enough. It felt indulgent and whimsical, a scene from a silly romance—

  —and she actually dodged him. Recoiled like he was a snapping troll, her smile curdling into horror.

  Not surprise. Not scandal.

  Horror.

  "What―" She wiped her lips. Actually wiped her lips, and he hadn't even touched her. "What are you doing?" As if the act, coming from him, was so bizarre as to be unrecognizable.

  "Nothing. Nothing. Sorry." His face was on fire, his neck and scalp and ears. "I'm just . . . hungry."

  Hungry? Did you just say you're hungry? So, what, you were trying to eat her face?

  Kirith a'jhul! You sehking idiot, what in Hel is wrong with you?

  He lurched past her, burning with shame, breaking into a near-jog. She didn't try to stop him; she was too stunned, still reeling from his—

  "Ma'am?" a man called from behind them. "Is that nog bothering you?"

  The words crashed into him like a hammer to the skull. Are you joking? some delirious voice whined in his head. Is this a joke?

  Is that nog bothering you?

  The question echoed in his head, stealing between the chopping blows of his headache, chasing him down the street.

  Is that nog bothering you?

  That nog?

  Is that nog bothering you?

  "Angbar!" Syntal finally called. "Angbar, wait!"

  He sped up, his feet catching a life of their own.

  "Ma'am!" the man called again. "Are you a'fin?"

  "What?" Syntal sounded confused. "No, I'm well, I know him. Angbar! Wait!"

  She 'knows me'?

  It's a'fin, she knows that nog.

  He was running now, careening from street curb to lamppost. Everyone was watching, a thousand pairs of eyes fixed on his dark face.

  "Angbar!" she called, running after him. "Would you stop?"

  No. He wouldn't. Maybe if he ran far enough he would get lost in the city; maybe, if he was lucky, a Preserver or a Justicar would catch him and snap his neck.

  He careened around the corner, finally out of her sight, and—as if Kirith a'jhul himself were answering his dark prayer—slammed into a Preserver.

  Angbar recoiled, gasping. He was an idiot, such an idiot! The man grabbed him by the shoulders, easily pinning his arms. "What's wrong?" the Preserver demanded. "Angbar!"

  He knows us, ah God, he knows us!

  "Angbar!" A second voice, this one a woman's, from farther down the street. Lyseira.

  It was Lyseira.

  "Is someone after you?" Seth had his shoulders—just Seth. He looked past Angbar, his eyes combing the streets for threats.

  Syntal burst around the corner behind him, rearing up when she saw the others. Lyseira sounded panicked. "What is it? Do we need to run?"

  "I―" Syntal shot a look at him, but Angbar couldn't meet her eyes. "No, we just—it's nothing. Misunderstanding." He could feel her watching, trying to pull his gaze, but he wouldn't look at her. He wouldn't.

  "We should get back." His voice sounded like a bookshelf in an earthquake: trembling, on the verge of collapse. "It's dark, we should . . ." He shoved past the others and into the street, wishing he could crawl into a hole and die.

  10

  i. Isaic

  Isaic yawned. He tried to stifle it, but somehow his efforts only made it stronger, transforming it into a jaw-breaking eye-clencher that wracked his whole body. He blinked guiltily when he finished, prepared to apologize—but the two farmers in front of him hadn't even noticed.

  "The pig tracks led right to the gate!" Noeh Alsson said for what had to have been the thirtieth time. The man looked a bit like a pig himself, Isaic thought, with broad cheeks and sunken, glinting black eyes. His accusations, too, had grown increasingly shrill, taking on the timbre of a sow's outraged screeches.

  Never again, Isaic vowed, berating himself for letting Jan sucker him into sharing a bottle of Bahiran firewater the night before. The stuff was every bit as strong as the stories said, and the ale headache currently pounding his skull wouldn't let him forget it.

  "An open gate!" retorted Noeh's neighbor, Betta—a thin, balding widow, slightly stooped, who couldn't have stolen a pig if her life depended on it. "How many times do I have to say―"

  "So you left the gate open when you took 'em! That's nothing to do with―"

  "It means you left the gate open, you damned fool! And your fool pigs wandered off on their own!"

  Noeh's jowls turned even redder—a feat Isaic wouldn't have thought possible a minute earlier—but more importantly, he fell silent. Isaic didn't let the opportunity pass. "I've heard enough." Noeh's mouth opened and froze, as if his good sense had gone to war with his next argument. Isaic didn't wait to see which would win. "Betta can barely walk without her cane. The tracks you saw the next morning were muddy from the night's rainfall. You admitted yourself there were no signs of any pigs at Betta's farm, nor any good place to keep them. If anything, it looks to me like you owe her, seeing as your escaped pigs helped themselves to a good part of her crop before disappearing."

  "I . . . but, Your Highness, that's―"

  Isaic spoke over him. "But they didn't disappear because anyone stole them. They ran off because you're too lazy to shut your gate. That's not Betta's problem, nor is it mine."

  This prompted scattered chuckles from the audience. It was a big one, today; word had gotten out about the public trials, and the peasants had jumped at the chance to see the dashing Prince Regent dispense justice from the throne.

  "Now, I understand this is not the first time you've made an accusation like this. Anything goes against you—wild dogs, the weather—you fly off at the mouth and start pointing fingers."

  Noeh's mouth had closed now, his protests wisely stowed.

  "Truth be, I'm glad you finally brought one of these matters to me, because it gives me the chance to put you in your place. You'll apologize to the widow for your ridiculous accusation, pay her two golden crowns for the loss of her carrots, and a crown to the throne for wasting everyone's time." He paused at a sudden, particularly vicious throb behind his right eye, but the crowd took his hesitation as an invitation to cheer—which they did, uproariously.

  "Thank you, Your Highness," Betta said, curtseying as best she could with her cane. "I'd heard stories, and I'd hoped, but . . . thank you."

  Isaic managed a pained smile, surreptitiously massaging the rhythmic stabbing in his temple, as Melakai escorted the two away from the throne. An image of his darkened room came to him, the heavy drapes blocking the light and his bed beckoning.

  I could let Mother Angelica finish, just this once. His childhood tutor had repeatedly offered to hold court for him, and had attended every public court he'd held since she'd learned of them. She and her Preserver were here again today.

  He straightened and dropped his hand to the throne's gilded armrest. No. He'd gone through too much to wrest this small privilege—mundane as it was—from the clerics. He would be damned if one ale headache was going to make him surrender it.

  "Next?" he asked Melakai, before he could reconsider.

  "Benjamin Ashandiel, of Twosides province, Your Highness."

  "His complaint?"

  "Land dispute, Your Highness."

  An elderly man stood in the front row. He had a gaunt frame and a beard hanging nearly to his chest, more grey than brown. He moved slowly, but kept his balance well, and didn't use a cane. He clutched a sheaf of papers in his right arm.

  Twosides. Isaic's limping thoughts finally caught up with Melakai's announcement. That's more than fifty miles west of here.

  "Your Highness." The old man gave the d
eepest bow he could manage. "It's an honor."

  "The honor's mine, Elderman. You've made quite a trip; I've never heard of anyone traveling this far."

  Benjamin said nothing, giving only a perfunctory nod. He kept his eyes carefully glued to the floor.

  "You're alone?" Isaic asked. Normally petitioners came to him in pairs, since he allowed them to split the hearing fee. Suddenly insight struck him, certain as the rising sun.

  This involves the Church.

  "I am, Your Highness," Benjamin answered. "The party I'm challenging doesn't know I've come."

  No. No, no, no. Hearing small claims between peasants was dipping his toes in a pool; challenging the Church's authority to mediate its own disputes was diving headfirst into the sea. Get rid of him, Isaic thought. Get him out of here. "The throne should be the final arbiter, not the first recourse. Make some effort to resolve this matter between yourself and the accused."

  "I have, Your Highness. But they've more power than I, and have no need to hear me out."

  "I dislike hearing only one side of a dispute myself," Isaic snapped. "You need to return home. You can't just come before the throne without even advising the accused."

  "Normally I wouldn't, Your Highness." The old man looked up then, his eyes haunted. "But I feared for my safety if they found out."

  Sehk, Isaic thought. Ah, blesséd sehk.

  Mother Angelica suddenly straightened, as if she'd remembered an urgent message. "Your Highness," she said, crossing the marble floor in a series of unusually spry steps. "A word, if I may?"

  "I'll recess after this petitioner, Mother. I can speak with you then."

  "You look tired, Your Highness. Let me finish this day's business so you can go rest."

  You are forcing my hand, Mother. He wanted to avoid this case while drawing as little attention to it as possible, ideally without even naming the Church as the man's defendant; didn't she understand that? He wasn't about to cede it to her in front of a room full of subjects.

  Before he could answer, though, Benjamin spoke. "Please, Your Highness. I'm an old man. My journey has taxed me. But I've traveled a great distance that I might present my grievance to the throne."

  "I'm sorry, Elderman Ashandiel," Isaic returned icily, "but the guidelines for these public trials are simple and widely available, and you haven't abided by them. Melakai, show him out."

  The Crownwarden stepped forward and gently took Benjamin's arm. "Come along, Elderman," he said.

  "Please, Your Highness," Benjamin said. "I beg you." To Isaic's horror, the old man sank to his knees, hands clasped. "They'll kill me for coming here. You know they will. Please hear me."

  "With all respect, Your Highness," Angelica said, "that won't be possible. I am passingly familiar with this man's concern. It is a matter of Church protocol and is thus for Akir to decide."

  The room fell quiet as death.

  Damn it. Isaic shot the woman a withering glare. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Angelica met his fuming with an air of simple authority.

  His next words tumbled over themselves in his mind. He looked from the groveling old man to his crowd of subjects, all waiting to see if he would cave to this naked challenge from the Church. He could no longer dodge the issue. Whatever happened next would define his reign.

  He thought of his mother as he said, "Speak your piece, Elderman."

  The room swirled with whispers. "Thank you, Your Highness," Benjamin began, his voice laden with relief, but Angelica cut in.

  "I'm sorry, Prince Isaic. Perhaps you misheard me." Her voice quivered with age, but not fear. "The man must be heard by the Order of Judgment. Simon, see that he accompanies me." Angelica's Preserver gave a curt nod. To Benjamin, she continued: "This needn't be difficult. I will walk to that door"—she nodded to the throne room's massive front entry—"and you will follow. Simon will ensure your compliance."

  As she walked past him, Benjamin's mouth hung agape. He looked at Isaic, a thundercloud of panic in his eyes, but when he failed to regain his feet and follow the bishop, Simon hauled him backward by the arm. He gave a shout of pain, his scrawny legs kicking as the Preserver dragged him away. His papers whispered to the floor.

  This is too much. I can't get involved.

  Melakai was watching him, uncertainty and disillusionment warring on his face.

  If she walks out of here with him, if she defies me in front of everyone—

  He lurched to his feet like a drunk man. "Bishop!"

  Angelica halted, turned back.

  "This man has sworn fealty to the throne. He's paid his taxes. He's shown me no dishonor or treachery. Benjamin Ashandiel is my subject, and I will hear him."

  Her mouth twisted like she'd bit into a lemon. "Prince, when your father hears of this―"

  "I am the Regent."

  Angelica turned and resumed her walk to the door. Simon followed, still hauling Benjamin by the arm. Isaic stood at the edge of a precipice, aghast and disbelieving.

  Then he threw himself off.

  "Guards, if anyone attempts to force Benjamin Ashandiel from this room, stop them."

  The order echoed like a thunderclap. The guards at the door looked at him in horror. One of them glanced uncertainly at Mother Angelica. Neither drew their weapon.

  Isaic's heart plunged into his gut. If my own Crownwardens disobey me—

  But before he could finish the thought, Melakai pulled his sword. "Yes, Your Highness," he said, eyes locked on Angelica's Preserver. Finally, one of the door guards followed his example.

  As Isaic's instant of freefall ended, he fought to keep the relief from his face.

  "Madness," Angelica breathed, staring at the naked steel. "You . . . madness!"

  Isaic waited, heart thudding, praying she would back down.

  She blinked her gaze away from the swords as if waking from a daydream, and drew herself straight. "Very well, Your Highness. I understand your position. But you will at least allow the Church representation in the trial?"

  "Of course." He managed to keep his voice steady.

  "This man challenges God Himself. There would be no justice in denying His voice."

  "I said I agree." He would hear the case quickly, find for the Church, and make sure future petitioners were fully vetted. He needed to put this travesty behind him as quickly as possible. "Approach. You may speak for the Church."

  Angelica shook her head. "I can't, Your Highness. I'm neither prepared nor familiar enough with the case to speak to it—and, I'm an apostle. Akir's side in this matter should be brought by a judge. I request a stay, that I might have time to convene with the Order of Judgment and allow them to appoint a proper representative."

  There's no need, Mother. I'm happy enough to put this behind us. He willed the words toward her, wishing for some way to convey them. It was useless. She insisted on escalating this still further.

  "Very well. I trust two days will be ample time?"

  Angelica nodded. "More than generous, Your Highness."

  Simon released Benjamin, who levered himself slowly to his feet. "Your Highness―" he began, and Isaic cut him off.

  "The accused will be heard, Elderman. I understand your fears, but they don't entitle you to an undisputed trial. The accused will be heard. Melakai," he said, turning to his senior Crownwarden, "help Elderman Ashandiel gather his papers and ensure he has a place to stay."

  As Melakai nodded, Isaic declared an end to the day's trials. Despite the fact that some petitioners had been waiting several hours, no one moaned or complained. They all got a show, Isaic thought between the pounding beats in both his heart and his head.

  A much bigger show than I bargained for.

  "You should've just let her have him," Jan said as he came in. Behind his desk, Isaic started.

  "By God," he spat, "would you please knock?"

  Jan barked a disbelieving laugh. "Since when have I done that?"

  "We aren't boys sneaking out after curfew, Jan. This is Father's study. I'm the Princ
e Regent now, for summer's love."

  Jan's easy smile slowly melted. "You're serious."

  "Of course I'm serious! Have a little decorum!" His headache had worsened, compounded now by the endless recursive strategizing necessary to smooth out the day's debacle. In the two hours since he'd left court, thinking on the subject had only made him angrier.

  "Oh, please." Jan flopped into a chair normally reserved for the King's visitors, one leg hooked over an armrest. "You should have that crown resized. I do believe it's too tight for your head."

  "It's a simple matter of security, Jan. Harad jumps every time someone bursts through a door unannounced. One of these times he's going to kill you on general principle." It came out nastier than he'd meant it to. Jan actually fell silent, his ego finally pricked. Isaic deflated.

  "Harad has better training than that." Jan sounded petulant.

  Isaic waved the argument off. "What? What is it?"

  "I just came to check on you. Can't a man care for his brother?"

  Dogsehk, Isaic thought. You're after gossip. Suddenly he found himself wondering precisely which direction most of Jan's "scullery maid" rumors flowed—from the kitchen up? Or from the throne room down?

  Still, surprisingly, Jan's concern touched him. He removed the crown and rubbed his forehead, leaning into his palm. "This is hard, Jan."

  Jan gave an empathizing sigh. "Even I can see that." He crossed the room, rested a hand on Isaic's shoulder.

  "It's not as if I haven't spent my life preparing," Isaic went on. "I know Angelica's lessons were just background noise to you, but I paid attention. I did. When Father spoke, I listened. I watched him. I'm not even involved in half of what goes on here, and still I—I'm just not ready."

  "I paid more attention than you think," Jan said gently, then shifted tone. "Have you considered that you're not supposed to be ready?"

  "What? I'm the heir, of course I'm sup―"

  "No-no-no, not that. I just mean . . ." He showed his palms: don't blame the messenger. "Angelica is supposed to be your right hand. Father expected you to rely on her in his absence—that's why he didn't take her along."