A Season of Rendings Page 22

  Coward, she spat at herself. And it was true. She was. Risking yourself is one thing. Risking your friends—

  I DIDN'T ASK THEM TO COME! She wanted to scream it, to throw it at Angbar's face. This was her problem, she knew it, but they wouldn't let her face it alone.

  It would have been so much easier alone.

  "Lys?" Angbar peered at her. "Are you well?"

  She barked a hoarse laugh. Her eyes were welling—not with grief, but with rage. With fear. Raindrops from the maelstrom, splashing against her face.

  She swiped them away.

  "No. No, it doesn't make sense. But I still have to do it. I have to. And when I go—when the Dedication comes—you stay here with Syntal. M'sai? I can't make Seth stay, I know that, but you and Syn—you stay. And if we don't come back, you get out of here. Don't come after us."

  Angbar swallowed. His lips had nearly vanished, he was pursing them so hard. "I don't know if . . . I mean, we can't just―"

  "You can't take on the whole Basica, no matter what chants Syntal knows. I'm the stupid one. Me. Well, and Seth." She shook her head. "But you already came along once when I asked, and that's a favor I haven't even returned yet. You don't die for me here. You don't." She seized his eyes, demanded he return her gaze. "M'sai?"

  "M'sai." He was trembling.

  God above, what had happened to them? Who were they now?

  They all used to play at the lake.

  12

  i. Isaic

  Isaic peered out from his side chamber to find onlookers packing the throne room. They took every seat and every inch of the floor, flooding out into the hall and beyond. Melakai's Crownwardens were in full force, holding the line to keep them from approaching the throne itself. At least they're orderly, Isaic thought. With that kind of crowd, things could get out of hand fast.

  Jan had told him to close the palace to the public for this trial, and in a rare display of self-expression, Harad had agreed—but Isaic had still refused. He needed to make sure people understood that his trials were intended to run alongside the Church's own, not to replace them. The more people that saw him find for the Church today, the better.

  Melakai emerged from the crowd, leading a dumbfounded Benjamin to his table. He's probably the only one in that room more taken aback by the crowd size than I am.

  "Peace!" Melakai shouted when the man was seated. "There will be peace!" The noise of the crowd died to a murmur, then to silence. That was his cue.

  He strode to the throne as Melakai called for the assembly to kneel. Such a demonstration was vital to maintain order with a crowd of this size. Isaic took his place, waited a heartbeat, and said, "I grant you leave to rise."

  In the two days since he had agreed to rule on Benjamin's complaint, the palace had been inundated with gifts from the populace. Children's drawings of the Prince Regent with a halo around his head; flowers and messages from parents thanking him for saving their child's life over the winter; bottles of fine wine and other delicacies from merchants looking to curry favor.

  As a result he had considered addressing the crowd, acknowledging the unprecedented group of commoners in the throne room. But now, in the moment, he decided against it. It felt too demeaning; more like something Jan would do. We'll see if they still love me after the ruling.

  He meant to put a stop to this nonsense today.

  "Thank you, Elderman," Isaic began, "for your patience. You are ready to present?"

  Melakai had seated Benjamin behind a short table to Isaic's left, in the open space just ahead of the crowd. Now the old man took his feet and bowed. "I am, Your Highness."

  "And you, Bishop Angelica? You are ready to rebut?" Isaic had been irritated to learn his old nana would be presenting for the Church after all, despite her initial volley of excuses. We could have resolved this days ago.

  She rose and gave him a delicate curtsy. "Yes, Your Highness."

  "Very well. Elderman, speak your piece."

  Benjamin nodded. "Thank you, Your Highness." He trembled as he began to tell his story. "Are you familiar with the Larch Estate?"

  Isaic was. "A manor in Twosides, isn't it? I saw it on a trip there as a child. Beautiful, as I recall."

  Ben gave him a tremulous smile. "That's a great compliment, Your Highness. I thank you. My great-grandfather, Amos Ashandiel, built that manor for the Baron Valsant Larch, some ninety years ago. The baron was so pleased with his work that, in addition to paying him the agreed sum, he bequeathed Amos a parcel of land upon his passing. My grandfather built his home there, and the land has stayed in my family for four generations since—six, if you count my daughters and their grandchildren. I mean to leave it to them when I pass."

  Impressive, Isaic thought. It was nearly unheard of for peasants to own land so close to the city. He'd heard of it happening farther out, of course—in colonies at Borkalis, even in the Shientel Valley—but the validity of those claims had never been tested, and would likely not stand up to scrutiny. "Where is this land?"

  "In Twosides province, Your Highness, just north of town along the western bank of the river."

  "M'sai. Go on."

  "Two weeks ago, an initiate from the temple in Twosides knocked on my door. He told me my family and I had to vacate our home. They were going to tear down my house and build a shrine. I told him what I just told you, but he didn't care."

  "The Church has divine authority in such situations. You must know that."

  "Of course, Your Highness. But isn't it true that usually such authority depends, in part, on the fact that peasants don't own land? In this case, that isn't true."

  Isaic set the question aside in favor of a more important one. "Do you have any proof of this ownership?"

  "I do, Your Highness. Two pieces." He dug through his papers until he found a weathered piece of parchment, which he unrolled gingerly. "This is the deed itself, signed by Baron Matthew Larch in 3080, carrying out his late father's wishes." He set the document aside, weighted with two rocks to keep it from curling back in on itself. "And this is the page from Valsant's will, which you will see clearly states the land's location, my grandfather's name, and the permanence of the assignment." He pulled a second paper loose and similarly unrolled it. "Furthermore, the page is signed by an 'Abbot Willisef' of the Order of Judgment, imbuing it with the authority of holy writ."

  Isaic fought to keep the surprise from his face. "Melakai, bring me the documents."

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  Isaic had handled his share of old documents; Mother Angelica's history lessons had made sure of that. The papers had the aged feel he would expect from a pair of pieces nearly 100 years old, the ink faded but still legible. If either was a forgery, it was impeccably done.

  All told, it was far more evidence than he'd expected. It was surprising enough that Ben Ashandiel could read, let alone that he held two separate documents corroborating his story—one of which was actually endorsed by the Church. It was the strongest case Isaic had ever seen. If it had been a typical spat between commoners, the decision would have been laughably simple.

  He returned the documents to Melakai, who walked them back to their owner. "What, exactly, did this initiate say to you?"

  "Well, he . . ." Benjamin hedged. "To be honest with you, he wasn't very respectful. Said it was holy land, that the Fatherlord had walked there, and that we had to leave. When I tried to speak my piece, he wouldn't hear it."

  "Did he offer you anything for the land?"

  "No, Your Highness. Nothing. I had to plead with him just to get him to give us a few days to get our things together. I took that time to start my journey here."

  "Do you even know if your home is still standing? If he came back and saw you were gone, perhaps he would think you'd complied and set to tearing it down."

  "I don't know for certain. But two of my daughters stayed at the house to explain, in case he came back. If he did go ahead, I fear for their safety."

  "All right." Isaic turned to Angel
ica. Nana, tell me you have this under control. "The petitioner makes a strong case, Mother. What is your answer?"

  Angelica stood. "The Order of Scripture has claimed ownership of the land under the Divine Right of Annexation, as described in the book of Heziah, seventh of the Canon, chapter fourteen, verses three through six."

  When it became clear she would be saying nothing else, Isaic asked, "That's it?"

  "Nothing more is needed, Your Highness. Akir created Or'agaard. Every speck of dust on it belongs to Him already."

  Isaic wrestled with this, but she was right, of course. He didn't know his Canon as well as she did, but he knew the basic theory: the Creator owned His creation. Perhaps this will be even simpler than I'd feared. He turned back to Benjamin. "I'm sorry, Elderman, but scripture does appear quite clear on this point."

  "With respect, Your Highness, the verses the Mother quoted apply only to land that is not owned. They assume the peasantry resides on the land solely by divine or royal permission, without any express claim of possession. That is not the case here. This land was originally granted to the Larch family by the King himself. Baron Valsant had every right to pass that deed on to my great-grandfather, and such passing was endorsed by the Order of Judgment. The Creator owns the creation only until He relinquishes it, which in this case, He has."

  "That's preposterous," Angelica said levelly. "It's exactly the kind of flawed logic one might expect from a peasant who has never read scripture."

  Benjamin ignored her. "The reason I assumed you would want to hear me, Your Highness, is that my claim originates from a royal grant. Ultimately, the Church is challenging the throne's authority to own and gift land here. Not my own."

  The words struck Isaic like a bucket of water to the face. A surprised murmur rippled through the crowd. Melakai admonished them to be quiet while Isaic's mind raced.

  "If they can―" Benjamin began, but Isaic waved him into silence.

  He's escalating this deliberately. Trying to make it so a finding for the Church will make me look I'm chopping off my own hand. There has to be a way to dilute his rhetoric. He turned again to Angelica. "Bishop. What is the Order's claim to the land?"

  "I told you. Heziah, chapter fourteen―"

  "No. That's the support for the claim's legitimacy. What is the claim itself? Why are they claiming it?'

  "I would contend they don't need a reason, Your Highness, as Heziah is quite clear in this sort of situation—but in this particular case, they do have one. Abbot Tellah of the Order of Scripture recently learned that the first Fatherlord, Baltazar Godson, once walked the river north of Twosides, making it sacred ground."

  Abbot Tellah? Isaic had never heard of the man. All this tumult over some abbot's random whims? He had expected to hear the name of a bishop, or even of Archbishop Joshua himself. "Why isn't he here?"

  "He's in Tal'aden for the Dedication, Your Highness, just as many of our own clerics are."

  "You have some proof of his claim, then?"

  "No, Your Highness."

  "But . . ." Don't sputter in a room full of subjects, you dolt. "But how did this abbot learn the ground was sacred? Was it an old text? Some piece of evidence found on the river bank?"

  "I don't know, Your Highness. His report wasn't specific."

  "His report?" Finally, something tangible. "Do you have that with you?"

  Angelica gestured at her empty desk. "No. It was never transcribed. Only delivered verbally to Bishop Alaunt of the Scripture, who granted verbal permission to proceed with clearing the land."

  Another cleric I've never heard of. "Did this Bishop Alaunt inspect the area himself?"

  "No, Your Highness."

  "Was he aware of the elderman's claim to the land?"

  "I don't know, Your Highness."

  Again, Isaic fought the urge to gawk. Is she daring me to rule against her? Finally, he let a hint of irritation creep into his voice. "You've had two days to prepare, Bishop. If you needed more, you could have requested it. Elderman Ashandiel has brought copious proof of his claim. Why haven't you prepared?"

  "I have, Your Highness. I researched the Church's claim under the Divine Right of Annexation in the book of Heziah."

  "But the elderman has refuted that. He said those verses only apply in cases where the land is not otherwise owned. And the will itself was signed by an abbot, meaning the divine right of ownership to the land lies with Ashandiel."

  Angelica scoffed. "Akir created the land. His divine right is absolute and supreme to all other considerations."

  "But that's . . ." Ridiculous, he wanted to say. "Under that reading of the Right, the Church would own everything. They'd own the royal palace."

  He'd said it to illustrate how absurd it sounded, but Angelica's lack of response left the words hanging in the air, their meaning slowly turning plain. She cocked one brow at him, as if to say, And?

  No. No, no, and no. He wouldn't cede the Church absolute authority over all ownership. Certain rights were intrinsic to the throne, at the very least. He may have been young and inexperienced and even in over his head, but he understood that. "That's preposterous," he said, throwing her own word back at her.

  "No, Your Highness, what's preposterous is the idea that you could possibly look at it any other way. No man's right exceeds that of his Creator. Scripture is absolutely clear on this point.

  "This is precisely why the matter should have been brought before the Order of Judgment. The Church has millennia of experience interpreting the word of God. You may be wise for your age, Your Highness, but with respect, you simply do not understand God's laws like we do. Before a holy judge, there would be no need for debate at all."

  Indeed, he thought. It's as simple a principle as they come: the Church owns everything, end of discussion. The claim galled him. If Mother were here, she would be furious. But of course, she's not here. An ember of old hate flickered in his gut, flames licking from it anew. He glared at his old nana. Is she, Bishop?

  Melakai whispered, "Should I call a recess? Give you time to deliberate?"

  "No." Isaic stood. "No, I'm prepared to render judgment now." The audience fell silent. Isaic again fixed his eyes on Angelica. "You say a cleric of the Order of Judgment would find this question easy to settle. I, too, find the answer self-evident. The elderman is right when he frames the question as one of not only peasants' rights to land ownership, but of royalty's right to grant said ownership. You would have me believe that the Church's divine rights exceed all others, but the Church is not the sole possessor of divine rights. The King is also imbued with them—by the Fatherlord Himself, who is Akir on Earth." He knew this was true; Angelica had taught it to him. Coronation was always performed by the Fatherlord, and the ceremony involved a bestowing of certain holy authorities. "Thus, in this case the chain of ownership by divine right passes unbroken from king to baron to peasant. Elderman Ashandiel has a divine right to that land and he is under no obligation to relinquish it, even under pressure from the Church's greedy and capricious whim.

  "Let it be so decided."

  The crowd began to roar before the last word had left his lips: leaping to their feet, applauding and whooping. Benjamin clasped his hands, his lips moving soundlessly under the din: Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you. Thank you.

  Angelica turned and left, her Preserver slicing a path through the crowd for her. Isaic's eyes bored into the back of her skull as she left, triumph glowing hot and bright in his chest.

  It wasn't until an hour later, in the quiet of his private chambers, that he finally thought, Oh God, what have I done?

  ii. Angelica

  "You failed," Shephatiah said as she entered his office. She had come straight from the palace, but somehow, word had still reached him before she did.

  "You set me up to fail. I wasn't the right person for this."

  "You failed, and now every peasant in Darnoth thinks they have the right to own land."

  "Oh, please. It's not as bad as all that. He on
ly ruled that land can be gifted, not―"

  "Gifted by divine right, in an unbroken chain from the Fatherlord Himself. What can be gifted can be sold; what can be sold can be stolen." His pig's eyes seethed beneath the heavy shelf of his hairless brow.

  This is it. Now I lose everything: my title, my station, my right to work miracles. Power brooked no affront, and she had dared great affront indeed. If it comes, it comes, but I refuse to spend my last minutes groveling.

  "And what's decided can be overturned," she said. "When the King returns, I'll have him pay the Church for its work over the winter and rescind judgment in all of Isaic's little pet trials, including this one."

  "No," Shef said. "We can't be reliant on the throne to remedy your mistakes; it just makes us even weaker. We need to re-establish our authority now—before Bishop Caleb returns, before the King returns, before Mad Matthew's ravings start taking hold in the fertile populace you've created."

  She braced herself to be removed from her position. That would be Shephatiah's remedy; she was sure of it.

  She was wrong.

  "Seize the old man for Cleansing," Shephatiah said.

  Her mind stumbled. "I . . . the elderman? But he's done nothing."

  "He claimed knowledge of scripture, did he not? Reading scripture without divine permission is a sin. Have him Cleansed until his rev'naas is confessed, and when he seeks atonement, accept his gift of the land in Twosides. We will put this error of yours behind us without challenging the Prince Regent, while still making clear to the populace the cost of opposition."

  "But I . . ." She had never witnessed a Cleansing; she understood only enough about the procedure to know it sickened her. "Shouldn't a Tribunal cleric oversee―?"

  "Bishop Marcus of the Tribunal is in Tal'aden for the Dedication. They've seen fit to spare him. He'll be here in a matter of days."

  "Marcus?" The man was a legend—the youngest bishop in the Church, who ran the Tribunal's affairs throughout the entire Shientel Valley. He had been tracking the apostate Matthew last autumn, but had never had to bring him in; instead, a boy from some village had killed Matthew, and Marcus had sentenced the boy to death. Thus in one stroke he had eliminated the threat Matthew presented and avoided turning the man into a martyr.