Son of Avonar (41 page)

“Then my husband is not and has never been a sorcerer, my lord. Your own evidence contradicts such an accusation. You have accused him of healing my injuries and rescuing Misara's family from a dreadful death. Such acts, even if possible, could hardly be considered reveling in blood and death. Perhaps your definition of sorcery is flawed, for I'm sure you've no intention of slandering the honorable warriors of Leire who rejoice in the slaughter of our enemies. Do you accuse them of sorcery also?”

“Got you there, Lordship!” shouted someone from the back. Vycasso glared at a guard and jerked his head at the man, but before the soldier could move, those around him took care of the matter. A scuffle broke out amid murmurs of “Devil!” and “Devil's whore, accusing our own . . .”

I could not listen to them. I had to stay in control. My words were the only defense we were going to get. “Karon reveres life and cherishes nature, and the only perversion here is what you honorable men have done to him.”

Careful, careful,
echoed the soft words in my mind.

“Sorcerers have these exceptional abilities,” piped up Lord Hessia, an intelligent and reasonable man who had done his best to make the Council a serious body. He was clearly disturbed. “Unlike those of ordinary men.”

I held on to the edge of the witness box and leaned toward the lord, as if one hand's breadth less distance between us and I might convince him. “Like yourself, sir, who are accounted the finest swordsman ever to carry a blade? Or like my brother, who is said to be the only man in a generation to rival you? Like this young singer from Valleor, who had half the court in tears over a song that is hackneyed drivel? Are you a sorcerer, then, and my brother and Misara also?”

“No, no,” burst out the prosecutor, brought to life once more by an impatient gesture from Evard. “Lord Hessia means abilities that are
against
nature. They claim for themselves powers reserved for the gods.”

“Then tell me, my lords. What has Karon done that is against nature?”

The prosecutor exhaled his foul breath into my face again, nodding in satisfaction. “Clearly the beast has deafened you, my lady. Your very sovereign king has testified that this devil healed you from a knife wound that punctured your heart. If that is not against nature—”

“But there is Lord Dumont in the Council box, who has seen something quite the same.” I pointed at a graying warrior who sat in serious contemplation, his mouth buried in one hand. “Lord Dumont, did not the respected physician, Ren Wesley, bring back your wife from the brink of death after your fine son was born last autumn? Her very heart had stopped beating, and you had closed her eyes with your own hand. How is it that nature rejoiced at your dear lady's recovery and is scandalized at my own?”

Dumont, the most respected of all the Counselors, waved his hand as if trying to shoo away such an association. “Such healing is natural. What was done to you is but a mockery.” But his tone was thoughtful, almost a question of itself.

I directed my words as if he were the only judge. “Please explain to me, my lord, why the healing is ignoble, when the act of striking a knife to my heart is left unchallenged? Though His Majesty's sight was blocked, every other man in that room saw truer crime. The hand that wielded the knife was not the hand of my husband who was bound and restrained by the king's own guards—no weakling recruits—but rather that of this sheriff, Maceron, who sets himself above other men. Sober consideration will expose the truth of my words, for despite the wags' tales of spirit slaves and armies of the healed, Karon had nothing to gain by such an act. I had already defended him that night. And think of it—I had lived with him uncoerced for two years. What reason could compel him to strike me down and then heal me in front of the one witness who could be the most devastating? Monumental stupidity is not listed among the crimes of which he is accused.” I turned back to the yellow-faced Vycasso. “No, my Lord Prosecutor, you must explain to all rational observers why Maceron's deed, the unprovoked act of attempted murder, rather than the undoing of it, was not the true perversion.”

So it continued for an hour or more. I tried to answer every charge and insinuation with reason and logic. I had clearly won several of the Council lords, especially those who were friends with Martin and had frequented his salons; they likely knew why he was not in his place that morning. Yet their grim faces told me that every one of them would vote for condemnation. A verdict of sorcery had to be unanimous, and Evard would permit nothing else. He would appeal to greed, to fear, to patriotism, to blackmail, whatever was necessary to get his way. As this harsh truth sank in, my only defense against despair was the frail satisfaction that Karon would not die undefended.

A few more witnesses were questioned after me. A workman from the Antiquities Commission claimed to have watched from hiding while Karon made boxes and chests fly about the cellars, and to have hidden his eyes when the mummified remains of ancient Isker warriors pushed their way out of their caskets at Karon's command. A servant girl, whom I had dismissed for terrorizing a young chambermaid and stealing her wages, vowed that Karon had me thoroughly under his control, not allowing me to go out into society and forcing me to spend inordinate amounts of time reading and writing. “No great lady would do such things voluntarily,” she said.

The lords looked embarrassed at this testimony, and the prosecutor moved quickly to his closing flourish. To gasps of shock and disbelief, he entered into evidence signed confessions from the would-be usurper, the Earl of Gault, and his chief counselor. The documents detailed the sorcerer's plot to murder the king and his young daughter, Princess Roxanne, to put the Earl of Gault on the throne as a vassal of the Priest-King of Kerotea. The prosecutor proposed that I be made to verify the handwriting, as the earl was my own cousin, and I was intimately acquainted with the accused.

It made no difference to claim the confessions were worthless when extracted by torture. King Evard permitted no torture, therefore, no torture was done. To allow the confessed traitors to speak before the court would only give them leave to denounce our king and give scandal to the good people of Leire.

I could not listen to these last absurdities. I fixed my eyes on Karon's back, blocking out every other voice, every other sound and face, the better to hear him and concentrate only on his words.
I could want no better counsel,
he said.
I wish—
He began coughing again and could not continue.

Less than an hour after the prosecutor's impassioned call for the final obliteration of the great heresy of sorcery, the Council of Lords filed back into the Hall of Judgment from the adjoining chamber where they had completed their deliberations. A red-faced Lord Hessia's lips were a thin line. Lord Dumont fixed his eyes on the ancient candlebeam above the witness box, the fifty thick candles lit by the servants and the beam raised against the early darkness. Just past the doorway through which they had returned, Darzid leaned against a pillar with easy grace, detached amusement flickering in his dark eyes. And so was my last spark of hope extinguished.

Things do not look promising, my love,
I thought.

It will be well, whatever they say. I'm ready for it to be over.
After another dreadful bout of coughing, Karon sagged against the wooden rail of the prisoner's dock. To make him stand up again his guards prodded him with spears until fresh bloodstains appeared on his filthy tunic. For the first time that day, I averted my eyes.

They said guilty, of course, but I had not prepared myself for the deadly precision of the words.

“Without trial?” I leaped to my feet, the bleak brutality of the judgment destroying my composure. Karon's case was unsalvageable, but Martin, Julia, Tanager, and Tennice would not even be heard. “You can't do that! Lord Hessia . . . Lord Dumont . . .” I was shouting to be heard above the pandemonium. “To execute any Leiran without trial is a violation . . .” But no one of them would look at me, and a guard blocked my way lest I try to get any closer. “Karon, save them,” I cried. How could he let them die?

But he could not have heard me. A troop of guards had dragged him from the dock by the chain around his neck. The shouting ruffians gathered outside the door battered him with fists and cudgels, pelted him with stones and refuse. The guards neither protected him from the blows nor shielded him from the spitting vehemence of the good people of Leire who laughed and jeered at his painful stumbling.

It was midweek. Four days. At least it would not be a long wait.

 

Martin and the others were executed that night. Karon was riven with grief.
I had to listen to them die, Seri, one after the other. I've tried . . . since they were taken, I've tried to help . . . to comfort them . . . but at the end . . .

“Don't speak of it, if you don't want to. Just tell me how I can help you.” I sat on my bed unmoving, staring dry-eyed at the coarse sheets as the weak daylight faded. I could not grieve. I had nothing left.

The only help is knowing that your brother will protect you and Connor.
My blood and flesh grew hot with his outrage.
What kind of man is your brother? How can he let them do these things to you like public penance? Oh, Seri, it is so hard. . . .
Never had I known Karon so angry.

“The penance is nothing,” I said, numbly, trying to ignore the fear that suddenly came tumbling over me like an icy waterfall. “As for the rest—whatever comes—I will survive it all. I swear to you I will.” The Council's proclamation echoed in my ears. My brother was to have
sole right of sovereignty over her life, residence, property, and issue. . . .
Issue. My children.