The Innocent Mage by Karen Miller
If Gar was relieved or sorry he didn’t show it. ‘Be downstairs by nine. Make sure you’re dressed … soberly.’
Asher nodded. ‘Soberly. Right.’
Their eyes met. There was such angry despair in Gar’s face Asher had to look away.
‘You can go now,’ the prince said. ‘I won’t need you again this evening. Close the door behind you.’
Dismissed, and glad of it, Asher left him to his rage and his reading and headed back downstairs to his own rooms.
All of a sudden, he wasn’t hungry any more.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Barl have mercy,’ King Borne exclaimed, shocked. ‘This Timon Spake is practically a child! Why did no-one inform me?’
As Captain Orrick rummaged through the paperwork piled on the table before him, Asher avoided Gar’s accusing gaze. The prince’d thank him for not saying anything. Eventually. From the looks of him Gar had barely slept a wink the night before. If he’d known just how beardless a youth it was they had in custody he’d have fretted himself to a standstill, with nothing to show for it by sunrise save a face fit to curdle cream.
Weighed down with chains, his face half hidden as he stared at the flagstoned floor of the guardhouse examination room, Timon Spake of Basingdown knelt in silent disgrace. A City Guard stood on either side of him, strong hands pressing hard on each shoulder as though at any moment he might sprout wings and fly away from the fate that awaited him.
Orrick looked up from his parchments. ‘The prisoner is sixteen, Your Majesty. Under the law he is a man, and as a man must stand trial for his crime.’
The king nodded. ‘Very well. In that case let the examination commence. Barlsman Holze?’
Holze lowered his head until his single silver-yellow braid dangled, and pressed his hand to his heart. ‘Let all here now entreat Blessed Barl’s guidance, that we may know the truth and speak it unreserved to the glory of she who made the Wall and the comfort of all her children. O Blessed Barl, we stand before you in this place and at this time to hear the grave charges laid against your son, Timon Spake of Basingdown …’
Asher swallowed a sigh. If he’d known there’d be Holze sermonising he’d have found himself something to sit on. Now he had to stand and wriggle his toes so his legs didn’t fall asleep while the ole cleric prosed on and on and on …
After surviving a single scorching glare from Jarralt as they arrived at the guardhouse he’d wedged himself into one unobtrusive corner of the examination chamber while the hearing’s preparations were concluded. From there he could witness the proceedings as commanded without actually getting involved.
The more he thought about it the more not getting involved seemed like a very good idea. This grim stone room was a far cry from the beauty and splendour of airy, stained-glass Justice Hall. In Justice Hall, though important matters were daily decided, there was still a kind of brightness. An unstated recognition that even though the hearings were serious there yet remained light and laughter in the world.
Not so in here. Light and laughter had no place in this plain, crowded place. In here, without beauty or splendour, the lives of men were stripped bare and judged, and if found wanting … ended.
The examination chamber was full of people: the king and his Privy Council, a wall of disapproval and dire consequence implacably ranged against the grubby miscreant cowering at their feet. Lady Marnagh from Justice Hall, seated at the table beside Orrick and once more acting as justice’s official record-keeper. Two more faces Asher couldn’t put a name to. Speakers for the accused? Or against him. He couldn’t tell. There were three other guards as well, one on each side of the prisoner’s entrance to the chamber and one at the examiner’s entrance.
In keeping with his royal authority Borne was seated on a tall gold and crimson chair set upon a raised platform that ran the length of the bleak examination room. Austere in black velvet, his crown flashed green and crimson fire in the glimlight. At his left hand stood Master Magician Durm, sombre in a black brocade robe. Gar stood at his right hand, equally grave in midnight blue silk. Droning Holze, wrapped in white as befitted the Royal Barlsman, stood next to Gar with Conroyd Jarralt, magnificent in peacock blue, beside Durm.
Asher stifled a curse. So many bodies: surely they’d soon breathe up all the air in the stuffy, windowless room. Already he was sweating, trickles down his spine, behind his ears, stinging his eyes and soaking his armpits. At this rate his suitably sober green shirt and brown weskit, sent along from the tailor yesterday afternoon with all his other clobber, would both be ruined with stink and salt.
Holze’s prayer still showed no sign of ending. Asher stared at the king. Could be it was his imagination but he thought Gar’s da looked even more stripped clean of flesh than he had the previous morning. As though some terrible fever had rushed rampaging through him overnight, stealing meat and muscle from his bones unopposed. His clear green eyes, Gar’s eyes, had sunk deep into his skull, and the unguarded moment of surprise at first beholding the prisoner, which had flushed his hollow cheeks, was vanished without a trace. Now Borne’s face looked like a winter snowfield, cold and clean, with all emotion frozen.
Gar’s face was a bonfire in comparison; leaping behind his eyes the flames of passionate revolt, their shadows flickering, their heat washing his cheeks red with reflected warmth. Though he stood motionless at his father’s side, it seemed to Asher that the prince was shaking, so extreme was the tension in every line of his body.
As for Durm and Jarralt … they more closely resembled the king. Their expressions were chilled, their gazes laden with ice. Even Holze, praying, appeared unsympathetic. Timon Spake of Basingdown had but one friend on that platform, and Gar would never prevail in such company, even if he wanted to.
Barring intervention from Blessed Barl herself, Timon Spake of Basingdown was doomed.
Sixteen years of age, and never to see seventeen. Never to kiss another girl or fondle a woman’s breast or dandle a milk-sucking son upon his knee. No more springtimes. One last sunset.
What a waste.
At long last Holze’s prayer ended. The king said gravely, ‘Read the charge, Captain Orrick.’
Orrick bowed and unrolled crackling parchment. ‘On this day, the sixth day in the second month of summer in the year 644 After Barl, it is alleged that the prisoner, one Timon Spake of Basingdown, did upon the fourth day in the second month of summer in the year 644 After Barl wilfully and absent coercion break Barl’s First Law: to wit, that before witnesses he exhorted magic in the full knowledge that he is Olken and thus forbidden to do so on pain of death.’ He looked up then and stared stonily at every face in the chamber. ‘Whosoever does dispute this charge speak now or be hereafter silent.’
When nobody spoke, Borne nodded. ‘Thus is the charge heard and ratified and entered into record. Who speaks against the accused?’
One of the men Asher didn’t know stepped forward. Serious in dark brown velvet, draped in chains of office with a feather nodding in his cap, he bowed to the king then again to the rest of the Council.
‘Your Majesty, I am Bryne Fletcher, Mayor of Basingdown. It was my daughters who did come upon this man in the woods and so espy his blasphemous and criminal conduct.’
Borne’s hands rested quietly on his knees. His keen, cold gaze considered the Basingdown mayor in silence. When he spoke his tone was level, his manner dispassionate. ‘And where are your daughters now, Mayor Fletcher?’
‘At home with their mother, Your Majesty. They are but maids, eleven and thirteen years of age. I have given the guard captain their sworn and witnessed statements, as prescribed by law.’
‘It is so, Your Majesty,’ said Orrick. ‘I have the statements here.’
A shadow of disquiet crossed Borne’s brutally sculptured face. ‘And are your daughters sure beyond doubt of what they saw, Mayor Fletcher? In capital matters tender years are no defence against a false accusation. Children have fanciful imaginations, sir. I know, I have two of my own
The mayor’s florid face lost its colour, but his forthright gaze held steady. ‘I stand by my girls, Your Majesty. Their mother and I have raised them to honour Barl, to obey the law, to daily do right by their neighbour and without exception turn away from wrongdoing. Your Majesty, they have nothing to gain from this and much to lose. They know Timon and are fond of him.’ The mayor hesitated. Glanced once at the prisoner and cleared his throat. ‘We are all fond of him. But my daughters know their duty and have done it. My wife and I are proud of them, sir.’
‘I see.’ Borne held out his hand. ‘The statements, Captain.’ Orrick presented them to the king. Borne read each one, pale brows drawn low. When he was done he gave them to his Master Magician, who read them also, and from him they passed in turn to the other Council members to be read and considered.
Gar was the last to see the witness statements. When he was done he passed the papers back to the king. Borne read them a second time then gave them back to Orrick, who returned to his seat beside Lady Marnagh.
‘The statements are in order,’ Borne said. ‘And therefore stand in evidence against the accused. Thank you, Mayor Fletcher. Your duty is done. You may commend your daughters on our behalf.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Fletcher, breathless. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Dismissed, he stepped back again, visibly relieved.
The king said, ‘Who now speaks for the accused?’
The second man unfamiliar to Asher presented himself. After an unsteady bow he clasped his hands to his drab woollen chest. ‘Your Majesty.’ His voice was scarce above a whisper; a gently ageing man, he seemed overcome. ‘My name is Hervy Wynton. I am friend to the Spake family. Edvord Spake, father of the accused, was too ill to make the journey from Basingdown. He has a canker and is dying. He asked me to speak for him in this matter.’
Borne nodded. ‘And what would the accused’s father have you say on his behalf?’
Hervy Wynton licked his dry lips. His troubled gaze rested briefly on his friend’s son, chained and kneeling, then returned to the stern figure of the king. ‘Your Majesty, Timon is a good boy. A loving son. He is all that my friend Edvord has left to him in the world. Whatever Timon has done it was never with malicious intent. He is no blasphemer, Your Majesty. Just a rash youth who thought to amuse himself with something he did not understand. Edvord knows his time is short, Your Majesty. He implores your mercy, that his last days be not spent in bitter grief and ceaseless tears.’
If the king was moved by the old man’s plea there was nothing to show it. ‘And do you or the accused’s father challenge the charge as it stands? Can you show evidence of false accusation? Of wilful slander? Of any dark design intended to bring harm to Timon Spake of Basingdown and thereby benefit the accuser?’
‘No, Your Majesty,’ whispered Hervy Wynton. ‘We accept … that the girls saw what they saw.’
Borne nodded. ‘Very well. You may tell your friend Edvord Spake that his words were heard by king and Privy Council.’
Hervy Wynton bowed again and shuffled back to stand beside the mayor. Now all eyes turned to the accused. Borne’s thin fingers tightened once upon the arms of his tall chair, then relaxed. ‘Timon Spake of Basingdown, you have heard the charge levelled against you. What now have you to say for yourself? Are you guilty or falsely accused? Say you guilty and sentencing shall follow. Say you falsely accused and a public trial shall be held, with no shadowed corner left unlit until this matter is illuminated to the full.’
For the first time since he’d been brought into the chamber, forced to his knees and held in silence as his life was pulled to pieces around him, Timon Spake of Basingdown looked up.
Asher saw Gar’s face contract, saw him flinch as though someone had struck him a painful blow. He scowled. So the blaspheming law-breaker looked no more dangerous than a half-grown hound. So what? He’d still shown his teeth, hadn’t he? He’d still put a kingdom – a people – at risk. His own people, if this whole disaster had got out of hand. He looked pitiful now, aye, but that didn’t change what he’d done. On purpose. With not a man there to twist his arm and make him cry if he didn’t.
Da always said, Talk is cheap and so be a sorry smile.
‘Answer the question, Timon Spake,’ the king said coldly. ‘Your life depends upon it. Are you guilty or falsely accused?’
The chains that bound him looked heavy. They must be hurting him, Spake’s thin muscles must surely be shrieking beneath their weight by now. And his knees, pressed unpadded into the unforgiving stone floor, had to be hurting too. Grudgingly, Asher had to admit he admired the fool’s nerve not to show it.
Mayor Fletcher’s head bowed low, awaiting the answer. Beside him, Hervy Wynton cried out.
‘Dispute the charge, Timon! Give yourself a chance! Think of your father, boy! Must I go home without you and break his dying heart?’
‘Be silent, man,’ the king commanded. ‘We have heard from your own lips your belief that this is a true and lawful charge untainted by deceit or ulterior motive. Do not encourage the prisoner in dishonesty lest justice turn its eyes upon you.’
Reprimanded, Hervy Wynton shrank back against the wall and turned his face away. Solitary and splendid in his tall chair King Borne leaned forward, hands braced on his knees, and bent a piercing gaze upon his prisoner. ‘I ask you a third time, Timon Spake of Basingdown, and give you fair warning: I will not ask again. Are you guilty or falsely accused?’
Timon Spake of Basingdown’s weak chin lifted and his chained shoulders braced themselves. When he spoke his voice was calm. Resigned. ‘Your Majesty, I am guilty.’
Borne turned his head to left and right, raking his winter gaze along the faces of his privy councillors. ‘Gentlemen, you have heard the accusation and the prisoner’s reply. Out of his own mouth is he convicted and therefore public trial is rendered moot. Before sentence is pronounced, is there any one of you who would raise his voice in mitigation? If so, raise it now.’
One by one Asher looked at the men of the king’s Privy Council. He could read nothing in Durm’s fat face; it was as smooth as a bladder of lard. Barlsman Holze looked unsurprised and gently sorrowful. Conroyd Jarralt was smiling, a small fierce flashing of teeth. And Gar …
All the flames behind Gar’s eyes had died, the passionate hope crumbled into ash. He looked ill and tired and unspeakably sad.
Not one of them answered the king’s call.
Borne sat back in his chair. On his head his jewelled crown danced colour across the grey stone walls. ‘Timon Spake of Basingdown, you have been heard by king and Privy Council in strict accordance with law. By your own admission and the unchallenged statements of honest witnesses you are found guilty of the charge laid against you. The penalty is death. Therefore I, King Borne, by Barl’s grace named WeatherWorker of Lur, do declare your life forfeit and claim it in recompense for the crime committed. Captain Orrick?’
As Timon Spake stared blankly at the floor and Hervy Wynton’s harsh sobs punctured the silence, Orrick stood up from his chair and bowed. ‘Your Majesty?’
‘Have you a headsman at hand?’
Orrick nodded. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Is his axe sharp?’
‘Sharp and waiting, Your Majesty.’
‘Can you think of any impediment to the immediate culmination of this proceeding?’
Now Orrick was frowning, the merest hint of concern. ‘No, Your Majesty. Everything is ready.’
Borne’s fingers laced themselves tightly in his lap. His eyes were hooded, his face untouched by any human feeling. ‘Then let it be done, and done swiftly.’
Orrick hesitated. ‘You mean now, Your Majesty? In here?’
‘Of course not, Your Majesty.’ Orrick bowed again. ‘If Your Majesty and the Privy Council would care to withdraw to my office, then—’
‘Withdraw?’ said Borne. ‘For what reason? Justice must not only be done, Captain. It must be seen done or it is not justice at all.’
‘Your Majesty, I will be here. The guards will be here. Justice—’
‘Demands that those who pass judgement shall witness judgement,’ said Borne. ‘And if not justice then surely conscience. No more discussion. Captain. Proceed.’
Orrick nodded. ‘Yes, Your Majesty. There will be a short delay. Certain items that—’
‘See to them. Quickly.’
Orrick turned and flicked a commanding finger at the guard standing alert by the prisoner’s entrance to the chamber. The man nodded, opened the door and went about his business. The mayor covered his face with his hands and turned away from Timon, who knelt unmoving, as though in a trance. Heedless of any personal danger Hervy Wynton cried out again and flung himself forward to land on his hands and knees at the king’s feet.
‘Have mercy, Your Majesty!’ he begged, his voice rough with tears. ‘Give me an hour alone with the boy, give him one more night, at least let him see another sunrise, oh please, please, Your Majesty—’
For the first time, Durm spoke. ‘To what end, Wynton?’ He stepped down from the platform and pulled the man to his feet, away from the king. ‘What can Timon Spake do between now and another sunrise that will make the least bit of difference?’
Wynton’s face was ravaged with grief. ‘But … but …’
‘It’s all right, Hervy,’ said Timon. ‘Don’t fret. This is my doing, not yours. Take my father a message, would you?’
As Durm stepped back onto the platform Wynton stumbled two steps towards his friend’s son, then halted as the guards raised warning hands. ‘What message?’ he asked brokenly. ‘I swear I’ll deliver it.’