Morgan Rice - A Land of Fire

“The devil girl has escaped!” one of them yelled, “but we shall tear her apart with our own hands!”

“For the murder of Erec!” another cried out.

The crowd chanted and roared as they marched in procession right for her.

Erec’s mother turned to her, face grave.

“Listen to me,” she said urgently, clutching her wrist, “stay by my side and do as I say. You will be fine. Do you trust me?”

Alistair looked at her, her eyes welling with tears, and nodded back. She looked over her shoulder and saw Erec, fast asleep, and at least took solace in that.

“Will he be able to help us?” his mother asked.

Alistair shook her head sadly.

“The healing spell I cast on him takes a long time to take effect. He’ll be sleeping. Perhaps for days. We are on our own.”

His mother bore the news with the resolve of a woman who has seen it all, and she took her hand, led her across the room, opened the door to Erec’s chamber, and closed it firmly behind them.

They marched down the stone corridors of the house of the sick, all the way to the barred main doors, tall wooden doors that were already buckling as the mob slammed against them.

“Let us in!” someone in the crowd yelled. “Or we shall knock it down!”

The two guards who stood before it turned and looked at Erec’s mother, puzzled, clearly not knowing what to do.

“My Queen?” one asked. “What do you command?”

Erec’s mother stood proudly, fearlessly, with the fearless countenance of a queen, and Alistair could see in that moment where Erec got it from.

“Open those doors,” she commanded, her voice dark and hard. “We hide from no one.”

“Stand back!” a guard yelled out, and he then removed the iron bars on the doors and opened them wide.

The move clearly surprised the mob; stunned, caught off guard, instead of rushing forward they stood there as the doors opened wide, staring back at the Queen and at Alistair.

“The devil girl!” one called out. “There she is, back to harm Erec again! Kill her!”

The crowd cheered and began to press forward, and Erec’s mother stepped forward and held out a palm.

“You shall do nothing of the sort!” she boomed, with the commanding voice of a queen, of a woman used to being listened to.

The crowd stopped in their tracks and looked at her, clearly a woman they respected. Stepping out front and facing her was Bowyer, leading them.

“What do you mean by this?” he demanded. “Will you protect her? The woman who tried to murder your own son?”

“My son is not murdered,” she replied. “He is healing. Thanks to Alistair.”

The crowd mumbled, skeptical.

“Why would she heal him after she tried to kill him?” one called out.

“I do not believe he is healing. He is dead! She is just trying to protect the girl!” another yelled.

“He is healing, and he’s very much alive!” Erec’s mother insisted. “You shall not lay a hand on this girl. She did not try to murder him. It was not her.” Erec’s mother turned to Bowyer and pointed. “It was him !” she boomed.

The crowd gasped in shock, as all eyes turned to Bowyer. But he fixed his scowl on Alistair.

“All a lie!” he yelled back.

“Alistair, step forward,” the former queen said.

The crowd quieted, now unsure, as Alistair stepped forward humbly.

“Tell them,” she said.

“It is true,” Alistair said. “Bowyer tried to murder him. I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

The crowd gasped and grumbled, swaying with indecision.

“It is easy to accuse others after you have been caught with the murder weapon!” Bowyer called out.

The crowd broke into an agitated murmur, vacillating.

“I do not ask for you all to believe her!” Erec’s mother called out. “I only request she have a chance to assert her right of truth.”

She nodded, and Alistair stepped forward and said:

“I challenge you, Bowyer, to drink from the fountain of truth!”

The crowd gasped again, shocked by this turn, and they then quieted, somewhat satisfied, as all eyes turned and fixed on Bowyer.

Bowyer flushed, enraged.

“I need not accept her challenge!” he called out. “I need not accept a challenge from anyone! I am King now, and I demand she be executed!”

“You are not King!” Erec’s mother yelled back. “Not while my son is alive! And no man in our kingdom, no honest man, can reject a challenge to drink from the stone. It is a tradition even of kings, of my father and his father before him. You know this as well as us. Accept the girl’s challenge, if you’ve nothing to hide. Or reject it, and be imprisoned for the attempted murder of my son!”

The crowd cheered in approval as they all turned to Bowyer. He stood there, squirming, clearly on the spot, and Alistair could see the storm of emotions within him. She could see that he wanted more than anything to draw his sword and kill her. But he could not. Not with all these eyes on him.

Slowly Bowyer loosened his grip on his sword and sighed angrily.

“I accept the challenge!” he yelled.

The crowd cheered, and Bowyer turned and stormed through the crowd as it parted ways for him.

Alistair looked at Erec’s mother, and she nodded back solemnly.

“It is time to reveal the truth.”

Alistair, after ascending level after level of steps, moving with the throng, finally reached the highest plateau on the island, and she entered the small plaza to see before her an ancient stone fountain. The fountain was immense, made of shining white marble streaked with black and yellow, and unlike anything Alistair had ever seen. On it was a large gargoyle, and through its open mouth there trickled glowing, red water. The water was caught in a basin below and circulated back in the fountain.

The crowd fell silent upon her arrival, and it slowly parted ways for her, clearing a space for her to approach. In the tense silence that followed, all that could be heard was the soft gurgling of the fountain.

Erec’s mother, standing beside her, nodded to her reassuringly, and Alistair parted from the crowd and walked alone toward the fountain. Hundreds of Southern Islanders stood around it, clearing a space, and as they did, one other person stepped forward: Bowyer.

Alistair and Bowyer, standing beside each other next to the fountain, turned and faced the crowd. The plaza was lit by hundreds of torches, and in the distance, on the horizon, Alistair could see dawn slowly breaking, the southern sky lighting up, turning a pale shade of purple.

As she stood there, waiting, Bowyer scowling at her, there appeared from the crowd an old man, wearing a ceremonial yellow cloak, with a drawn, grave face. He held out before him, in both hands, a small, yellow marble bowl.

His face was somber, and he looked at Alistair and Bowyer with a grave expression.

“These are the waters of truth,” he boomed out, his voice ancient, the silent crowd hanging on his every word. “Anyone telling the truth cannot be affected by them. But a liar who drinks will suffer an immediate and painful death.”

The old man turned and studied Alistair sternly.

“Alistair, you stand accused of attempted murder of your husband-to-be. You claim innocence. Now is your time to prove it. You shall take this bowl and drink from the waters. If you have done what you are accused of having done, you shall die here on the spot. Do you have any final words?” he asked as he held the bowl to Alistair.

Alistair looked back at him proudly.

“They shall not be my last words,” she said, “as I have nothing to hide.”

The crowd watched, engrossed, as Alistair took the bowl and leaned forward over the fountain. The sound of trickling water filling her ears, she reached out, placed the bowl beneath, and captured some of the red liquid. She held the small bowl in both hands, filled with the red water, then put it to her mouth.