James Clemens - Shadowfall

Tylar’s heart sank. No wonder Perryl’s command to stay this trial had been ignored. They had their own knight, newly arrived, to argue otherwise.

“Let him be soothed,” the woman said from the bench. “The truth will be known.”

Tylar was pulled back into the single red chair. His manacles were unlocked and he was roped in place.

The red-robed mancer, his face cowled and shadowed as was custom, stepped before the bench. He bowed deeply, arms crossed and folded in his sleeves. As he straightened, he pulled a small silver bowl from one sleeve and a glass repostilary from the other. The latter vial glowed with an inner fire, a mixture of blood and other humours, an alchemic blend known only to the soothmancers.

Kneeling, he placed the silver bowl on the floor, whispered prayers of thanks, and poured a few drops into the basin. He stoppered the repostilary, and it vanished up a sleeve. With his hands free, he dipped his fingers into the bowl, wetting each tip with the glowing crimson mixture.

The mancer stood and crossed behind Tylar’s chair, his robes sweeping the floor.

“Are you ready to put him to the word?” the mancer asked the court.

“We are,” the trio at the bench responded.

Tylar braced himself. He hated being soothed. It was a violation like no other.

Wet fingers reached from behind and touched him at temple, forehead, and behind the corner of his jaw. The touch was fire, searing into him, seeming to reach into his skull. He gasped at the burn. The guild of soothmancers bowed to the gods bearing the aspect of fire. The unique blend of alchemies required the blood of such a god.

As the Grace-fed fire burned through his will, winding to the center of his being, the mancer spoke. “Put him to the word. Let the truth be judged.”

Near blind from the pain, he heard the first question. “Did you slay Meeryn?”

“No!” he gasped out.

There was a pause as the adjudicators turned their attention to the soothmancer. Tylar had no trust in such a one. He had been soothed before, questioned upon the murder of the cobbler’s family. His answer had been the same: denial. But the mancer had stated he was lying to the court. It had made no sense. Tylar knew the soothmancer to be a good and honest man. He had served the court of Tashijan for many decades. How could he make such a mistake?

Only much later did Tylar understand. In his heart, he had indeed felt responsible for the death of the cobbler and his family. They had been slain by the Gray Traders to discredit him. So in a way, he had been the cause for their bloody deaths. The soothmancer at Tashijan must have sensed this deeper guilt in Tylar’s heart and answered honestly.

Still, it was a mistake. Truth was more complicated than what was written in one’s heart. Justice could not always be found so easily there.

But he felt no guilt for Meeryn’s death. “No!” he repeated to the court before the mancer could even respond.

“How do you find?” the lead adjudicator asked.

The soothmancer responded slowly, strained. “I… I am having difficulty reading this one’s heart. There is a well of darkness beyond anything I’ve ever soothed before, beyond anything I could burn through to the truth. The corruption inside this man has no bounds, no depths. He is more monster than man.”

Tylar squirmed under the other’s fiery touch. “He lies! I am no worse nor better than any other man.”

Fingers broke from his skin, releasing him. “I cannot read this one. His very touch sickens me. I fear he will corrupt the purity of Grace I bear.” The mancer fell away, legs trembling with true horror.

Tylar stared at the accusing eyes. The soothmancer’s words doomed him, claiming him evil beyond measure. Only such a corrupt spirit could slay a god.

He saw the judgment firm in the eyes of the adjudicators.

“We must find how he killed Meeryn,” the Shadowknight said.

“How?” the elder woman asked. “How without the guidance of a soothmancer?”

“There are other ways to loosen a stubborn tongue.” Darjon ser Hightower shifted closer, his cloak billowing outward. “Older ways, cruder ways. He has slain our Meeryn, murdered our realm into a godless hinterland. Let him face the tests of truth from those same barbarous lands.”

“What do you propose?”

“Let me put him to the torture, make him scream the truth.”

Tylar closed his eyes. He had worn this healed body for such a short time, and it was already going to be taken from him, broken again.

“So be it,” said the woman behind the bench.

Now it ended.

On the seventh floor of the Conclave’s tower, Dart sat in a chair, hands folded in her lap. She tried not to stare at the row of girls seated in chairs along one side of the hall, and especially not at the dwindling number of girls that stood between her and the closed doors at the end of the hall. The sigil of the healers, an oak sprig, was carved into the door’s lintel.

In preparation for the night’s ceremony, they were to be tested, and examined, judged whether or not they were pure enough to kneel before the gods’ Oracles.

Dart already knew her fate.

Tears threatened, a mix of terror, guilt, and sorrow.

The door opened again, releasing another girl, a fourth-floorer, who fled along the rows of chairs like a frightened sparrow. But from the smile on her face, it was not fear, but delight that was the wind under her wings. On her forehead, she bore a smudged blue cross, a mix of oils and dyed unguents, marking her as pure by Healer Paltry. She could attend the ceremony this night, opening the way to being chosen as a handmaiden.

Matron Grannice appeared in the open doorway. All the seated girls stood. Dart did the same, well aware of the ache in her loins, a dull bruise of the former pain.

Matron Grannice waved for the next girl, seated nearest the door. “Come, Laurelle. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

Laurelle curtsied. On this day, she would be the first of the thirdfloorers to be tested. As was custom, the sixthfloorers were checked first, then the fifth and fourth, leaving the thirdfloorers for last. It would be the first time for Dart’s class to be presented before the Oracles, the blind servants of various gods, who arrived with the first full moon of summer to pick handmaidens and handmen for their gods.

Draped in white silk, her feet slippered in snowy soft velvet, Laurelle crossed to the door. She was the embodiment of purity. While it was a rarity for a thirdfloorer to be picked, what Oracle, blind or not, could fail to see the perfection that was Laurelle mir Hothbrin?

Pausing at the threshold, Laurelle glanced back at the line of remaining thirdfloorers. The powder on her face could not hide the blush of heat in her cheeks. Nervousness. She tried to smile bravely at the others, but it came out sickly.

All eyes, including Dart’s, followed Laurelle as she disappeared into the healer’s chamber. The door closed.

Now one girl sat between Dart and the door: Margarite. Like Laurelle, Margarite was dressed in white finery, down to the flowered tassels on her slippers.

Dart fingered the simple white shift and sash she wore, trying to pluck some semblance of beauty from it. Still, no amount of linen, silk, or the finest embroidery could make her pure again.

“Quit fidgeting!” Margarite spat under her breath, quick-tempered from her own anxiety.

Dart’s hands settled back to her knees.

For the past seven days, she had hidden all signs of the attack. But it had not been easy. Ripped and sore, she had continued to spot her underthings and bedsheets for the first three days.

On the second night, it came to the attention of Matron Grannice. Dart had hurriedly told the third floor matron that the bleeding was from her first menstra. With a frown, the portly woman had pulled Dart into her private study.