Faith Hunter - Seraphs

We were sitting close enough to hear his skin sizzle. I stared hard at my knees and managed not to quiver when Mack’s half-stifled scream echoed dully off the church walls. The reek of burned human flesh combined with the sour stink of the room. My stomach rebelled. I pressed a fist hard into my midsection.

Two of the brown-robed elders dragged Mack by his shoulders off the platform and out, this time taking the aisle through the church, within inches of me. I couldn’t help myself. I looked up. Mack was sagging between them and one of the men held him by the hair so the crowd could see his face. A two-inch cross had been burned into his left cheek, the top bar near the outer corner of his eye. The brand had pressed deep enough to sear bone, and the cross was blackened, flesh puckered and blistered.

Tears of Taharial. My fingers started tingling, my breath too fast. Unable to act, not permitted to fight, panic mode wrestled through my muscles. I closed my eyes.

Up front, another prisoner was brought forward, also a member of the EIH, a repeat offender. This wouldn’t be his first punishment; his original brand had been poorly done, the flesh on the left side of his face drawing up, pulling his mouth into a leering half grin and permanently exposing his molars. Such men were outcasts, wearing rags, persecuted for speaking out against the High Host of the Seraphim, the ruling council of seraphs.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him struggle, cursing the elders, fighting. When the brand was applied, he whipped his body hard. The hot iron dug into his flesh as he wrenched away, tearing the cheek in a gush of blood. I wanted to gag.

I looked at Ciana. She had stopped struggling, her head buried in Lucas’ shoulder. Thank God. She shouldn’t see this—no one should—though the townsfolk were enjoying the show. I smelled moonshine, candy, and popcorn. My stomach rolled over again.

A woman’s voice carried from the back of the room as the man was carted past, the words rapid-fire, without a space between for an answer. “Do you repent of the blasphemy? Do you have anything to say to our viewers? What does your family think about you joining the Earth Invasion Heretics?”

As one, the entire crowd craned around. Romona Benson, the television reporter, held a microphone to the injured man. Like he could talk with his face ripped half away. Behind her, a cameraman walked backward, getting video of the prisoner and the TV journalist. I guess brandings might qualify as news, but I doubted the Federal Satellite Broadcast Administration would allow the footage to air. Blood seldom got airtime.

And then it hit me. A licensed witchy-woman brought before the town fathers for an infraction would be news. I would be something they could air, something sensational and scandalous. My trial would be breaking news, interrupting every soap, cartoon, commercial, movie, or weather update. Seraph stones. I was going to be on TV. And so were the orthodox town citizens who wanted all mages dead. If I had to fight my way out of here, the entire world would know that a neomage had spilled human blood. Those who hated and feared mages would rise up.

My trial had been orchestrated, placing me in position to polarize the human world against mages. It was a masterful move.

I groaned under my breath and dropped my head. Audric, leaning in from the pew behind, caught my shoulder in his fist, keeping me upright as if he thought I would bury my face in my lap. “You will not hide, Thorn,” he said, for my ears only. “You will not.”

I didn’t need the threat. I knew now what I was up against. I sat straight, pushing away the sick feeling, and concentrated on the men sitting at the judgment bench. Once, there had been a pulpit, choir seats, a baptismal pool. Now, serving as the judges’ bench, there was a long table with seats for seven town fathers behind it. To one side was a chair used as a witness stand, two rows of seats for the accused and witnesses, and places for the younger elders who acted as bailiffs and guards. All could be seen from any part of the old sanctuary, and were fully visible to the camera in the back.

The town fathers—kirk elders and elected officials—sat in the judgment seat. I knew only a few of them by name, and of them one was a friend of sorts, and one was an enemy. I bought my bread from Shamus Waldroup. Elder Culpepper, sitting beside him on the dais, was newly elected to the judgment seat. His eyes were on me, glowing with malice and satisfaction. It was a pretty good bet he had assisted with planning today’s events. It was no secret that the elder and his son Derek hated all mages and were powerful men in Mineral City. The elder was orthodox; his son was reformed. Neither man liked me. I had spoiled a lucrative business deal when I melted the Trine’s ice cap and made it needless for the town to move. Most people hadn’t known I was responsible for that. Somehow, they had found out.

I should have worn the dobok, I thought irrelevantly. My hands were sweating and my breath came too fast. I steadied myself with deep breaths, listening as business matters came before the court—property disputes that dated back to the Last War, disagreements over who actually owned land that had changed hands during the times of disruption after the three plagues. A delinquent payment on a loan was presented. All were tabled for further fact-gathering, the gavel strident. Behind me, the TV camera whirred. Why hadn’t I just run?

“Thorn St. Croix Stanhope, take the stand,” the chairman called out.

Panic detonated through me, stealing my breath and leaving my heart thumping like a drum in the hands of a maniac. I couldn’t do this. Not on national TV. The Enclave priestess would never forgive me once she heard. I’d be ruined. After this, I could never go home to Enclave.

The thought was a shock. Until now, I hadn’t known I wanted to go to Enclave. I hadn’t known some tiny part of me still thought Enclave was home. I shivered. What else didn’t I know about myself?

Audric stood. From the far side of the aisle, Rupert stood. Both waited a beat until Audric moved up beside me and bent far down, placing his mouth at my ear, easing a hand beneath my arm, his lips by my face. “Showtime, little mage. Wimp out on me now and I’ll beat you into a soft lump of modeling clay at our next practice.”

A frenzied giggle burst from me and Audric clamped down on my arm so hard the giggle wheezed into silence. Pain helped clear my head. Slowly I stood, catching sight of Ciana’s terrified face. My heart faltered, slammed a fierce beat into my chest and up my neck, settling into a fast, steady rhythm. Okay. For Ciana. I managed a smile. I glanced up at Audric and gestured forward. Showtime, the man said. Fine. What choice did I have now?

I threw back my head, took my walking stick in hand, and stepped into the passageway toward the dais. The three remaining brown-clad bailiffs were in a line against the wall to my left. Two wore guns at their hips; the other had a truncheon and Taser. All three held their hands at the ready, cupping the butt of guns or billy clubs. All three looked eager, a little too eager, to take on a mage before a national audience.

The last of my panic fled and battle tactics began to build in my mind. I had studied the strategy and tactics of war, training at Enclave until I was fourteen and had to flee or die. Lately, my training had begun again, every morning at Audric’s hands. I looked around the room as I walked, studying it fully, as I should have when I first entered. I dismissed the guards. Rupert could handle the hill-billies with guns, even with the unfamiliar sword. The one with a Taser and stick I could stop with the throwing knives at my wrists. My breathing steadied as I analyzed. They might make two steps before their hearts stopped, say three seconds from throw till they hit the floor, but I doubted it.