Songs of the Earth (2 page)

At Ansel’s side, the Chaplain was unchanged, if a little greyer than when Alderan had last seen him. Leonine head bent to whisper a word for Ansel’s ear alone, Danilar frowned at the response, then folded his massive hands in his sleeves and walked to his seat on the front row of benches. Ansel squared his shoulders, then climbed the steps onto the dais and turned to face the hall. The hierarchs fell silent.

‘I call this Rede to order,’ he announced. ‘Let us begin.’

A twitch of Ansel’s fingers signalled the sentries to open the doors. Every hierarch leaned forward, the better to watch the entrance of the accused. In his lap, Alderan’s fists clenched. These were the Order’s most senior officers, subservient only to the Preceptor, himself second only to the Lector of Dremen.

And yet look at them! Gawking like yokels at the fair, waiting for the showman to bring out his painted lady or a two-headed calf. I hope the Goddess is watching what Her anointed few are about to do in Her name
.

Through the doors came a pair of marshals, their prisoner stumbling between them. Long lank hair and many days’ growth
of beard hid the captive’s face, but nothing hid what had been done to him. His naked body was patterned with bruises. Scabs from the lash crusted his back, and one foot left bloody smears on the black and white floor with each step. When the marshals chained him to the mahogany rail of the witness stand he crashed to his knees, too weak to stand.

As one, the Curia caught their breath. Some of the hierarchs made a show of holding handkerchiefs to their faces as they stared.

Was this how far the Suvaeon had fallen from the tenets of Diamondhelm? Returning to the question and the tawse, that had been outlawed for centuries? Anger uncoiled in Alderan’s belly like a serpent rearing to strike. Was this what they called justice?

Pain stabbed Gair’s foot as he fell. Buzzing darkness swarmed into his vision from all sides and the Rede Hall became a vortex of scarlet and sunlight, sucking him down to the chequered floor.

His stomach clenched to spew. He swallowed the nausea down hard and shut his eyes until the dizziness passed. The hierarchs were staring at him. Their revulsion, their awful fascination, prickled over the back of his neck. Their silence rang as loud as a shout.

Apostate! Unbeliever!

He had no answer for them. How could he deny the truth? His skin crawled with guilt.

Stand up, novice. Whatever comes, face it on your feet
.

Selenas, the Master of Swords, hard brown hand extended to help a boy up from the dirt of a sun-soaked practice yard, what felt like a century ago. Helping him up to fight again.

Gair opened his eyes. Black and white tiles under him. Smells of floor polish and incense and – merciful Mother! – his own unwashed body. On the periphery of his vision, dark wood, red robes. Let the Curia stare. They would not see him mewling on the floor like a pup.

Slowly, chains heavy on his wrists, he took hold of the mahogany rail and pulled himself to his feet.

Alderan let out a breath he had not even realised he held. They had not broken him. The boy was unsteady, but he was standing, head up to meet the Preceptor’s gaze full on. Exultation punched up from Alderan’s gut. There was hope yet.

The Preceptor raised his steel-shod staff and struck the dais three times, measured as a heartbeat. Around the hall, the hierarchs stilled. Motes flared in the sunlight from the long windows. The sun had moved westwards; now the dais lay in shadow and the witness stand stood full in the glare.

‘Who stands before the Rede?’ Ansel’s voice was worn thin by the years, but still it had a snap to it.

‘One who stands accused,’ responded the prosecutor, warrant in his hands. He did not look at the prisoner.

‘Of what is he accused?’

‘My lord, he is charged with foully desecrating the house of the Goddess, sinning against Her commandments and violating the sternest precepts of our faith.’

‘By what means?’

‘Witchcraft.’

A hiss of indrawn breath rippled through the crowded benches. Just the word was enough to have them reaching for their rosaries.

Alderan’s fists clenched again; he made himself fold his hands in his lap. He was not there to tear the Rede Hall apart brick by brick. Not today.

‘Why does he stand here?’

‘To receive the judgement of the Rede.’

Silence, apart from the scritch of the scribe’s quill, then even that ceased. Despite the weight of the stares on him the lad held his head up, kept his eyes fixed on the place in the shadows where Ansel’s face should be. He did not squint, though his eyes must
surely be watering. The sun cut through his overgrown beard, revealing the hard angles of the face beneath. Typical Leahn, from the ruler-level brows and long straight nose to the set of his jaw. Not even a hint that he was perturbed to stand in front of the Rede in naught but his own sweat. Or if he was, he would damned well not let it show.

Oh, he’s going to be a handful
.

In the hall below, the silence grew heavier. The prosecutor shuffled his paperwork irritably, stealing a glance at the Preceptor. Even the dust in the air seemed to pause, suspended like flies in amber. On the benches, hierarchs leaned forward.

Ansel stepped into the light. His pale hair flared halo-like around his head as he took the charge sheet from the prosecutor. The Curia stood up with a creak of benches and a rustle of robes.

‘You have been charged with numerous acts of witchcraft, the details of which have been discussed at length by this assembly,’ Ansel said, glancing at the parchment in his hand. ‘The Rede has heard the evidence presented to it, including the sworn statement lodged by Elder Goran. We have also heard the testimony of other witnesses, given under oath in this chamber, and the reports concerning your confession.’

He looked straight at Gair. To his credit, the lad did not flinch.

‘The Rede has reached a verdict. Are you prepared to hear our judgement, my son?’

‘I am, my lord.’

Alderan shook his head.
Goddess love the boy, he stares damnation in the eye!

The Preceptor paused, the attention of the room locked upon him.

‘Hear now the judgement of the Rede.’ Ansel’s words were flat and cold as stone. ‘We find the accused guilty of all charges. The sentence is death by burning.’

Gair gripped the railing tight and locked his knees. He would not go down again. He would not! But still the verdict roared in his ears.

Be a light and comfort to me now and in the hour of my death oh Mother if You can still hear me I don’t want to die
.

‘However.’

Ansel crumpled the parchment between his hands. The prosecutor blinked; opposite him, Brother Chronicler goggled up at the Preceptor, wet lips slack as the ball of paper dropped onto his desk and pattered across it to the floor.

‘An appeal for clemency has been entered into the record, citing your previous good character and conduct. The Rede must take this into account, therefore the sentence will be commuted to branding, excommunication from the Eadorian faith and banishment from this parish on pain of death. You have until dusk today to comply. May the Goddess have mercy on your soul.’

Ansel’s staff struck the dais three times.

Gair stared. Reprieve? How? Surely he had misheard, his ears still filled with the sizzle of flames.

‘Preposterous!’ Elder Goran strode down the tiers from the upper benches on the left side of the hall. Angry purple suffused his meaty face. ‘This is outrageous, Ansel! I demand to know who entered this plea!’

‘I cannot tell you, Goran, you know that. It was entered as a sealed plea and as such is anonymous. Consistorial law is quite clear on the point.’

‘The punishment for witchcraft is death,’ Goran insisted. ‘There can be no commuting it, no appeal. It is stated in the Book of Eador: “Suffer ye not the life of a witch and shun ye all works of evil lest they imperil thy soul.” This is not
justice
. This is an insult to the Goddess Herself!’

‘Peace, Goran.’ Ansel lifted his hand as angry mutters of support rose from the benches. ‘All of you. We have argued this out before. It serves no purpose to do so again. This Rede is concluded.’

‘I must protest, Preceptor! This creature has turned his face from the one true Goddess. He has besmirched the sanctity of the Suvaeon Order, instigated who knows what corruption and depravity amongst us. He has performed acts of witchcraft here, on holy ground. He must be punished!’

The sun was too hot on Gair’s face. His head spun and he clung to the wooden railing for support.

Across the chamber, Danilar leaned forward from his seat. ‘Don’t you think the boy is being punished enough, Goran?’ the Chaplain asked mildly. ‘He will never be welcome in a place of worship again once he wears a witchmark. Never be able to wed, never have his children blessed and taken into the faith. It will go with him to his grave, along with the hatred and suspicion of his neighbours. Is that not enough?’

‘The punishment for witchcraft is death.’ Goran smacked one plump fist into his other hand to mark out the words. ‘We cannot flinch from it because the accused comes from our own ranks. Whosoever commits Corlainn’s sin shares Corlainn’s punishment. He must be burned.’

Angry voices shouted support for Goran. Hands waved and faces twisted into ugliness. Hate-filled words stabbed at Gair’s ears, but he kept his eyes fixed on the Preceptor. His intervention was all that kept him from the fire.

Please don’t let me die
.

Ansel raised his hand for silence and was ignored. Demands tossed down from the benches to either side of the hall thickened the air. Frowning, he drove the heel of his staff onto the dais so hard it rang like the Sacristy bell.

‘I have passed sentence!’ he barked. ‘It is the task of the Rede to determine a verdict. It is mine to set the sentence and I have set it. Now that is
enough
!’

The Curia subsided into vengeful muttering and finally a silence of vast disapproval. Goran remained in front of the lowest tier, glaring.

‘Goddess in glory.’ Ansel planted his staff between his feet. ‘You are disciples of Endirion, my brothers, not a pack of unruly schoolboys. Now go with the Goddess. The Rede is over.’

A few stubborn murmurs of protest caused the Preceptor to lean forward, into the sunlight. His lips thinned and his blue eyes flashed. ‘No more, I tell you!’