The Path of the Sword (67 page)

A gruff voice behind him spoke out jovially, “Welcome home. I hope you enjoy our many comforts.”

With rough laughter ringing in his ears, a heavy boot caught him low in the back and propelled him forward. He crashed against the wall at the same time he heard the door shut. Spinning, he reached for the door just in time to hear the heavy iron bolt slide home with a clank that seemed to resonate with a frightening finality that rang like the bells of doom.

All was darkness.

He slumped down to the cold stone floor of his cell. He wept.

Chapter 57

Even though it was a cool autumn day, the chamber was hot and stuffy. Wood paneling, stained a deep, rich brown, like chocolate, surrounded the room. Where that ended, halfway up the wall, polished gray stone rose to the ceiling. When Gaven entered through the double doors, he walked down the center of the room on a dark red carpet the color of wine, reminiscent of congealing blood, between a dozen rows of benches, all of them filled with the cold, disapproving eyes of Soldiers of God. Some, he recognized from his own platoon, like Lieutenant Higgens and Captain Salma. Private Gershan was there, as surly as ever, and Private Dax snoozed with his head resting against his chest. Most of the rest, he did not recognize. Probably just sight-seers out to watch a Soldier drummed out of the corps, he thought bitterly. Or hung.

He passed through a narrow gate set in a low wall that separated the spectators from the participants and he approached the box on his left. Ahead of him, a tribunal of five senior officers sat behind a long table and watched his approach without expression. Over their heads hung portraits of some of the greatest leaders the Soldiers of God had ever had. There was General Malden, and General Griffen. He saw Colonel Hartness and General Tanthes. They all seemed to glare at him, convinced of his guilt. In the center, one more portrait hung, bigger than the rest by a long shot, of Grand Prelate Maten. His eyes were sad, as though whoever stood in Gaven's spot had to bear their master's disappointment in them.

He was dressed in his best uniform. His spotless, snow-white cape flowed like an icefall from his shoulders and his tabard was so diligently ironed that its black cross on red almost gleamed like armor. He wore no armor and for that he was excruciatingly grateful. He stood ramrod straight in the box reserved for those who had been charged with some crime or other and he felt like he was one of those malformed unfortunates that were so popular in the traveling circuses and carnivals sprinkled across the land. Like the one his father had taken him to when he was a child. The one where he had watched the beast-man, for that was the most imaginative name his young mind had been able to conjure up, growling and prowling in his cage. All matted fur and hunched shoulders, the beast-man had terrified onlookers when he leapt at the bars in vain attempts to break free. He had shrieked in mock terror himself when the creature had reared up and roared his displeasure at the young man who threw a rotting apple core at him. The only difference between that box and this one, really, was the absence of bars on his.

He kept his eyes locked on the wall behind the row of seated officers and waited. He blinked the sweat from his eyes as discreetly as he could manage. He fought with fingers that seemed to no longer belong to him to keep them still at his sides. They would not move far anyway. Not with the heavy shackles that bound them.

This was the second time he stood in the box since they had arrived a week ago. The first was two days ago when the charges of gross negligence causing death were read to him. Evidence had been presented, and testimony had been heard. All of it quite damning. He would be lucky to escape with no more than a dishonorable discharge; he would be lucky to escape with his head.

Today was his day to present his defense and though he had spent his days in his cell—thankfully not a cell deep in the dungeon, but one reserved for those awaiting trial, a cell that had a window and regular meals—thinking long and hard on what he would say, he only had one option. He was guilty. He knew that. He could only hope that these men and women would see the depths of his remorse and would show clemency.

He began to feel faint. Why did they have to keep this room so hot? The answer seemed obvious: to keep those standing at attention in the box as uncomfortable as possible. And why not? Everything else in the stuffy chamber seemed designed with that specific aim in mind, from the accusing eyes of the onlookers that glared holes into his back, to the sad, angry eyes of the paintings and of the panel that faced him judging him at the front, to the fact that he had no place to sit even when he was not called on to speak. Sweat flowed freely down his back and stained the armpits of his tabard. If the proceedings did not start soon, perhaps he would beg the court to let him go change into a less sodden uniform. Suddenly, the thought of wearing armor appealed to him. At least there would have been a steel buffer between his sweat and the uniform he had so carefully cleaned.

There was no more time for thought. In the center of the table, grizzled old General Thason, commander of the garrison at Threimes, commander of all Soldiers of God north of Merris Town, looked up with cold eyes and riveted Gaven to the spot.

“Corporal Gaven Slaynish,” he rasped quietly. None of the other members of the tribunal even bothered to look up.

He threw a precise salute. “Sir!”

“We have heard the charges against you. We have heard the evidence. Do you have anything to say in your defense?” He spoke his words precisely, clipping them just so in the way that the highly educated and the nobility did. He laced his fingers in front of him on the table and kept his gaze firmly fixed on the young soldier.

Gaven hesitated, thought for a moment, drew together everything he wanted to say. Then, with burgeoning horror, he realized he did not remember his speech. Dumbstruck, he worked his lips, tried to get some moisture into his mouth and he stared at the wall behind General Thason as if his speech would appear written on the gray stones.

“Well?” Thason barked. “Speak up, soldier.”

“Sir, I-” He searched frantically for the words, clawed desperately for something,
anything
, to say. He searched too long.

“Very well. On the charge of-”

It was his last chance. He had to speak. If he remained silent, he would hang before the week was out. His mind flitted like a butterfly.

And then, “Sir! I wish to speak!” he blurted.

Thason, annoyed by the foolish young corporal in front of him, impatiently waved a hand. “Then proceed, soldier. Make it quick.”

“Sir, I...if it please the court, I only wish to say that I'm sorry,” he said. Shamefully, he looked down to his toes. He could not meet the eyes of his superior officer. He could not face the coldness of Thason's face or the sad disappointment of his Grand Prelate. “I did not mean for any of this to happen.”

He was interrupted by a quiet snort from somewhere behind him. He imagined Higgens was having a grand time of it all.

“I-he...that is, Jurel—one of the prisoners seemed trustworthy. He proved that over the weeks we traveled. He didn't seem the base criminal we had thought. I began to think him innocent of the crimes leveled at him and I felt it was unjust to keep him chained.”

“And do you think that you, corporal, were ever in a position to judge a man's innocence or guilt?” Commander Galya, he thought her name was, spoke from her seat at the right end of the table. “Was it your duty to try this man for his crimes?”

“Enough commander,” Thason said. “It is the corporal's turn to speak. We will weigh what he says along with the rest of it after.”

“It was not my place. And because of my presumption, Soldiers died.”

He had to pause to swallow the lump of guilt that rose in his throat. This was the moment of truth. This was the moment that would seal his fate. He thought he might vomit, and
that
would just be perfect.

“I am guilty,” he whispered and gasps rose behind him, like a gust of autumn wind (as though it was somehow a surprise). “I am guilty of the crimes leveled at me and I have lived in torment since that day for my idiocy.”

He lifted his eyes and met General Thason's squarely.

“I am guilty and nothing you can do to me will be worse than what I feel in my heart already. Therefore, I throw myself on the court's mercy. Do with me what you will.”

And he realized he meant it. Jurel had gotten a lot of good men and women killed. But he, Gaven Slaynish, had facilitated it. At that moment, he did not care if he was sentenced to hang. At that moment, he just did not care.

For a moment, for the briefest of instants, he thought he saw a glimmer of respect in Thason's eyes. But it passed too quickly; his expression settled back to cold disapproval, and Gaven could not be sure that he saw anything after all. But he held those eyes. He would not look away. Not now.

Silence. The entire court was still as a tomb, and electrified with a palpable sense of anticipation. The moment stretched, pulled to the limits until Gaven thought even the merest breath would cause it to shatter like delicate crystal. It was General Thason who provided that breath and sure enough, the room seemed to crack, to splinter in Gaven's eyes as the old general broke the tension.

“Is that all?”

“Yes sir,” Gaven said and nodded, calmly, resolutely.

Returning the nod, Thason continued, “So be it. We have heard your defense. I invite any in this room to speak in Corporal Gaven's defense.”

Another gasp rose. This was not part of standard court proceedings. From the looks the other members of the tribunal shot their general, they were as shocked as Gaven. Either Gaven had managed to impress him with his forthright admission or he was bored and had nothing else to do that afternoon. He fought the urge to laugh.

“Sir,” a colonel whose name Gaven did not know, seated to Thason's right said, “why are we-?”

“Colonel Caf, this is my court. I will do as I see fit. Clear?”

“Yes sir,” the colonel said and turned a glare that was both hot and cold on Gaven. Well, certainly he would not vote in Gaven's favor. Moot point, he supposed, since he had already declared his guilt for all the world to hear.

No one spoke. That tore at Gaven, hurt in a way that he thought he had steeled himself against. He knew he was not the very best of the Soldiers but he thought he had made some friends. Bitterly, he realized he thought wrong.

“Very well. Guard, take the prisoner back to his cell. We will announce judgment by midday tomorrow.” Thason said as he rose from his seat.

As if a spell had been broken, quiet conversation welled up, and chairs and benches scraped as soldiers stood to filter out of the overheated and stuffy courtroom.

The guard waited until the room was empty before he prodded Gaven with the point of his pike.
With a brisk command, his guard told him to get moving and he clinked his way back down
the bloody carpet, angry that he was forced to endure the added humiliation of shackles, and suddenly glad that he had allowed Jurel the dignity of being without them.

* * *

Unlike the courtroom, his cell was quite cold. He huddled on his cot with a woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He had not managed to eat breakfast for his belly was too unsettled. It roiled like boiling grease. Sunlight filtered in through the bars of the small window casting an alternating pattern of light and shadow on the floor that was a reminder of the freedom he could never attain.

His back ached from sleeping in a bad position on the lumpy cot and he worried that when the guard took him back to the box, he would be hunched like that sideshow freak of so many years ago. He desperately had to relieve himself but no one had come to empty his chamber pot. His cell reeked of damp stone and urine. Perhaps he should just piss in a corner? It certainly could not deteriorate the condition of his current living quarters. Tempting.

A door creaked and footsteps, steady and slow, echoed off the stone walls, growing louder as they approached. Here it comes, he thought. They would hang him. They would take him out to the parade grounds, where a priest would read out his crimes for the gathered crowd who would jeer and cheer and pelt him with rotting tomatoes and stones. The priest would pronounce his guilt. Then a black-masked executioner would wrap a loop of hempen rope around his neck and kick open the trap door.

He almost felt the air cut off from his lungs as he imagined it. He almost felt the rough rope bite into his throat, and the sharp pain of muscles and tendons compressed far beyond their normal state, felt the sharper pain of those same sinews snapping like overtaut lute strings. He gasped, and his cell dimmed around him. His heart galloped in his chest and he had to fight to hold back the tears.

A key rasped into the lock of his cell and the door swung open. The bars of shadow and light
spilled onto the figure in the door and Gaven thought that somehow they played a trick on his eye. It could not be her.

“On your feet soldier,” Captain Salma said. “Judgment is in.”

“You?” Gaven asked dumbly. “But why you?”

Salma chuckled grimly. “Didn't expect to see me, eh? Well, truth be told, I was actually impressed with you yesterday.” Her tone was calm, almost friendly and a smile threatened at the corners of her lips. Gaven had always thought her quite beautiful. He had always thought it odd that she wasted her beauty on soldiering.

“What do you mean?” Gaven breathed.

“Obvious, isn't it?” Salma looked askance at him as though it was indeed obvious. Gaven did not think so. “You stood up like a man, like a proper Soldier of God should, and you were honest. I've been to a few of these trials in the past. Most times, the accused tries to spin some tale that points the blame away from them. Or they try to beg the court to spare them. You didn't though. You just stated the truth and you showed you were ready to face the consequences. That took some balls of steel, all things considered.”