Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (17 page)

“Was there no message with it?”

“There was a sealed scroll for the king of Eldarra,” said Pym. “Sealed with King Laetham’s signet.”

“It probably confirms that I’m accused of Nash’s murder.” Trevin turned the apricot over in his hand. At least Melaia didn’t hold him responsible for Nash’s murder or believe the tales about Resarian’s death. She didn’t know the full extent of his guilty past, but what she knew, she had forgiven.

“I questioned Catellus about the other comains,” said Pym.

“Does he know what happened to them?”

“He says he was up north when they disappeared. Says he knows nothing about it. He’s been in Montressi doing his job, guarding the northern border. It’s a short, desolate fringe of the country, wolves posing the greatest danger. Of all the comains, he was the loner. Had one armsman and no men-at-arms on call.”

“Wasn’t his shield found abandoned like all the others?”

“It was. He claims his armsman stole it and fled. End of tale. Push him further, and his face goes hard as stone. I thought he’d be friendlier to me as a fellow Camrithian and Main Undrian’s armsman.”

“No doubt his word, along with King Laetham’s scroll, will outweigh my story in the council.”

“We’ll find out tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as the votes are cast.”

“And if the votes go against me?”

Pym glanced at the door. “In that case I’ll work for your escape,” he said softly.

“What if you’re not successful?”

Pym scowled and trudged to the door, then turned. “If we’re not successful, then what happens next is up to you. You can be dragged to the gallows like a simpering fool if you want, but I prefer to tell Melaia you strode to your death tall and confident like the innocent man you are.” He tapped on the bars, and the guard let him out.

Trevin’s chest tightened as he remembered his last morning at Redcliff. He wished he had roused Dwin to bid him farewell. He wished too that he had pledged his love to Melaia in no uncertain terms.

Still, he would be her eagle. On the way to the gallows, he would look straight into the sun. And he would see her face.

He rose and slowly paced the length of his cell, then breathed a laugh. He didn’t fear death, but hanging as a criminal would be a useless death. Why couldn’t he have died fighting, taking an enemy down with him, or at least saving Prince Resarian? The prince’s death—
that
was useless.

Except—Trevin wiped his eyes with the back of his hand—the prince’s death had probably saved his life. Which was wrong. All wrong. He should have died, and the prince should have lived.

Trevin sank to the floor, his head bowed.

The next morning a guard brought Trevin’s meal, which he devoured. Then he paced his cell and tried to keep his mind from straying to the discussion taking place in the council room. He ran his hand through his hair. Maybe he would be allowed to get it trimmed or tie it back. He scratched his beard and decided he wouldn’t shave it but have it neatly clipped. If he planned to die like a man, it wouldn’t hurt to look like one.

Pym’s voice echoed down the corridor, joined by Haden’s and Dio’s. They sounded agitated.

Pym appeared first. “You’re standing!” he said. “That’s an improvement.”

The guard unlocked the door, and the three men stepped into the cell. Trevin studied their faces, but they were unreadable. “What’s the news?” he asked.

“It was a draw,” said Haden. “Out of eight council members, four called you innocent, four guilty.”

“It’s a rarity,” said Dio. “An uncommon happenstance, so to say. Four believed your story and the scroll from your princess that vouched for your character.”

“The scroll was in my favor?” asked Trevin. He wondered if King Laetham knew Melaia had sent it.

“But four on the council believed Catellus,” said Pym.

“I can’t lie about what I saw, Trevin,” said Haden. “You held the sword.”

Trevin looked from Dio to Haden to Pym. “What now?”

“You’re to come to the council chamber yourself,” said Haden. “You’ll be tried tomorrow by the eye of the sword.”

revin squinted as he stepped out of the keep into the blinding sunlight. He had been released into Haden’s custody until evening, when he was scheduled to appear before the council. Pym had gone to purchase suitable clothing for the occasion.

The city of Flauren still lay cloaked in the black of mourning. Black flags flew from every tower of the palace, which crowned a hill of fir trees in the center of the city. Its rosy granite towers stood in tiers, the shortest in front, tallest in back, each encircled with balconies. Wind rippled the black drapes and vines that cascaded from the balconies, giving the impression that the palace shuddered.

Shops were open, foot traffic brisk, but the mood of the city was subdued. Trevin felt the stares of the townspeople and heard their murmurs as Haden led him through the streets toward the horsemen’s quarters by the stables.

“Where will my trial by sword take place?” Trevin struggled to keep up with Haden, relying on his staff to steady him. “Will I be allowed a weapon?” Even with a weapon, he knew his weakness would be a fatal disadvantage.

“You misunderstand,” said Haden. “But I suppose no one informed you. Do you remember what I told you about Arelin?”

“A great sage and warrior. Angelaeon. Died in the Dregmoors freeing the Windwings.”

“Before Arelin left for the Dregmoors, he gave Queen Ambria an extraordinary sword. The blade is wider than most, highly polished like a mirror.”

Trevin eyed Haden’s careworn face. “Do they spear me with it and see if I survive?”

Haden snorted. “You face the blade, and it reflects your true character. The eye of the sword, they call it. It shows your worth.”

Trevin grimaced. “If the sword reveals truth, it will show that my hands killed the prince.”

“But you were not at fault?” Haden paused at the entrance to a narrow, shadowed street and faced Trevin, his face set. “I don’t know what to believe. Every time I close my eyes, I see you over Resarian’s body, your bloody sword in his chest.”

“I see it too,” said Trevin. “I’m at fault for not protecting Resarian. I backed off when I should have pressed Varic. But I would never have harmed Resarian. Never. I would rather have died in his place.”

Haden’s accusing glare softened. “If your heart is steadfast and honest, the sword will reflect it.”

“I’m doomed, then,” said Trevin. “My past isn’t clean. I did a devil’s bidding when I knew it was wrong. Deceit, betrayal, thievery, spying. How’s that for my worth?”

Haden smiled sadly. “I’d say you’ve shoveled more than your share of dung. My past isn’t snow pure either, but it’s behind me. What’s past is what’s gone.”

“What’s past is what haunts me. I might as well walk to the gallows now.”

“Give the sword a chance, Main Trevin. The greatest courage a man can have is to look himself in the eye.”

Haden headed down the narrow street, motioning for Trevin to follow.

Trevin realized that Haden had trusted him to come all this way without a guard. Which meant that, for all Haden’s doubts, the horseman believed in him. Trevin stood taller, breathed deeper, and followed him to a dirt courtyard.

The sweetly pungent smell of hay and horses drifted from a long, low stable. Beyond the stable, fenced fields extended to the north wall of the city. Trevin studied the grazing horses and picked out Almaron.

“Pym’s taken good care of your horse,” said Haden.

“What about the Golden?”

“She flew as soon as we herded the horses out of the canyon, but we’ve seen her in flight over Flauren. The herd stirs every time she appears. Especially your stallion.”

“Almaron’s not mine anymore.” Trevin felt empty, voicing his decision. “He should stay with his kind.”

Haden’s eyebrows rose, but his smile deepened. “You’ll set him free?” He placed a firm hand on Trevin’s shoulder. “I hope the same for you.”

Trevin could eat only a few bites of the stew Haden provided for his supper. His beard was newly trimmed, his hair pulled back in a short tail, his new dark gray tunic plain but spotlessly clean. Yet his heart felt anything but clean. The dirt of his past clung to him, accusing him, announcing the condemnation to come.

The overcast sky lent Flauren’s granite towers a strange pall as Trevin and Haden headed to the palace. Dio and Pym met them at the entrance and escorted them to the king’s council room, where the evening breeze wafted through tall latticed windows, bearing the scent of fir trees and the sound of black drapes flapping from the balconies. Two long tables extended into the room from a dais, which held its own table.

Trevin counted six people garbed in various shades of gray standing in the center of the room, deep in conversation. The orange shimmer he sensed told him at least one was Angelaeon. They looked up as he walked in.

A lean man with silver hair left the group and strode to Haden. “Is this the comain?” he asked.

“It is,” said Haden. “Main Trevin, this is Lord Shuldamar, head councilman.”

Lord Shuldamar gave a nod. “You should know my opinion carries no greater weight than any of the others here. Come meet the rest of the council and your accuser.”

Pym nudged Trevin. “Main Catellus,” he whispered. “The burly one. Big ears. Flighty eyes.”

Shoulders tight, stomach knotted, Trevin approached the people who had discussed whether he should live or die. He knew they assessed him as they met him, but no one’s eyes expressed scorn. Even Catellus nodded, though his jaw was clenched and his lips tight. Trevin was greeted cordially by the silversmith Zalmon, the farmer Gwibbin, the carpenter Mithel, and the one Angelaeon, a woman arrowsmith named Toryth.

The door at the left end of the dais swung open, and a page stepped into the room. Everyone hurried to find chairs at the side tables, but no one sat. Haden motioned for Trevin to stand behind the seat between him and Pym.

Main Catellus stood directly across the room. Trevin’s eyes met his for a moment, and Catellus quickly looked away. Trevin did too, glad the table hid his shaky legs.

A buxom, dark-haired woman entered the room, followed by a slender lady, gowned in black and veiled. She wore a simple gold crown. They moved to the last two chairs on the dais and stood facing the council. Trevin couldn’t help staring at the somber veiled figure, Queen Ambria, Prince Resarian’s mother. He could not see her face, but he had no doubt that she studied her son’s accused murderer. He gripped the back of his chair.

Next came a sturdy young woman with loose-flowing brown hair who bore a bow and quiver on her back. She was uncloaked, and the short, wide sleeves of her black gown revealed muscular arms as well as a dagger at her waist. A sunset-red light emanated strongly from her as she stationed herself in a corner behind the queen.

Then a sharp-nosed, clean-shaven man entered, followed by black-robed, stalwart King Kedemeth, a shorter version of Haden, ruddy and pleasant looking. He took his seat beside the queen. Chairs scraped across the floor as everyone else sat.

King Kedemeth folded his hands on the table. “Lord Shuldamar.” His rich voice resonated like Haden’s.