Grayson rolled to his side. His skin was pallid and his eyes shrunken; blood seeped from his nose, ears, and mouth. His screaming was now no more than a gasping wheeze as his body was drained of life between the searing hands of the Elder.
“Sigquaya is the magic of water, Derrick. Why do you think the sacrifices have always revolved around water, hmm? Without water, without Sigquaya, nothing can live. The crops. The city. Not even the human body.”
Grayson’s hair began to gray, growing brittle and breaking. His skin slackened, and his bones crackled and splintered.
Finally, with a growl of triumph and satisfaction, the Elder shattered the man’s skull between his hands.
The Elder breathed heavily, rising to his feet and wiping off the blood and brain matter from his hands with the same cloth he’d wiped his knife. He flexed his fingers, turning his hand this way and that, feeling the familiar burning subside. Casually stepping over the lifeless heap that used to be Derrick Grayson, he reached for the door of his office, wrenching it open. Two guards stood outside, one at either doorpost. By the beads of sweat trickling down their temples and the fearful glances to then quickly away from the Elder, he knew they had overheard everything. It mattered very little. Loyalty and allegiance were essential requirements of Þrymm guardsmen, and he turned to the nearest one.
“Find Doronaeus,” he barked. “There’s a mess in my office to clean up.” He closed the door behind him as he made his way down the hall. “I have a sentencing to attend.”
21
The Accused
They heard the booted footsteps of Þrymm guards approaching. Rhiana spun to her daughter and hissed between tightly drawn lips, “Promise me!”
“Mother!” Arteura warned as she bit her lip and inclined her head toward the approaching guards.
“Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” Rhiana whispered.
Shadows darkened the dungeon gate as the bolt clanked and the door creaked open. The two guards from earlier stepped through, eyeing both women, before the lewd one grinned and reached for Arteura. He unchained her shackles and began leading her out the door.
Rhiana sprang to her feet in a panic. “Where are you taking her?!” she shouted. “ARTEURA!”
The second guard grinned wildly and followed the first one out. Then, two other guards stepped in, obviously there for Rhiana. She was unchained and led out by a guard on either side of her.
“Where are you taking us?!” she yelled, trying feebly to halt her steps and backpedaling on the slick stone floor.
The guard to her right spat as if it were the most obvious of answers. “To your trial, of course. The Rectors are ready to announce your crimes.” He chuckled as they dragged her up the narrow steps, leaning close and whispering in her ear, “What did you think we were gonna do? Hmm?” Then, more loudly, for the benefit of the other guard on the other side of Rhiana, he said, “I’ve got to say, you’ve attracted quite the crowd, the two of you. You’re downright famous these days.”
As they finally reached the main hall of the Temple, Rhiana spotted Arteura a few yards ahead of her. Her daughter looked over her shoulder, giving Rhiana a look of calculated resolve before being shaken by the guard. “Eyes front!”
They were carried off to the side, around the Cyneþrymm idols, and into a wide, high-ceilinged room that Rhiana had never seen before. As she entered, she saw the room had terraced seating for a sizable crowd and a raised, ornate bench with places for seven at the front.
Rhiana was escorted in, and she scanned the crowd. Sure enough, most every available seat was taken and all eyes were on the two of them—eyes that held nothing but contempt and hostility. There was even a row of people standing at the back, eager to catch a glimpse of the two accused Denaeus women. Rhiana fought back a wave of self-pity. Mother and daughter standing for charges. A sacrificed son. The tainted reason for the recent crop failures. A father driven mad by ambition and shame. What a sad and pathetic family they had become. She kept scanning the crowd, back and forth, again and again, but could not find her husband, Remè. Nor could she see her father or mother. Where could they be? Could their shame and humiliation have overcome them as well? Rhiana only felt it would be rightly so if it had.
Two of the guards who had escorted the women in had broken away from the remaining two and took their place in a long row of Þrymm guards along the far wall, all dressed in uniform, with their longswords tucked into golden scabbards at their waist. Rhiana counted almost twenty.
Including Marcus.
He was standing in the middle of the row, straight-backed and chest high. His eyes were unblinking, staring at Rhiana. But instead of any hint of compassion, she only saw a fierce loathing. His upper lip quivered with obvious disdain, and she looked away.
It would seem that her greatest ambition for her youngest son, and her worst fear, had both come true: He was a proud and loyal member of the Cyneþrymm guards, yet any remnant of familial bond between parent and child had now been irrevocably shattered. She had lost him. He hated her. Even now, with everything she and Arteura were about to face, how could she keep from thinking that what she saw in her son was all her fault? How could she keep her mind from whirling through every decision, every talk, every parental moment, wondering what she had done and where it had all gone so wrong?
She risked looking back. There was a moment’s solace as she saw him briefly glance to his sister and the façade of hatred melted away, just for an instant, replaced with an uncertainty and sibling yearning that his uniform and gleaming weapon belied in his young age. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the uncertainty flitted away, replaced by a renewed stoicism, a firm, upraised chin, and an unblinking stare into the middle distance straight before him.
Even more than the hatred of the crowd, or the hatred in her youngest son’s eyes, this final, pleading goodbye from a brother to a sister broke Rhiana’s heart more than any of them. Silent tears trickled down her cheeks and slowly dripped off her quivering chin, pooling on the floor at her feet.
Arteura had spotted Marcus right away.
As she stood next to Rhiana, she watched the warring emotions playing across her brother’s face: the bald hatred of his mother, the yearning questions in his eyes directed to her, the maturity of his newly christened position among the guard, and the childish naivety of what was truly happening to them all. A mix of emotions welled inside of her—sadness, love, anger, frustration, hatred and resignation. All of it directed at her young brother. He had chosen sides. He had made his decision. He had chosen to side with the Temple and with the crowd. And he had made the decision that he was no longer a Denaeus. He was a Þrymm guard.
He was an us. His parents, even now his sister, were them.
As if in confirmation, her eyes flitted among the crowd gathered and she could see the hostility in their eyes—the triumph of a community who had finally found their cause, their enemy within, their them. She bristled, setting her jaw as she swayed a little, feeling the familiar weight of her weapons brushing against her thighs. She remembered the promise to her mother not to do anything stupid.
Dying is stupid, she thought. Being an unresistant part of the process is even more so.
One by one the Rectors entered.
There were six present today, followed by another man in a plain, unadorned white robe. He was short, heavyset, balding, and sweating. He clearly looked uncomfortable in his gown. In fact, he looked like he would be uncomfortable no matter what he wore or where he was. Rhiana figured he must be the Orator.
The door closed for a moment but then opened once again, and the Elder strode through. He walked upright and confident, comfortably in control of himself and of the proceedings, wiping his hands on a cloth tucked through the gold cord tying his robe. She noticed there was a small, crimson steak where he wiped.
Is there blood on that cloth? she wond
ered.
But, before she could get another look, the Elder seated himself at the center of the bench and motioned to the Orator, standing on a small platform below the Rectors’ bench, facing Rhiana and her daughter. He stepped to the podium.
“Oy yea, oy yea,” he began. “This chamber is called to session!”
The crowd quieted, yet the tension was so thick that it made Rhiana’s skin crawl.
“Present charges,” the Elder spoke up.
The Orator unrolled a small scroll from the podium before him. “Before you today are the accused, Rhiana Denaeus and her daughter, Arteura Denaeus.”
Murmurs arose from the crowd, and all eyes fixed on the two of them once again. The Elder banged a gavel atop the Rectors’ bench for attention.
“Hold,” he growled. As the murmuring subsided, he nodded. “That’s better.” Then, he turned to the Orator. “Shall we continue?”
The Orator made a show of straightening his robe and clearing his throat before reading from the scroll once again. “The accused stand before you today under summons and warrant of the following charges.”
He unrolled the scroll further and shot a quick, nervous glance to the Elder, who calmly sat back with just a hint of a satisfied smile twitching the corner of his mouth and a barely perceptible nod. The Orator turned and looked squarely at Rhiana and Arteura.
“Arteura Denaeus,” he announced. “You stand before the entire Cyneþrymm accused of the following: heresy, treason—”
Murmurs once again arose throughout the crowd. The Elder eyed them with a warning.
“And sorcery.”
Gasps and cries of astonishment echoed throughout the room.
Arteura spun to her mother with a stunned look on her face. Rhiana fixed her daughter with an expression she hoped was both a warning and encouragement.
The Elder banged his gavel once more and motioned impatiently for the Orator to go on.
“Rhiana Denaeus. You stand before the entire Cyneþrymm accused of the following: heresy, treason, sorcery, and—”
And? Rhiana thought as her heartbeat quickened.
“Conspiracy for the demise of the Empire through the ongoing facilitation of the famine and disease of our vast and once-thriving grainfields.”
The Orator rolled up the scroll as the crowd erupted a second time.
Rhiana’s jaw dropped and her eyes flew to the Elder, who was looking intently at her with the same twinge of a satisfied grin. He casually looked away and rapped the gavel on the bench for order.
More slowly this time, the crowd heeded, and a tense quiet finally settled for a few precious seconds. The Elder breathed deeply, leaning forward and addressing those gathered. “I will clear this room if need be,” he said smoothly, “if another unnecessary outburst ensues.” Then, he looked back to Rhiana and Arteura as he added, “Continue.”
“Arteura Denaeus,” the Orator bellowed. “May the Cyneþrymm show mercy upon you as you enter your defense and plea. How say you?”
Arteura was lost. Her thoughts were jumbled, her mouth dry. Her head spun to the Orator, to her mother, to the Elder, to the crowd. Her heart raced. She didn’t think she could speak, even if she wanted to, let alone under such absurd, nightmarish conditions. She’d had a single-minded plan, but now the world had spun out of control.
“Miss Denaeus,” the Elder cooed. “If you would, please? If you have something to say to these charges, now would be the time.”
“Uh.” She panted. “Uh . . . not . . . guilty?”
There was another round of gasps and shocked whispers from the crowd.
The Elder merely sat back and shrugged. “So entered.” He looked back at the Orator.
“Rhiana Denaeus,” the man announced. “May the Cyneþrymm show mercy upon you as you enter your defense and plea. How say you?”
“Unfounded,” she answered plainly.
The Elder wheeled on her from his seat. “Say again?”
“Unfounded,” she said again, loudly and slowly.
The Elder shook his head, perplexed. “Which part, may I ask?”
“All of it,” she answered, then knitted her brow. “But, I caused the famine? Is that what you’re saying?”
The Elder nodded in contemplation, furrowed his chin, and sat back. “Not I, Ms. Denaeus. It’s not I who bring these charges. It is the evidence.”
“Evidence?!”
“Yes, evidence. Would you like an example?”
Rhiana was mute, unsure how to answer.
Without awaiting a response, the Elder looked toward the back of the room and motioned to a guard stationed by the door there. He opened it and disappeared, returning after a moment with a young, scared woman. Her clasped hands fumbled restlessly at her waist, and her eyes darted this way and that as she was brought toward the front bench. Rhiana recognized her from the grain fields. She had picked, side by side, with this young woman for several seasons now. Her brow furrowed as she caught the woman’s eye. The woman quickly turned her face away and scurried forward.
When she had taken her place standing before the Elder, he asked, “Would you state your name please?”
“M-m-my name,” she stuttered nervously, “is Guyann Nehorr.”
“And, Miss Nehorr, why are you here this morning?”
She looked around, overwhelmed and lost, hoping for a prompting or maybe an exit.
“Do you have something to say, Miss Nehorr?” the Elder asked. “Something you witnessed, perhaps?”
“Y-yes, yes,” she breathed, thankful for the reminder. “I seen Rhiana,” she said, pointing, “out in the fields. By twilight. Spreading something. Over the grains. The ones that were dying.”
For the third time the crowd erupted, standing, shouting, and pointing.
“NO!” Rhiana cried.
The Elder banged his gavel.
“Her daughter, too!” Guyann Nehorr added over the melee, gaining confidence.
“NO!” Rhiana shouted again. “I’m help—WE’RE HELPING! We’ve found a cure! We’ve—” But her words were lost to the crowd.
The Elder continued to beat the gavel against the bench as the crowd stood as one—red-faced, their eyes bulging, yelling and arguing, some toward Rhiana, some toward the Rectors, and some toward each other.
Finally, the Elder had had enough. “GUARDS!”
The guards lining the far wall, including Marcus, drew their swords. The grating of steel instantly stifled the crowd, and they turned toward the stoic faces of the uniformed officers. The guards advanced, slowly and methodically, holding their swords high and inching forward as the crowd cowered back. The guardsmen held in a strong line, looking straight ahead, their eyes fixed above the crowd but seeing everything as they awaited orders.
When calm was mostly restored, the Elder rose and turned to his guards. “I think we’ve had enough of this! I want everybody out. Now! No one is to reenter!”
As one, the guards lowered their swords, though they remained unsheathed. They circled the crowds like herding dogs, their swords menacing, pushing the crowd by show of force toward the doors at the back and sides of the room. There were a few hapless protests, but eventually the crowd thinned and funneled out, followed one by one by the guards. When the last door was closed, only the Elder, the Rectors, Rhiana, Arteura, and the two guards stationed behind them remained. And, of course, Guyann Nehorr, now looking small and lonely, standing before the bench in a vast and empty room.
“Thank you, Miss Nehorr,” the Elder said gracefully. “You may leave as well.”
Without escort, she scurried toward the nearest door, like a freed fly from the web of a spider, and disappeared.
The Elder breathed a deep sigh, seated himself, and turned toward Rhiana. “Unfounded?”
She was trapped. Set up. There was no escape, and they both knew it.
“Anything else to say?”
Rhiana ground her teeth and threw daggers at the Elder with her eyes, but she remained silent.
Sati
sfied he’d made his point, the Elder turned to the Rectors on his left. “Questions?” When no one spoke, he turned to his right. “Questions?” Again, no one spoke.
The Elder nodded to the Orator, who stood. “Oy yea, oy yea, the accused shall now hear the judgment of the Cyneþrymm. Rectors? Your decisions, please.”
One by one, the Rectors seated at the bench spoke.
“Guilty.”
Rhiana’s heart sank.
“Guilty.”
“Guilty.”
Arteura seethed, squirming in her shackles, her breath chuffing out between clenched teeth.
“Guilty.”
“Guilty.”
Rhiana looked to her fidgeting daughter, helpless.
The final Rector looked squarely at the two of them. “Guilty.”
And with that, it was done.
The Elder rose. “There is no redress of a tie. Therefore, I shall abstain my decision.”
Washing your hands of this farce, you dragon’s ass of a coward! Rhiana seethed. But still, she remained mute. There was nothing to say now. Their fates had been sealed. She looked again to her daughter, who was looking back intently, then quickly down to her hands and back.
Rhiana glanced down. Arteura flexed the hand at her side. The shackles were loose, and her wrists were bruised and blood-crusted. But her hands were free!
Oh gods!
Rhiana’s eyes flew wide, and she shook her head violently as her voice broke. “Arteura, NO!”
But Arteura was already moving.
22
Lost and Found in the Waters
Making my way back was a bit easier and a bit more difficult than when we’d first come against the river’s current. I was going with the current now and, for the most part, I was able to walk along the bottom, with water sometimes to my waist and sometimes to my shoulders. It almost seemed as if the Waters were taking a calming breath after its outburst. The current wasn’t relentless. More like having Marshaan constantly at my back, pushing me along. There were times I climbed, ledge to ledge, along the cave walls. There were times I swam. I lost my balance a few times, scraping my feet and hands. But, however I went, this somehow magically self-lighting torch came with me.