Justice

Justice

  (published in The Sword Review, November 2006)

  (also included in Double-Edged Publishing's 'best of' anthology: Distant Passages - Volume 2)

  L. S. King

  Copyright 2006, 2015 L. S. King

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  Cover image by John Fowler

  https://www.flickr.com/photos/snowpeak/

  Justice

  The waves crashed far below the cliffs and birds wheeled and cried. Zaqain squinted in the sunlight and smiled at his son Trevor. His son’s hand clasped his shoulder, then abruptly he felt both hands against his back.

  “Farewell, you old goat!”

  A shove. Disbelief. Terror. Wind sucked from his lungs. Icy water. Blackness.

  = = =

  Zaqain stood outside the small cottage, his mind replaying his son’s betrayal and his brush with death.

  He inhaled the tang of the sea air and listened to the soft lapping of the waves against the dock. He would miss this. And his new family.

  “I don’t want you to leave!”

  Zaqain turned. Kalleen stood, their son in her arms, her forehead puckered with worry. He pulled his young wife to him, little Egan squirming between them.

  “I must.” He kissed her pale hair. “Your father understands. He knows why.”

  “But you are still weak from the winter’s fever. Please—”

  “Enough, daughter. Listen to your husband.”

  Zaqain turned to the wise fisherman who had rescued him and nodded. “She still follows her heart. It shreds me to think I will likely never see her or Egan again.”

  Kalleen embraced him more tightly as she burst into tears.

  Hollin stepped closer and stroked his daughter’s hair. “It is hard to realize one must sacrifice for a greater calling.” His eyes bored into Zaqain’s. “But I have faith. In the Holy One. And in you. I will be praying.”

  Zaqain bowed and kissed Kalleen again. “At least you will be safe here with your father. I couldn’t do this otherwise.”

  She clung to him. Zaqain pried her arm from around his waist and tucked her hand into her father’s. He hoisted his pack on his shoulders.

  Egan squalled as Zaqain walked up the rocky path, drowning out Kalleen’s quiet sobs.

  Two years.

  How can a man change so much in such a brief time?

  His initial reaction to the pious old man and his daughter had been scorn. When the fisherman had asked how the High Priest could sneer at piety, Zaqain had been shocked that he had been recognized. And shamed.

  The humble family had showed him through their devout lives that his priestly magic had been a cheap imitation of true holy power.

  How long had it been since the high priest of the land had actually believed in the Holy One? Or His holy tallis, which revealed truth and dispensed justice? Zaqain had been a good man by most accounts—he tried to deal fairly with all, but only for outward show. He had not done his duty to lead the people to faith. Oh, he had gone through the customary rituals, but to those close to him, he mocked religion and those who believed in it. No wonder his grown son had become so hardened that he would try to murder his own father.

  He gazed at the sky as he reached the crest of the hill. He would not look back. He had a calling. He must attempt to bring down Trevor, free King Davin from that young man’s machinations, and bring their people to the repentance he himself had learned.

  And despite the fever that had weakened Zaqain, he could not wait. Egan must be presented at court before he reached his first natal day, or he could not be named Zaqain’s successor. He would leave it to the Holy One whether he succeeded. Perhaps He had other plans. Perhaps His former high priest had sinned too greatly to be part of an awakening. Perhaps his child was not meant to carry on.

  At least if he failed, which he feared would happen, Kalleen and Egan would be anonymous and safe in her father’s house.

  Squaring his thin shoulders at the thought of the long journey, Zaqain prayed for strength for the days ahead. He turned and headed south, toward the castle.

  = = =

  “Out of the way, old man.” The noble charged his horse at Zaqain, who dove into a thorny bush by the side of the road. Dust rose and settled onto his sweaty skin.

  The horse galloped by, and Zaqain pulled himself out of the shrub, scraping his flesh on the sharp barbs. He bit back a moan and collapsed in the dirt, rubbing the bloody welts on his arm.

  Why had the Holy One allowed him to be robbed not one day into his trek? He had no food, no money, no spare clothes. Not even a comb.

  He got to his hands and knees and pulled himself upright, squinting in the glare of the sun. He pushed his tangled hair out of his face and trudged up the incline and across the drawbridge. The guards flanking the gate lowered their spears.

  “What do you want, old man?”

  He blinked at the guard who had spoken. “The castle still hires folk, doesn’t it?”

  The guards laughed.

  “Not broken-down, old long-beards like you.”

  “Please.” He pulled off his hat and pushed his hair back again. “A little food, and I’d have more strength than you think. I can do any work. Anything.”

  The left guard shook his head but the guard on the right lifted his spear. “Let him by. Old Codgel wants help for the coming festival. If she won’t take him, she’ll have him thrown out on his ear.”

  “She needs strong backs. Go on your way, old man. We don’t need the likes of you.”

  Zaqain opened his mouth to plead but closed it again at the look on the guard’s face. Begging would not help. He shuffled back down the road and ambled into the woods to sit by a tree and think. He must find another way in. If he could get to the audience chamber, to the tallis. He dare not approach openly to make a petition to his friend the king; if he were recognized beforehand by any of Trevor’s followers—for certainly he had many—all would be lost.

  But how to gain entry to the castle? The high walls forbade him entrance even if he could cross the moat safely. Through a postern? No, guards scrutinized those small gates and only allowed knights to pass. The main gate remained his only choice.

  Zaqain rose with a groan and headed back to the town at the bottom of the hill. Rivulets sliced deep ruts into the road, and he had to watch his step. He pitied horses and those riding in carts and wagons.

  He made his way to the well at the center of town. After a dipper of water, he sat with his back against a nearby tree. As the sun sank, casting long shadows, women with ewers gathered, and he listened to their chatter.

  “Lots of wagons heading up the hill in the last few days.”

  A woman straightened and glanced up toward the castle. “Wonder if any of it will roll downhill.”

  Another barked a harsh laugh. “Not likely, these days.”

  “They feast, and we starve,” muttered one.

  “Hard enough making it by without the new taxes. Then he uses the money to impress the lords, and don’t do what he ought.”

  “Careful. He has ears about.”

  The women turned and saw Zaqain, and their voices quieted.

  His fists clenched, and he kept his head down to hide the grinding of his teeth. Few knew His Majesty suffered from a crippling illness, only made endurable by the potent dreamflower tincture. King Davin trusted his ministers while he sat in his rooms, his pains eased and mind fogged. Trevor, not Davin, had, no doubt, wrought these changes. For wh
at? Money? Power? Pleasures and comforts? For which of these have you sold your soul, Trevor? Oh, how I have failed you, son!

  A loaded wagon rumbled by in the growing dusk. He watched the rickety vehicle ascend the hill toward the castle. Lots of folks would be passing in, delivering supplies for the festival. He might convince someone to let him ride along in exchange for helping unload their provisions.

  The smell of roasting meats and breads hung in the air from the nearby inn. He rose, slowly straightening his spine. His back ached not only from sitting still so long, but from the rough bark that had dug into his back. Sharp pain shot through his stomach. He needed food. And rest. Tomorrow he could try again.

  The small inn across the road from the well would not listen to his pleas to work in exchange for food. The next fared him only a little better. The cook took pity, he supposed, as she threw him a hard crust of bread. Beyond the edge of town he found a farmer willing to let him work. He helped gather in the cows and milk them. The wife brought him a share of their simple food and gave him an old blanket to use in the stall that would be his bed.

  “Things seem worse here than they used to be.” Zaqain took a bite of the sharp cheese.

  The woman crossed her arms. “We don’t say such things around here. The king, he takes care of us.”

  He pointed toward town. “The roads weren’t even repaired after the winter snows and spring rains. And I heard he has increased taxes.”

  “The king treats us right.” Her lips