“ALL RISE!” THE BAILIFF-WARRIOR’S VOICE WAS A CLARION call to the courtroom. At once, deep, demanding, sacred and solemn—it was a voice no one would ever dream of defying. “The most honorable High Chief Justice, Michael the Archelion, is presiding!”
Archer bounced to his feet, and so powerful was the moment he had to fight the urge to salute.
The rest of the cavernous courtroom, which had been abuzz with conversation, went absolutely still and silent. It seemed somehow impossible: the courtroom was absolutely enormous. Intricately carved and stained wood paneling divided at regular intervals by tall columns of marble—the interior looked worthy of a palace . . . or a museum. The four chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling high above—each one seven feet in diameter and lit with a hundred candles—flared suddenly.
“Be ye warned,” the bailiff-warrior continued. “Leave all deceit behind, and darken not this hallowed court with thy vain ambitions, lest . . . ye . . . die.”
Archer swallowed. No lies. Check.
A pair of magnificent fourteen-foot-high doors stood on either side of the magnificently carved, throne-like judge’s bench. Archer wasn’t sure which pair of doors to watch, but the doors to the left opened suddenly, and in strode a being very similar to Master Gabriel, only greater in every way imaginable.
The judge, Michael the Archelion, stood more than half as tall as the doors, was broad shouldered, and clad in Incandescent Armor, but the markings and engravings upon the plates seemed somewhat different from Gabriel’s. Or maybe the markings were just more numerous upon the judge’s armor. Archer wasn’t sure, but either way, the designs gave Justice Michael undeniable authority.
The capes didn’t hurt either. The judge wore a black cape, a silver cape, a gray cape, and an indigo blue cape, and they were somehow layered and intertwined so that when he ascended a hidden stair to the judge’s bench, a hypnotic ripple of color followed behind him.
Unlike Master Gabriel, the chief justice was clean shaven, but his jaw was square and his expression, grave and determined underneath a full head of long, dark hair layered with dignified ribbons of silver. A single cord of black and silver metal encircled his high and regal forehead conveying an air of royalty. Michael’s brow was heavy, and both the size and ferocity of his eyes reminded Archer of a bald eagle’s glare.
“Be seated!” the bailiff-warrior commanded.
Archer sat, and for the first time was collected enough to notice anybody else in the courtroom. He noted the seating galleries on either side of the courtroom were now full, populated by scores of armor-clad warriors, both male and female. They sat in unison with such precision that Archer sighed. So much for a jury of my peers,he thought.
Even without them, the intimidation factor, on a scale of 1–10, was a 13.5. Archer had done class projects where he’d had to speak in front of the whole class. Once, he’d even spoken to an auditorium full of adults for a school fund-raiser. But he’d never spoken on a stage like this one. And the stakes had never been higher.
The only consolation, if there were any, was that Bezeal didn’t seem too comfortable, either. The diminutive merchant, now Archer’s chief accuser, sat at a desk across the center aisle from Archer’s desk that was far too big for him. His feet dangled comically beneath the chair.
It was the very first time Archer had ever noticed Bezeal’s feet. They were predictably strange, just like the rest of Bezeal. He wore black boots, but they were squat things, tapering from the shin to a blockish heel. The strangest bit was the boots had no toes. There was the back heel but that extended forward into a kind of angular wedge. How much odder could he get?
The bailiff-warrior spoke once more. “The court will now hear the capital case of Dreamtreader Archer Keaton vs. Humanity.”
The judge looked at a scroll in front of him, and then leaned forward to speak; “Am I to understand, Dreamtreader Keaton, that you will have no counsel other than yourself?”
“Yes, your majesty,” Archer mumbled.
Justice Michael blinked. “I am no king,” he said. “Judge, Justice, your honor, or even a simple sir will do here, Archer.”
“Yes, your maj—er . . . sir.”
“Are you certain you want to do this alone?” the judge asked.
Want to?Archer thought. Well, no, I don’t want to, but what choice do I have?
“Judge, I will be my only counsel—”
Poof!In a cloud of purple smoke and blue sparks, Razz appeared. She was wearing a slate gray pantsuit, a black tie, and dark heels. She carried a leather briefcase that was just her size and plopped down to the desktop next to Archer’s left hand.
“I apologize for my lateness, your high judgeship,” she said, toning down the squeak of her voice a little. “As I’m sure you know, things are not going well with the Waking World down there.”
“Razz,” Archer hiss-whispered, “what are you doing here?”
“Gabriel sent me,” she said. “I’m your co-counsel.”