nine

“That is,” he said, “if you define treason as the attempt to overthrow the government. If you define treason as I do—the attempted overthrow of our ancient laws—then I don’t believe I’ve committed treason.”

He looked intently at the throne.

“I want to go back to those laws, which have been set aside in the name of military strength. That was the king’s abiding goal, and it harmed the kingdom. Many of my fellow nobles paid lip service to that goal, but they were using the tax laws to build wealth and power at the expense of those people they once swore to protect.

“The inability to halt the riots and destruction condemns Derek’s and my skills as leaders, but the fact that civil war happened at all is telling. Had the old laws been upheld, our efforts would have been met with scorn and disbelief.” I could feel his effort to make his quiet voice heard. “People destroy everything when they feel they have nothing to lose.”

He spoke to the crowd, and to the jury, but I knew whom he was really talking to. Uncle Darian watched with an expression so like Peitar’s that they seemed two versions of the same man—because Peitar was a man. Sometime since the day we’d escaped from the garrison cells, he had grown up. I couldn’t say how I knew, or what being adult really meant, except it had only partly to do with age.

I blinked against the slanting afternoon light and saw the same tight control, the tension, in Peitar’s profile. He was hating this trial.

And now I understood why my uncle hadn’t moved or spoken. It had always been this way, at social events that he saw as his duty. I’d always believed he had no feelings, but I was wrong. Uncle Darian hated the trial just as much as Peitar did. Their reasons were different, but their emotions were the same.

Sweat rolled down my face and soaked my clothing. I gripped the carved marble rails and looked at what was left of my close family as I struggled for insight, which seemed to hover just outside my understanding, like the winged spirits of the visionaries in our ancient past.

Peitar had never disliked our uncle. They respected one another, a respect that had made it worse when they disagreed. Then they got angry at one another because neither would budge from his principles.

Was that why my relatives had tried to make me into a semblance of my mother? Some might have wanted a king’s pet so they could get me to ask for favors, but other people, like Tsauderei, and Lizana, had hinted that Uncle Darian’s own life might have been better if there had been a person like my mother in it. But I’d pushed him away.

What might have changed if I’d managed to take her place in his heart?

Pay attention!

I’d missed some of Peitar’s words, but I recognized his tone. He was trying to provoke Uncle Darian to speech. It was the last chance for them to talk, just as Tsauderei said—just as Peitar himself had said in the Valley of Delfina.

“. . . one of our mistakes was our belief that people ought not to need leaders, that each should govern him- or herself. I’ve learned that the idea of what’s good for all is not as easy to define as ‘what’s good for me and mine.’ We need education first.”

Peitar drew his sleeve over his face, his voice hoarsening. “Last, my admission of guilt. I made it partly to protect those who would have felt it necessary to risk their lives to come forward and speak on my behalf.”

Another pause. The room was soundless. The jurors seemed tense, the nobles looking at one another for clues.

“But dissent will not be silenced. Our execution will only make resistance covert, because the true reasons for civil war remain. Despite what some of my accusers said, you yourself know—probably better than anyone else here—that my motivation was never ambition.”

Uncle Darian spoke at last. “Your motivation was idealism.”

“Yes. And so, what is truly on trial here are the ideals of justice, of basic liberties—including being able to speak one’s mind without fear of royal retribution.”

“High-minded words,” our uncle replied. “But without meaning. The truth lies in your earlier admission of your own lack of leadership.” His voice took on that sardonic edge that used to scare me. “Had your skills been equal to your lofty goals, our positions would be reversed—and I wonder how much talk there would be about ‘speaking one’s mind’ and ‘basic liberties’ before you had me put to death.”

Peitar replied in the very same tone. “Not so much a lack of skills as self-doubt. I couldn’t convince myself I’d be a good leader. I was still debating that when events overtook me, and I found myself in the position I am now.”

“So you did not intend to take my place?”

“Correct.”

A brief outburst of comments was quickly silenced. “Then who would? Your hotheaded friend there, whose ignorance outstrips his ambitions?”

“Derek Diamagan didn’t embark on this quest in order to make himself into a king,” Peitar replied.

“So what you are saying is that you two high-minded revolutionaries ripped apart this realm in order to put who on the throne—his horse-coper brother? Your little sister, whose single goal in life appears to be the escape of her social duties in order to climb trees?” A murmur of laughter. My face burned. “Or did you intend to select one of the kitchen staff, or perhaps a bricklayer, as sufficiently humble to rule a kingdom?”

More laughter, some of it derisive. The noble jurors were the loudest.

Darian said, “Do you consider yourself to be a good prospect for a king?”

“No.” A pause. “But I believe I would be better for the kingdom than you are. As would countless others, including some of your servants.”

This time the laughter was so loud that the herald had to bang his staff on the floor. The sharp sound echoed up the stone walls, and the voices died away.

Peitar addressed the crowd. “It grieves me,” he said in a tone of rebuke, “that my words are perceived as insult. Why can’t we value those whose hearts and minds are gifted with insight, whose wisdom might otherwise benefit everyone, just because they’ve been born to the wrong family? How many potential leaders have been forced to become shoemakers or wagoneers because their families owned no land? There are many, I can tell you, because I’ve talked to them.” Now he turned to our uncle. “Some agreed with me, others did not. The debate of ideas can lead to better ideas. When it doesn’t—well, one thing I’ve begun to learn is what many of your servants have been forced to learn, which is compromise.”

His choice of word—servants, not subjects—sharpened my attention.

“You think,” Darian said, his voice hard, “that there is no compromise in ruling?”

Peitar said swiftly, “I know I lack experience. But I’ve spent my whole life observing, and I say that your compromises are only with yourself, not with the people you govern. You ceased to respect the needs of your subjects years ago—the day that you forbade your truest and most loyal servant to interfere, because she had dared to voice a protest.” He had to be talking about Lizana!

“Your chief priority has been to build a powerful military defense against Norsunder, but the price has been paid by the people, not the crown. I believe the threat is real, but I also believe that when the infamous Norsundrian commander Detlev does turn his eyes this way, he will not have to come with armies and death-dealing magic, because he’ll find his own lack of ideals and an angry populace ready for recruitment. We have managed to make ourselves part of Norsunder all on our own.”

Which was just what Mother had said in her diary.

Uncle Darian tightened his hands on the arms of the throne. “All this commentary circles the real question: would you take my place, had you the chance?”

Peitar seemed to look past our uncle, past the throne room’s walls, and I knew he was making up his mind. Then the moment passed, and I could see in his stillness that the inner debate was over.

“Yes,” he said.

The king addressed Derek. “And you, Diamagan. Were you to have the chance to take my throne, would you?”

“Only if Peitar were dead.” Derek came forward to stand beside my brother. “Because I swear that there is none better suited in this entire kingdom than he.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said, is there?”

At a gesture from my uncle, the herald again brought down his staff and announced, “The jury will withdraw to determine judgment.”

In the prisoners’ alcove, the guards moved toward Peitar and Derek, but Uncle Darian stopped them. “A moment,” he said.

The guards halted, and so did the judges. The king waved them on, and when the last had passed, he looked up and asked conversationally, as if everyone stood around in a garden and there was no trial or guards or threats of executions, “Have you been masking some of your efforts under the alias Sharadan brothers?”

Peitar’s reply was just as casual. He smiled. “No. I wish I knew who they were.”

“As do I.” Uncle Darian nodded at the guards, and they took Peitar and Derek out. And then my uncle, too, was gone.

Timeos gave me a strained look. “Can you nip out and get something cold?”

Down in the courtyard, I took a long drink of water. Then I loaded my tray and started back, my head throbbing counterpoint to my steps. Where were the boys and Deveral? If ever Peitar needed help, it was now.

The guards were quick to relieve me of my burden. One said, annoyed, “No one is going to get a wink until those two are dead. We’ll be on day-and-night watches.”

The oldest refreshed himself before he replied. “Guard duty is better than marching in the heat, looking for Diamagan’s rabble.”

“That’ll be next,” the last said dourly. “You wait.” He glowered down at the waiting crowd. Some had gathered in small groups, and others munched away, having come prepared with provisions. The light shafts were now weak ochre lances against the walls opposite the dais. It was almost sunset.

I wanted to be here, I thought, clenching my fist. Peitar had tried to talk me out of it. Tsauderei, too. Only Atan hadn’t, because she recognized a kindred spirit, although her task—the freeing of Sartor from Norsunder—was worlds beyond mine.

And I was unable to protect my one brother from our own uncle.

Then the herald came out, and the guards brought Derek and Peitar back in. Every warrior in the throne room stood with sword at the ready.

There was a tense, expectant silence as the jury returned. They remained standing until my uncle emerged. After they were all seated, the herald announced, “The judiciaries have finished polling the jury. They will now pass judgment.”

The three masked judiciaries all raised their hands and touched the black sides of their masks.

The herald struck his staff—this time it seemed to crack inside my skull. “Lord Peitar Selenna and Derek Diamagan. The judgment is that you have committed treason, for which the sentence is death. The sentence is to be carried out at dawn.”