A Hero of a Different Stripe, page 32
Trocair loaded the memory sphere into the viewing device, which consisted of a transparent pane of glass under which sat a pool of liquid that at a first glance might have been water, but he knew it was a specially crafted potion that even the slightest bit of impurity would contaminate beyond usefulness. As soon as the orb was in place, the liquid changed, revealing a scene as it had so many times before.
The defendant had chosen this scene specifically for the judges to see. Typically, there was more of an explanation than a single line to justify the scene’s inclusion. He would just have to see in this case.
As the scene came into clarity, he saw a young boy with fiery red hair, his face dotted with freckles and a long, dark bruise down one side of it. The boy sat on the ground in the mud, seeming not to care about the rain. He could hear shouts and horrible cries, perhaps a man and woman arguing. The boy did not try to cover his ears, but stared into the mud and let the rain fall around him.
Suddenly, he stood and ran toward the hut from which the yelling came. A woman flew out of the entrance to the hut as if tossed, falling into the mud with a yelp. A man’s voice followed her out, and to his surprise, the woman in the mud seemed familiar to Trocair somehow with long, black tresses pinned up in the fashion of the time. Yes, it was the same fashion in which his own mother had done her hair, though this was clearly some other woman. Trocair’s stomach seized for a moment with a pang of longing, wishing he could use this device for personal use, to gaze back on his own childhood, to his own mother, if only for one more time and to hear her voice. He shook his head, knowing the idea was preposterous.
The man emerged from the hut, his chest bare, revealing his muscular physique, which too was covered with bruises and scars that had healed poorly. In one hand, he clutched a metal rod, perhaps a tool of some sort, though Trocair couldn’t be sure. He approached the woman who was surely the boy’s mother. There could be no mistaking the resemblance in their features.
Trocair stared at the boy and time seemed to slow. Could this be Felgarath? It seemed impossible. He was such a normal-looking child, with large, pleading eyes, pitiful even. There was no hint of the man he would become.
His mother looked at him and caught his gaze. “No, Gareth, stay back.”
Gareth. He had not always been Felgarath. He had once been Gareth, the frightened child, shivering in the mud, watching his mother being beaten by this man. Was this his father or someone else entirely? Trocair couldn’t be sure. The man reared back with his tool, ready to strike. The boy jumped up to stop him and caught the brunt of the man’s blow, sending him reeling to lie face-down in the mud. When the woman tried to reach her son, the man struck again—once, twice, and a third time, beating the very life from her body.
Almost unbelievably, the boy stood, crying out—a horrible, anguished cry. The man tossed the rod back into the mud, and the boy ran to his mother’s side, weeping and howling, his tears mingling with the rain, his face bloody and contorted. He did not seem to care about his own pain, though every step appeared to be agony. He sat there and held his mother until the vision ended.
Trocair reached up and wiped tears from his eyes. He had seen many horrible things in his time as a judge, but this—the sheer brutality of it, the senselessness almost defied comprehension.
Ceartas’ caustic voice snapped him out of it. “Tears for the Dark Lord?” he asked with a sneer. “Come now. Has he shed any tears for his victims, for those he took from you? I wouldn’t spare a single one for him.”
“We’re not watching the Dark Lord. We’re watching a scared little boy who just witnessed a brutal murder. Does that not stir your heart at all? Do we know what happened to him after this?”
Ceartas nodded. “The official record states that he was found on the steps of an orphanage, but that they ultimately rejected him. There is no record of what happened after that. I believe the next time anyone sighted him, he was part of a gang of street ruffians. It is not at all surprising.”
Trocair settled back in his seat, deep in thought, a disturbing line of thought making its way to the forefront. What if all those years ago there had been someone to take Gareth in and love him when even an orphanage had cast him out? How many children could survive that kind of rejection after seeing such cruelty and callousness? Really, was it any wonder he had turned out as twisted as he had?
One look at his companion, and he decided not to voice his thoughts. What good did it do to speculate? What had been done had been done, and his regrets would not bring a single soul back.
“Take some time to make some notes if you wish,” Ceartas said brusquely. “But if you have no objections, I say let’s move on to the second one as soon as you are ready.”
Trocair nodded and took out the second scroll, this one bound by a scarlet ribbon. He unrolled it, wondering if the message would be any longer than the first. He furrowed his brow as he beheld the message. Not only was it as short as the first, it was, in fact, the same message as the first. “I did it for her.”
Trocair squinted down at the message, trying to puzzle it out. “What do you suppose he means by that? I suppose it could have been his mother in that last one, but then why would he leave the same message for the second event? His mother is obviously dead. Perhaps he is still acting in her memory?”
“Or he simply has a flair for the dramatic. I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t much care. It doesn’t seem like he’s trying all that hard to defend himself. Even he knows that it is hopeless, that there’s nothing he could possibly say or do to bring about an acquittal. So why waste his breath or his effort?”
It was a logical argument, Trocair supposed, but it still didn’t sit right with him. It still felt like some sort of trick or ruse, a sick joke that only Felgarath himself knew the key to. “Very well. Let’s move on to the second scene then to see if there is another message we might puzzle out in connection with the first.” He inserted the second sphere and watched as the scene changed once again.
The scene settled on Gareth once again, but now he was a spindly youth with the same red hair and an intense gaze that looked like he was taking in the minutest detail of everything around him. To Trocair’s surprise, the youth wore much finer apparel, not royal regalia, but something that might have been worn by a royal servant—black, pressed, fine cloth with gold patterns woven into the fabric and a golden sash about his waist. He also wore a hat that peaked at three corners.
Gareth approached what looked to be a large, ornate carriage, decorated in coral and gold with a seal embossed into the side, denoting it as one of the noble houses, though Trocair could not remember which one it signified. Gareth opened the door and let a lady out. She wore a black dress ornamented with pearls and had her face partially vailed, though Trocair could see golden hair poking out the sides. Gareth bowed low. “I am truly sorry to hear of your recent loss. I know something of the pain of losing a parent. Seven blessings upon you and your house.”
She nodded, barely perceptibly. “Thank you. That is gracious. Please escort me into the assembly.”
He held out his arm, and she took it lightly. They walked at a measured pace across the cobblestone streets toward the staircase in front of a building with an imposing stone facade, every door and window flanked by spiraling columns. All the while, Gareth glanced from side to side, his gaze ever vigilant and unrelenting. About halfway up the stairs, he stopped suddenly as a group of men in dark green hoods stepped out from behind the columns, slowly surrounding the two of them.
“Stay still, your grace,” Gareth said.
The men stopped when they had completed the loose ring around them. One of those in front withdrew a slender blade from his scabbard and held it out. “Gareth, what a surprise. I truly thought you a loyal member of our band, but apparently, you are a royal lapdog. Unless, of course, you’re spying on them, in which case, I’m sorry to ruin your cover.”
Gareth stared back, unflinching in the face of the blade. The lady clutched his arm tighter. “I am no spy,” he said. “I serve the Lady Gwyneth and her house. I will protect her with my life.”
The assembled ruffians seemed to find that quite amusing. “Oh, will you? Does your precious lady know about your . . . shall we say, extracurricular outings with us? I dare say not. You would have already met the hangman’s noose or at least be rotting in some cell. But I’ll be a sport. I’ll let you choose how you’d like to die; that’s more than the nobility would give you. That is, if you step aside and allow us to take her.”
The man with the knife stepped forward, but Gareth remained resolute. An instant before the man reached her, Gareth flung his arm upward with a swift, yet savage blow. The knife flew from the man’s hand, sending it clattering down the stairs. Gareth followed with a quick blow to the man’s abdomen, sending him doubled-over onto the steps.
Gareth’s movements were so quick and precise, he seemed more skilled than any normal man. Perhaps he had already started his dalliance with the Dark Arts.
All the others rushed in, attacking one after another, and though he was surrounded, Gareth fended them all off with blows from his hands and feet and even his head. He did not even draw a weapon. He moved like a whirlwind with, each strike keener than the edge of lightning and just as devastating.
The lady covered her head and stooped low as the fight raged around her, but soon it was over with all the ruffians lying prostrate around her, a few of them trying to crawl away. Gareth stooped down and spoke rapidly. “Your grace, are you hurt? I fended them off as quickly as I could.”
“No, I am only shaken. Quickly, let’s—”
She shrieked, cut off in mid-sentence and she drew a blade of her own from within her dress. She raised it, and Gareth whirled about to see the gang leader bearing down on him with his own retrieved blade. Gareth struck out and delivered a glancing blow to the man’s midsection, sending him flying and down the steps. The blow sent Felgarath sprawling backward into Gwyneth. She dropped her knife and its blade pierced her near the heart. Gareth whirled about, all the color draining from his face. For a few moments, his mouth simply moved up and down, nothing but a croaking gurgle escaping his lips, his eyes wide with abject horror.
As he fell to his knees, he likely knew there was nothing he could do. His face contorted, he placed his hand into his tunic and withdrew it several times empty until withdrawing some sort of odd seed pod in his hands that was as dark as his clothing. He crushed it in his fist and let the powder fall onto the bleeding wound.
“I am sorry, your grace,” he whispered. “Perhaps this will be better than nothing at all.”
A horrible, caustic laugh rang out over the scene as Gareth looked down to see the broken form of the gang leader, his face bloodied. He cackled as he pointed at Gareth. “I don’t need to kill you. You’re dead. Every man, woman, and child in the realm will be looking for you, thirsting for your blood. You’re dead. You’re dead!”
He repeated the words even as Gareth stood, looking about, and then ran, disappearing into the gathering crowd.
The scene faded, and Trocair shook his head, wondering how much tragedy a single heart could reasonably be expected to take before it broke irreparably.
“You see?” Ceartas said. “He left her there like a common criminal. He left her dying on the steps.”
“It was an accident,” Trocair said. “She was trying to save him the way he had saved her. It was an unfortunate turn of events, but that hardly makes him a murderer.”
“Perhaps think about what he has done since. He is a murderer, beyond question. I do not understand why he would include this in his defense. He freely admits to being a part of that man’s band, whether or not he was also serving the lady. Whether he meant to or not, he ultimately led to her demise.”
“What was he doing there at the end with the seed? Have you ever seen that before?”
“Does it matter? Some sort of black sorcery. It didn’t seem to do anything.”
Trocair gazed down, looking through the historical records that accompanied the defense. “It says here that she survived, but that she disappeared a few weeks later, never to be heard from again. I suppose . . . ”
“I hardly think it is relevant. She’s no longer with us, one way or another. Certainly we would know if she had returned. This only goes to show how much of a criminal he really was—a man of deceit and treachery. Let us quickly examine the third scene so that we might be done with this. I tire of wading through such swamps.”
Trocair sat back, pondering the words again. “I did it for her.” His mother in the first events, this noble Lady Gwyneth in the second. What was he trying to tell them? How was this a defense? He picked up the third scroll and undid the purple ribbon. He unrolled it, and the same message met his eyes. “I did it for her.” It did not vary in the slightest from the other messages, so he picked up the orb and placed it in its stand.
“This was taken in the 23rd year of King Decker’s reign.”
“The 23rd year? Isn’t that . . . ”
“Yes, it is the year of the Desolation. The very year.”
Gareth was now much older and wore a full, red beard, and the three-headed snake insignia on his clothing marked that he was no longer Gareth, but Felgarath. One hand was encased in a metal claw that he always wore and despite many years having passed, his eyes were still as intense and focused. He stood at the mouth of a cave in what looked like a heavily wooded area. The cave entrance itself was covered with vines, moss, and the air shimmered with heat and humidity.
Felgarath stepped into the cave, and Trocair could see that the floor was also covered with vegetation and also a trickle of water, which flowed from the ceiling. As Felgarath walked deeper into the tunnel, Trocair could see because of luminous lichen that coated practically every surface the farther in Felgarath went. The cave opened up into a broad chamber, and near the wall sat some sort of pedestal with an enormous pod atop it, its surface black and shimmering and covered with coiling vines. It stood taller than Felgarath himself, the largest specimen Trocair had ever seen. It appeared to be the epicenter of all the vines in the room. Everything seemed to point toward it.
Felgarath waved a hand and glided into the air as he entered the large chamber, making his way directly toward the black pod. As soon as he reached it, it began to unfold, sections of it drawing back so they fell out like a flower. In the center of the pod stood a figure, a young woman whose body appeared to be tangled in vines and moss. Her very skin had taken on a slightly green pallor and it was hard to distinguish her hair from the greenery that fell around her. She possessed an exquisite beauty, far exceeding anyone else Trocair had ever seen. He saw also great power, strong and terrible and he felt as if he were looking at an avalanche or a tidal wave that threatened to crush him.
The lady looked down from the pod and fixed her gaze on Felgarath. He bowed low. “Gwyneth, your grace, how good it is to lay eyes upon you again.”
The green woman smiled, but her eyes remained cold, calculating. “And I you. You are the only one who still calls me by that name. You are the only one I would ever allow such a familiarity.”
“Yes, I am only glad to see that my spell was effective. Perhaps even more effective than I could have anticipated. How do you feel?”
The green woman’s smile broadened. “Powerful. More powerful than you can imagine. Much more powerful than when I wielded only my family name and title. I might have died that day on the steps. Yes, a part of me did die, but as you see, I am gloriously reborn. That is thanks to you.” She raised her eyebrows, which appeared to be made of moss. “Why have you come here today?” she asked. “I have heard tell of your deeds. You are infamous, if any man in this world is. I find your power only second to that of nature itself, and no, I am not trying to insult you. I simply know better.”
“No insult taken. It is true, I have done many terrible things, and it is also true that you wield a power greater than my own. But that is not why I have come to see you today. I know.”
He looked up, fixing an unblinking gaze on her and his voice sounded like a frozen blade. “I know what you intend to do. I am here to dissuade you, if I can. I have my reasons why I do what I do, but I am not trying to destroy mankind. Some of them must burn, some of them must fall, but we as a race must go on.”
“Oh, and why is that?” the lady asked. “Is there some reason you care so much about your race now? Some might find that comical to the point of mirthful tears. Do you know you are not the only ones on this planet? You act as though you think so. Surely, that is not new to you.”
“Yes, they have flaws, but flaws can be rooted out and impurities can be purged. Weakness can be strengthened. I have made it my life’s work to see that become the forge that tempers mankind into its strongest form. But you would strangle them all before they have a chance to become what they were truly meant to become. That is far more barbaric, a far greater evil than anything I have ever taken into my heart.”
The lady chuckled. “My, my. I remember the days when I could not persuade you to say more than a handful of words together. Now you give such grand speeches. Your magic must truly be great.”
Felgarath raised both hands and sparks, violent and raw, shot from his fingertips. “And I will not bring it to bear if I do not have to, especially not against you. But I will. Everyone else in this foolish kingdom thinks we have entered a golden age of prosperity. The age of toil and war is behind us. But there is a war happening. But it is so slow and subtle that they cannot even see the advancing of the armies. It is you. The very earth is growing a cage around them. Soon the forests will advance, and the wild things will storm the cities. Everything will be overgrown and overrun. Mankind will never see it coming.”
The green woman tossed her head to the side, her laughter subtle yet sinister. “You are a clever one. You are absolutely right. I can be patient. I will grow so softly that they will cheer the entire time I am folding them into my trap. What a beautiful thing it will be! An entire race brought to their knees, not through violence but by growth. I will erase all vestiges of mankind and the world will prosper, more beautiful and complete than ever. It does not matter that you know. No one will believe you. Even if some would listen, they would think it was only a scheme that you’ve devised. There is nothing you can do now.”
