by L. S. King
The soft crunch of boots through the snowdrifts signaled intruders behind Alcandhor. His spine stiffened. Could he not have a few moments alone at his father’s crypt to grieve the fresh loss? He turned to face a group of Rangers. The two in front stood shoulder to shoulder: Sedhral and Fandhrel. He had expected this, but—so soon, and here at the crypt?
Before the Rangers could speak, Alcandhor stated, “You are calling Question.”
A few of the men shifted, but the two spokesmen remained firm, jaws set.
“Aye, we are,” Sedhral said.
“Aye, Thane, we are.” Alcandhor’s eyes bored into Sedhral’s, his breath steaming before him.
The Ranger’s lips twitched, teeth grinding as if he were trying to swallow a mouthful of vinegar. “Aye, Thane,” he spat, finally. “We are calling question. You are too weak to lead our clan.”
Alcandhor snorted—a dry, humorless laugh. “Aye. You would not call Question on my father when he made me his heir, but you will bravely face his crypt?” His lip curled. “Call Question. Face the chiefs in conclave and give them your facts as to why I should not be Thane.”
“It is your character on which we call Question.”
“What fault have I besides being second son? Granted, ‘twas not my choice to be Thane, nor my heart’s desire, but the mantle has fallen on me. I took oath before the chiefs and all our kin to hold the law to my heart, and to serve my clan with my life.” Alcandhor took a step toward Sedhral, his boot sinking shin-deep in the snow, jaw clenched. “I have never broken a vow, never given less than my best as a Ranger. Call Question.”
He stood, waiting, as the men exchanged glances. Sedhral returned his stare. Ah, nay, Alcandhor knew this game—his older brother had taught him well. He fixed his gaze on his accuser, while fat snowflakes descended in the silence, until Sedhral lowered his eyes.
Alcandhor lifted his chin, his glare encompassing them all. “Have you more to say?”
The Rangers again shifted and glanced at each other. Several muttered, “Nay, Thane.”
“Then I have duties to attend.” He turned purposefully away from them and faced the crypt. Fist over his heart, he bade his father a silent farewell. Pulling his cloak more tightly around him against the frigid weather, Alcandhor crossed the grounds to Thane Hall.
Once inside, he stomped his feet free of snow. As he shook his cloak and hung it on the wall, Alcandhor bit the inside of his cheek. Truth admitted, he doubted himself as much, or more, than his clan. He had not the strength of his older brother, or the will to lead.
His brother had always been a loner, but why had he refused heirship and retreated high into the mountains of the neighboring province? Alcandhor let his breathe out slowly, once again forcing his mind to release his unanswered questions—but not his resentment. His brother’s reasons mattered not, only the result: Alcandhor now bore Thaneship as his primary obligation, his own ambitions perforce cast aside.
Alcandhor’s love was the sciences and history; his passion to study, to see the devices of the Enaisi, the long-gone aliens they sometimes called the Elders, working again, to discover a way to activate the portal which could take them to other worlds and find their mentors of old. He bore the mantle of heir, and now of Thane itself, out of duty; his clan saw this and doubted his heart, his commitment.
But he would not do less than his best—for his father’s sake, for his people. He ground his teeth in determination. He would not.
Elbows resting on the table, Alcandhor frowned at the papers the Ranger handed to him. “Why is this petition being brought to me? It seems a simple enough case. And a mother’s petition is no reason to alter the law.”
The Ranger shifted foot to foot. “It is the victim’s mother making petition, Thane. Lord Lorwith felt that made it peculiar enough to send on to you.”
Alcandhor gazed up wryly. “You mean he is lobbing it to me.”
The Ranger lifted his shoulders with a slight smile. Alcandhor sighed and dismissed the Ranger with a nod. As the door closed, he began reading the transcript and petition. He dropped it and rubbed his face. Now, more than ever, he needed his father’s advice. But no answer would be forthcoming from the crypt. He had inherited this mantle; now, he must make these hard decisions.
A knock made him straighten. Haladhon, papers in hand, peered around the door. Alcandhor relaxed; he need not be Thane to this man—first cousin, best friend, and Third at Table all contained within that tall frame.
His cousin swaggered over, green-grey eyes twinkling. “What news did the Pashelon Ranger bring?” Haladhon hip-sat on the table and folded his arms across his leather jerkin.
“Lord Lorwith has graced me with a sticky judicial matter. The mother of a dead boy is asking for mercy for her son’s killer.”
“That is…unusual. But still, why should mercy be shown a murderer? The law is strict.”
“‘Twas not murder, but accidental.” Alcandhor shoved the petition at his cousin. “Read it, Third at Table, you will understand.”
Haladhon set his own sheaf down and picked up the petition with a frown. He read through the pages, and groaned. “Three previous convictions for maiming others. All because of recklessness.”
“Aye. His last victim lost a foot due to his unthinking acts. He was given the severest punishment, and it did not cause him to mature or change his ways. Now, he kills a friend while ‘playing’ with his bow, and in front of witnesses. And although not of Age, he is not a child, having nineteen years. Sporting with a weapon cannot be excused, not considering his age and his history.”
“I see why Lorwith passed this on to you. He would not fain give judgment on this muddy matter.” Haladhon tapped the desk with his fingertips. “This is your first real test of Thaneship. How shall you judge?”
Alcandhor leaned back, staring at the wood grain on his table. Ever since finding he would be Thane instead of his older brother, Alcandhor had endured the watchful eyes of the Rangers. And now, as with the confrontation with Sedhral and his men, many asked if he had the strength to be Thane. Dare he abrogate the law, which his clan vowed to uphold to the death?
Shaking his head, he replied, “By the law, my answer must be ‘life for life.’“ He hesitated and inhaled deeply. “If possible, have the boy and the victim’s mother journey here. Lorwith will likely howl at the cost, but in relegating this matter to me, he bears brunt.” He met his cousin’s eyes. “Remind him of that, if necessary. The petition will be heard in one lunation.”
Haladhon’s brow furrowed. “You are going to give judgment face to face, and watch your word carried out.” It was not a question.
Alcandhor looked up at his cousin, anguish piercing his heart. “I must.”
Haladhon let out his breath and shoved the papers he had brought in at Alcandhor. “I must add to your burden,” he said apologetically.
Grimacing, Alcandhor began to read. Halfway through, he set the report down and leaned back with a sigh. Paltor not only ruled with an unjust, heavy hand, he turned his eye away from the graft perpetrated by his overseers. No proof had thus far linked him to any crimes, yet Alcandhor had no doubt the Keladar lord not only allowed but promoted the offenses, and profited directly from the misdeeds of his underlings. “Lord Paltor is going to turn my hair grey.”
“But my dear Thane, ‘tis not Lord Paltor,” Haladhon explained, eyes wide, his voice too clearly mimicking the fat lord. “How can he know all that goes on within his province? He is but one man.”
Not in the mood to appreciate his cousin’s wit, Alcandhor glowered. “Send a Ranger and an account keeper to Keladar province. If we can ever get proof of Lord Paltor’s complicity, we can bring him to a Lords’ Conclave.”
Haladhon’s snort bespoke his confidence they would succeed. “And if we do, how many of his peers would vote to censure him when some of them are just as deep in similar activities?”
“So you think we should shield our eyes to their crimes?”
“Nay, but I think providing justice for their provinces in our lifetime is much too optimistic.”
Alcandhor nodded at the report. “Send the men. The Maker may smile on us. But even if not, we may find evidence to remove this overseer.”
“And a new one will be honest?”
Alcandhor shot his Third at Table a wry look. “Your unwavering belief in the goodness of men is admirable, cousin.”
Haladhon chuckled. The door burst open, and as his cousin turned, his laughter died. Aleta entered, her flowing, dark skirt rippling in her wake as she crossed the room. Alcandhor stiffened slightly. What now? But his wife appeared to be in good humor—how rare.
“And how is my Thane?” she chirped.
Haladhon stood, his eyes hard. He bowed to Alcandhor, muttering, “Duties call, Thane.”
Alcandhor stifled a sigh while his wife and best friend exchanged wary glares as would two fighters in a sparring circle. The door banged as his Third at Table left.
Aleta’s red lips quirked up. Her finger trailed along the table, her dark eyes bright. She pushed the petition and other papers back and sat on the edge, facing him. She lifted her chin emphasizing her high cheek bones and long neck, her black hair cascading down her back.
Alcandhor still had to admit the woman was a rare beauty. Too bad her coldness had chilled his affection over the years. He had no illusions that she loved him; she only loved herself. But at least she had provided him with the joy of children: two strong sons, and his baby daughter.
“Where is Amara?”
Aleta’s long, slender fingers waved in the air. “Oh, that girl has her.” She brushed Alcandhor’s hair back, placed both hands on his shoulders, and whispered, “What are your plans now, my Thane?”
Her constant usage of his new title nettled him, but her seductive attitude distracted him from the annoyance—he rarely saw this side of her anymore. With a slight smile, he asked, “Before or after evening meal?”
“Mm, either. Both.” Her breath was warm against his cheek.
He cleared his throat. “I had intended to order the reports and petitions before meal, but I suppose I can do that after—” Her lips on his ended his sentence. Indeed, definitely afterwards…
He watched Aleta straighten her bodice gown, a sultry smile on her lips. “So, my Thane…” She tapped the table. “What in all these reports is so important that you cannot leave them for one evening?”
“I need, at least, to finish reading the reports from Keladar.”
“Keladar?” Aleta’s almost-permanent sneer settled on her face. She picked up a pile of papers and began to leaf through them. “What is that bloated by-blow up to now?”
“Aleta…” Alcandhor reached over to take the reports from her.
She twisted, but he snatched them from her, and her eyes widened.
“You know I cannot discuss such matters with you.”
“You could if you wanted to! You can do what you please, now. You are Thane!”
“That makes no difference to our laws. I am bound—”
With a strangled cry, she threw her arms up and stomped in a circle. “Bound! Bound! Bound!” Her flared sleeves rippled up her arms as she waved her hands above her head. “What is the use of being Thane if you will not do what needs to be done? You can make Claim, set things right! Why will you not see the possibilities?”
Alcandhor tried to take her by the shoulders, but she shook him off and turned away, crossing her arms.
“Aleta…do not say thus. Ranger clan follows the law—and as Thane, I am the embodiment of the law.”
“You could rule this world,” she said over her shoulder as she strode to the door. “Instead you let it squash you like an insect.”
Alcandhor jammed his fingers through his hair as the door slammed.
The petition rolled in his hand, Alcandhor entered Lamadhel’s work chamber to find his uncle hunched over the table, red head bowed over an old, faded document, a square enlarging glass in hand. A fresh parchment lay to the side with inkhorn and pens.
“Is it your age or that of the parchment which makes reading difficult?”
Lamadhel raised his head, blue eyes narrowed. He leaned back and straightened his jerkin, lips pursed. “Disrespect toward your elders, boy?”
Alcandhor grinned. “Disrespect toward your Thane, Ranger?”
With a snort, his uncle set down the glass and nodded at the rolled papers. “Trouble?”
Alcandhor shook his head, approaching the table. He held out the petition. “Nay. Not trouble, but troubling.”
Lamadhel’s eyebrows lifted, and he took the papers. He needed not the glass to read them, but did hold them a bit farther away from his face than Alcandhor remembered. His father’s brothers were no longer young; would that he could keep them until age took them, many years from now. He needed the wisdom of these advisors, as well as the comfort of kin at his side.
Lamadhel finished reading and sat back, letting his breath out in a low whistle. “Sticky, this.”
“Aye.”
“What is your answer?”
“I see no answers other than what the law states. I had hoped you would be able to advise me, Ranger Chief.”
His uncle’s eyes bored into his. “Wish you to call a conclave of the chiefs for this?”
“Ah, nay.” Alcandhor rapped his knuckles softly on the table, then realizing it gave away his agitation, clenched his fists tightly to his sides. “This is my decision. I had merely hoped as chief law-keeper you might know of some reference that might…” He trailed off, feeling weak in begging for help.
Lamadhel was silent for a time, then cleared his throat. “You know the law as well as I do. Do what you must.”
“Father often said the law was hard, and that it must be tempered with compassion.”
“If you had some years of Thaneship behind you, and the full backing of your kin, still…giving leniency would come hard. This boy seems, by his past actions, to be a real danger, not having learned from previous judgments and punishments. He worked the mines for two years last time. Who might he maim or kill next?”
“Yet the boy’s heart, by all accounts, is not bent toward evil. Think you my father would give leniency?”
Lamadhel’s shoulders sagged just a bit, and he gazed into the air with a sorrowful expression. Alcandhor’s own grief rose, and he suppressed it, keeping his eyes on his uncle.
“I know not which way Saldhor would sway,” Lamadhel replied, his voice low and hoarse with emotion. “He valued compassion highly, but ignorance can be as damaging as evil intent. This boy played with a deadly weapon as if a child’s toy. Another person is dead as a result. Do we gamble with others’ lives out of compassion?” Lamadhel rolled the papers and handed them back to Alcandhor. “Do what you will, my Thane. The chiefs will back you.”
So his uncle gave him full trust. Good to know, but still—Alcandhor curled his lip in a rueful smile. “Would that be enough to protect me from anyone calling Question?”
“I know not. But then…” Lamadhel stared up with a curious expression. “If the clan supported the Question called, you could pursue your dreams, as Thaneship would then fall upon Bardhor.”
A flash of hope rose in Alcandhor, but died as his father’s disapproving gaze wove across his mind’s eye. He brought himself back to the moment with an inward shake and, despite himself, grinned. “I think Haladhon would not fain see his father Thane.”
“Oh?” Lamadhel’s brow raised.
“He cares not that he is so close to Thaneship already, being Third at Table.”
“I knew not he had such hesitations.”
“I would say fear, if one could imagine thus from him.”
His uncle smiled. “Wish you to cause your closest friend such distress?”
Alcandhor barked a laugh. “For his sake, I will endeavor to keep Question from being called.”
The hour was late when Alcandhor entered his family suite. Candles and the fireplace lit the chamber. Instead of his wife, he found the young widow, Jholinn, on the sofa, her back to him. Over her shoulder, he could see the mass of curly, dark blonde hair belonging to his daughter. Amara bounded up with a squeal and ran to him. Laughing, he picked her up and whirled around with her, then gave her a tight hug. Little arms wrapped around his neck, and he just held her. This…this was something for which to live.
“You should be in bed, Little One.”
“I’ait fo’ you.”
“So I see.” He chuckled, and touched noses with her, making her giggle.
Jholinn rose, eyes downcast, and curtsied. Alcandhor was one of a small number who had an—albeit limited—empathic ability to both feel and send emotions, a legacy from his alien ancestors. But he used his Enaisi gifts seldom, finding it easier to hide his own emotions, even from himself, when blocking.
However, he need not sense Jholinn to know her antipathy toward him. Her care of Amara he could not fault, though, and he needed her for that, especially since Aleta seemed to care nothing for her own daughter, as if only sons mattered.
“Thank you, Jholinn. If I had realized Aleta would not be here, I would have come sooner.”
“It…it is fine, Thane. Amara has had her evening meal and washed up already, too.” She smiled at Amara, but the smile faded as she met his eyes. She averted her gaze, curtsied again, and hurriedly left.
Alcandhor stifled a sigh. She was only one of many in the clan who disapproved of him. But she need not like him, only love Amara—and that she did.
He stopped blocking as he sat down in a chair near the fireplace and cuddled his daughter, the simple joy of feeling his baby’s love a balm to his heart—especially with the ache of his father’s death so fresh.
Some time later, Aleta breezed in. Being half asleep, with his block down, Alcandhor sensed her without forethought; she was drunk, and—glowing with sated sensuality. The knowledge did not strike him—but rather settled in his stomach, a sinking weight.
He had lately suspected—no; honesty to his own heart: he had indeed known, even if he lacked proof, that she was unfaithful. But always he closed his eyes—and his empathic ability—not wanting to believe, not wanting to admit to himself…what? That he had chosen badly? That his wife acted with such shame, and brought dishonor to him, his children, his clan? That he had been a fool to let beauty sway him in the gardens and grand chambers of Estan Hall all those years ago? Aye to all, yet the last was closest to the mark. He was a fool.
Fool or not, he was now weary. He had given her all he had, all he was, until he felt drained, void, empty. She gave nothing back. Not love, not compassion—even at his father’s death. Her surface charms had worn thin. Trysts such as the one in his Thane’s chamber earlier were rare, and empty. She refused to participate in any intimacy if she felt emotion from him, so long ago, he learned to chop off his feelings and block, making their bed a cold place despite the heat of passion.
A chill settled in his heart, and his weariness gave way to finality—he was through pretending and turning away from her conduct. An almost frightening calm descended on him as he tore his gaze away from the sleeping baby in his arms to regard his wife. She looked smug.
“Where have you been?” He kept his voice soft to keep from waking Amara.
“Oh, just keeping warm against the cold winter. Have we a bottle in the suite? We could have a little drink together, and perhaps…” She trailed off, giving him a seductive smile.
“Nay.” Alcandhor returned his stare to the fire. “I have work to do after I put Amara to bed.”
“Suit yourself.” She swept through the curtained archway into the bedchamber, humming to herself.
Aye. I have work to do…and so does Haladhon.
Alcandhor paced across the Thane’s chamber, feeling his cousin’s eyes on him. He could not bring himself to talk about his suspicions concerning his wife to his best friend, even though—or perhaps, especially since—the two always despised each other.
“Shall I wait until I turn to stone from boredom, Thane, or do you tell me why you called me here so late?”
Alcandhor spun and regarded his Third at Table by the flickering light of the sconces, chewing the inside of his cheek. Haladhon, as usual, perched on the edge of the table. He wore an expression of wary amusement.
“I…I have a task for you as an Elite that…might be regarded as personal, but since it impinges on the reputation of the Thane and his family…” He stopped, unable to continue.
Haladhon leaned forward, his eyes glinting. “Aye?”
“I…” Bells above how can this be so difficult? “I suspect Aleta…” Alcandhor grimaced, shaking his head.
“You suspect her…of infidelity.” Haladhon did not ask a question, but merely finished Alcandhor’s statement. He crossed his arms. “It is quite past time you opened your eyes.”
Alcandhor’s mouth dropped open. “How long have you had suspicions?”
His cousin’s back arched. “Had suspicions? For many years. Known—I have gathered proof, going back over two years. Farther back than that, I cannot verify.”
A whirl of emotion and thought almost staggered Alcandhor. He rubbed his forehead. “Years…” He glared at his cousin. “My children. My heirs…”
“I have found nothing to indicate your sons are not your blood, or I would have approached you at once.”
His insides chilled, froze. “Amara?” he whispered.
Haladhon tipped his head with a hesitant shrug. “I cannot say for certainty.”
Alcandhor slowly walked to his chair and dropped into it. “Two years…” His precious girl, his baby… His head snapped up, and he spat, “You did not tell me?”
“I tried. You would not listen. I knew not if you were still so love-struck with her, or merely being an obstinate fool. You do not take meddling in personal matters well, and when it concerns her, you have never given me one moment’s heed.”
Alcandhor blew out his breath, slumping in the seat. He could not deny the truth of Haladhon’s charge. He did not answer right away, and his cousin, wisely, remained silent. Finally, Alcandhor said, “I want to see all the evidence you have documented on Aleta.”
The sun streamed in the windows at an angle marking mid-morning, and still, Aleta slept. Alcandhor watched her, wondering, as he had many times, why he had fallen for her. His youth, he supposed, and his naïveté; and her open admiration, which had played on his insecurities. Most of all though, he had succumbed, as had many men throughout the ages with similar women, to her overt sexuality.
His rage upon reading of Aleta’s indiscretions had lowered to a manageable simmer—with Haladhon’s forceful assistance. Now, a sense of what was best for the clan and his children rose to the fore. If he put her out, Sedhral could make the claim Alcandhor had broken a vow. But he had other choices.
Before he could decide on whether to wake his wife by snatching the bedcovers off, or by tossing water on her, she rolled over and her eyes fluttered open. She frowned, stretching. “It’s late. Why aren’t you at the Training Hall?” In her sleepy state, she reverted to her family’s accent.
Alcandhor had gone over what he would say to Aleta, but now he found his words spilled forth without preamble. “I will not put the reputation of the Thane at risk, or for the children’s sake, put our lives on display, so in public we shall be as a couple. However, from this moment on, in private, you are estranged to me. I would fain move to the Thane’s suite in the Chief’s range, however, that would distance me from my children, so—”
“What are you blather—”
He raised his voice slightly and cut her off. “Although we shall share a bed, there will be no intimacy between us. You had best use discretion in your affairs, because any future children you bear will not be mine.”
She rose up onto her knees in the bed—no shame, guilt, or alarm crossed her face, but instead a snarl. “How dare you!” Aleta scrambled out of the bed, and began dressing. “If you think I’m going to stay here and listen to this—”
“You will listen—and obey me—in this!” Alcandhor did not bellow, but the forcefulness of his declaration stopped her, underbodice dangling from her fingers, and she stared at him in amazement. He stepped closer, his teeth gritted. “Do you understand?”
To his confusion, a smile slid onto her face. “Yes, my Thane. I do.”
He had expected any variety of reactions, but not this. And he was not going to stay to see what she might be conniving. He spun on his heel and left.
He strode down the hall, his thoughts on Amara. Was she truly his child? He thought of the beautiful little girl with her soft curls, and arms that wrapped around his neck as she snuggled into him. Nay, it mattered not—no matter her blood, she was his daughter. No one would ever know; no one need ever know of doubts about her parentage. Alcandhor would not let the stain of her mother’s transgressions taint that little girl!
Clan Law focused on bloodlines, aye, but in the end, love made family.
Alcandhor entered and saw the chamber full. The Rangers that wished to call Question on him sat in the back; more than one judgment would take place today.
Displaying more confidence than he felt, he strode to the front of the chamber and to the arbiter’s table, wishing desperately for his father’s guidance.
“Are the parties who petitioned for arbitration present?” he asked formally.
“They are all here, Thane,” Haladhon replied.
Alcandhor sat. “Let them stand forward.”
Two women and a stripling male stood and bowed before Alcandhor. Their faces all shared despair.
Inwardly, he ached for them, but kept his face from any emotion. “Clan, sept, family, and name.”
The woman with reddish-blonde hair curtsied and lifted her chin. “Tonshill. Clan Shenalt, sept Denvra, family Terrin. I made petition, Thane, for the life of Dengar.”
The boy bowed again, his dark eyes haunted. “Dengar, family and sept Clemin, clan Bentara.” He nodded at the dark-haired woman. “This is my mother, Onara.”
Alcandhor met the mother’s eyes, hoping his words and tone were as kindly as they were firm. “You are not the petitioner or the accused, Onara. You may sit on the front bench.”
Onara hesitated, glancing at her son and Tonshill, before curtsying and returning to her seat.
Alcandhor let his gaze rest on Tonshill. “Your clan thane is not here, and you have no person knowledgeable of the law standing with you as advisor. Do you wish me to provide you with counsel before we continue?”
“No, Thane. I am advised I have no legal recourse. This is a petition of emotion.” She bowed her head. “I know it’s—it is very likely futile, but since the law does allow for a petition of emotion, I grasped it as our last hope.”
Alcandhor caught her correction of the contraction—was she trying to sound less like a commoner, thinking it would gain her footing? Stars. What do commoners think of us?
He tapped the sheaf of papers on the table. “I have read the account of the accident, the trial, and your petition. I forego the formality of reviewing the facts, but do wish to ask one question of you, Dengar.” He caught and held the boy’s eyes. “Why should I even consider any mercy toward you considering your past behavior?”
Dengar shook his head. “I don’t want mercy, Thane. My best friend is dead, by my hand. But I couldn’t say no when Tonshill—” He broke off, and looked at the floor. After a moment, he continued, “I don’t deserve mercy.”
Some few considered arbiters who had Enaisi blood, as Alcandhor did, to be cheating for being able to feel the emotions of others. Only his clan had the ability, and granted, it was limited, but still, as with all the Thanes before him, it did often give Alcandhor direction—as it did now. The boy’s grief was genuine and appeared to cut deep. The emptiness in his eyes mirrored what was in his heart.
Alcandhor pulled back and focused on the murdered boy’s mother, taking a breath to ease the painful emotions he had experienced. “Now to aim for the heart of the matter.” He folded his hands and leaned toward Tonshill. “Why do you beg for the life of the person who killed your son?”
Tears filled Tonshill’s eyes, and Alcandhor could sense her grief and desperation—echoing his own recent loss too deeply. No respite for him unless he blocked. He focused on the woman, not thoughts of his father in that cold crypt.
“Our families are neighbors,” Tonshill said. “Onara and I are like sisters, and our sons as siblings. We both lost our husbands young, and help each other to survive. It’s bad enough we lost my son Virnor, but to lose Dengar too—” She gasped to stop herself from bursting into tears.
Alcandhor bit his lip to keep himself composed. Feeling her raw emotions tore at his heart. She really loved this other woman’s son as her own. Amara flitted through his thoughts, the daughter of his heart, regardless… Love makes family. A revelation dawned on him. He took a breath, a scheme growing in his mind. All he knew of Clan Law and the Maker’s Law…he could think of nothing that barred him from this course. Dare he do this?
He cleared his throat and shook his head. “I can offer you no hope. The law is the law, and I cannot abrogate it. I brought you here to hear the judgment personally from me. You are owed that.”
Dengar trembled and put an arm around Tonshill’s shoulders. Onara covered her face, and Tonshill pressed her lips together, tears rolling down her cheeks, clinging to the boy.
Alcandhor met Dengar’s eyes. “The law states, ‘A life for a life.’ I must, by law, sentence you to death.” His finger pointed at the lad. “It shall be entered in your clan’s book of records that on this day, you died. From this time onward, you are dead to your family, sept, clan. Your life is forfeit—to replace the one you took. You are now of Tonshill’s family. You are her son, and owe your life, your breath, to her. You will work her land, be the hands of a son to her. Any children you sire will be counted as her family and clan’s.”
He paused, watching as comprehension lit their faces. “I have spoken.”
As he rose, he gauged the emotions of those in attendance. Some were stunned, others confused. His uncle Lamadhel puckered his lips, but his eyes shone with pride, and he gave a slight nod. Several of his detractors murmured among themselves, but the two spokesmen crossed the chamber toward him with purposeful strides, faces red.
He straightened, hoping he hid the fear in his heart with icy authority.
“Alcandhor, this is most inappropriate!” Sedhral spat.
“Are you mad?” shouted Fandhrel.
Alcandhor jabbed a finger at them. “Take care how you speak to your Thane,” he said, his voice low but deadly earnest.
Both Rangers halted in their protests, blinking.
“Your pardon, Thane,” Sedhral said, with a look on his face as if drinking sour wine. “But this is unprecedented.”
“And did not my father promote breaking precedents when they hobble us as one does a dray beast? Neither of you openly opposed his reformations when he lived, do you do so now when he lies in the crypt, unable to face you?”
Fandhrel stared at the floor, and Sedhral glared, his jaw muscles working.
“I—have—spoken,” Alcandhor repeated through gritted teeth. He nodded toward Lamadhel. “You are free to discuss the matter with our chief law keeper, but I fain wager you will not find a point in the law with which to call Question—on me, or my decision.”
Head high, he stared them down—as he had that day in the snow. They bowed, then slunk away.
Let them rail; he had not broken their laws, and more importantly, he had preserved life, and family. Perhaps…perhaps his father would be proud.
© 2010 L. S. King
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.
Tags: fantasy, L. S. King, short story