The Lower Council was preceded by a host of innumerable souls.
First were the guards, the holy knights who had pledged service to the Gods and their Church, who filtered into the Majestic Hall in orderly pairs, their figures almost as indomitable as the statues that lined the walls. They secured the hall in short order, then guided Lukas, too firmly for his liking, to the Room of Judgment. A circular room, the walls and floor were predominantly amber in color, broken only by holy white sigils–the marks of prophets past.
After came the other attendees, beginning firstly with a biased selection of Highharrow’s citizenry; smiths, carpenters, fishermen, farmers, they were of all walks of life and profession, sharing nothing but open devotion and the favor of the priests. They were to act as witnesses, a window for the common rabble to observe the inner workings of righteous justice as dealt by the Lower Council.
Then came those of the holy order proper, starting with the lowest of church servants who were dressed in their finest attire, which was, to Lukas’s eye, barely better than that of the common workers. The ranks ascended from there with priests in their silver-lined gray robes, bishops in their robes of red, and finally the minor cardinals in their vestments that spanned nearly every shade of blue.
The gathered assemblage waited in silence, the only sounds being that of the shuffling footsteps of the holy knights and the occasional cough or murmur from the crowd. The air grew tense as they waited, and Lukas could feel the spark of impatience in the crowd of faces as they stared anxiously at the doors behind him.
The doors opened, and the faces eased. The Lower Council had arrived.
He was calmer than he’d expected, standing before all these holy men. Twice before he had been in this room; once, as a boy, to see the judgment of a priest accused of murder, and then again, many years later, when the minor cardinal Lukas of Thelmes was accused of fornicating with a duke’s child. Both times he had been a mess as he sat in the stands beside a sea of other nobles and true believers, listening to the accusations made, the testimony of witnesses, the pleas of the accused. Only in battle could he recall being so tense. Battle and…
…deep beneath the lake’s surface in the dark and cold, swimming deeper and deeper, trying to reach the bottom of the bottomless lake, past where all the fish stayed, fish so big they could have swallowed him whole…
“We are here,” Councilor Renaud began, his voice soft and slow and deliberate in a way achieved only by those who lived to a respectable age and then, in defiance of death and the natural order, continued to live a few decades longer.
With long, sagging jowls, sunken eyes, and a neck of pale, sagging skin marked by dark spots, Councilor Renaud looked as if a larger man’s skin had been draped across an animate skeleton. Lifting a pale hand, he pointed a long, skinny finger in Lukas’s general direction, missing due to lack of sight; his eyes, which had been a brilliant shade of brown merely five years prior, had been encroached by a milky-white film that blinded the man.
“We are here,” the Councilor said, still wagging his finger wildly in Lukas’s direction, “to determine, by the Grace of the Gods, if this lost sheep is to be condemned for his transgressions. These transgressions are, firstly, the failure to achieve victory in holy war, and secondly, the loss of our esteemed Oracle, the chosen prophet of our times.”
Renaud allowed his hand to fall.
Whatever remnant of fear there was in Lukas dissipated as he felt the accusing stares. He glanced to the room's edge, where the holy knights lined the walls in their painted armor. There were mages, too, twenty or more by his count, and likely more in the stands with the civilians. No doubt sitting with anxious pits in their stomachs as they waited. Waiting to see if Lukas would be sentenced to death. Waiting to see if he would rebel.
He would, if they chose to sentence him.
The councilors, respectable and holy as they were, shared with Renaud the trait of advanced age; all eight were, at the least, a decade older than Lukas’s self, with several, including Renaud, being some three or four decades older, though, as with any of such an advanced age, it was difficult to confirm. What was easy to confirm, however, was that the councilors, who when not gathered to act as such were reduced to the still-admirable rank of cardinal, were relics of the past. Their age notwithstanding, it was the continued misconduct and misrepresentation of the Gods they served that led Lukas to this truth.
The Lower Council was corrupt.
Throughout his life he had dealt with the consequences of the Lower Council’s corruption too many times to count. Innocents sentenced to death, criminals allowed to go free, and, worst of all, Lukas had seen unholy wretches such as Moreau rise through the ranks. That he stood here at all, filled with a righteous anger he could barely contain, was only out of love for the Gods and his pride in being seen by the masses as a true believer. The perfect example. Whatever the Lower Council’s transgressions, they still represented the Gods, and to openly defy the Lower Council would have him marked as an apostate. If he was to burn the corruption from Highharrow he could not allow that.
But Lukas had judged them to be unfit to judge himself, and he would punish them, if need be. He had the power to do it. Despite the knights, despite the mages, he had the power to do it.
Sandrine, the youngest of the councilors and the only woman among them, stood, and the room's attention swayed to her. “We will now begin arguments. Lukas Merveillo, you stand accused, and have first say. What say you?”
Lukas unclenched his jaw and eased his hands, which had been balled into fists from anger. If there were any on the Lower Council worthy of respect, it was Sandrine. It was not often a woman achieved such a position of power, especially in the Church, and he would not lash out at her thoughtlessly.
“I have served the Gods for many years,” Lukas began. “I have prayed beside soldiers and mages alike, and have led them in prayer many times when priests were not present. I have served the Church as an advisor innumerable times, and have, by the will of this very Lower Council, acted as an enforcer against those accused and sentenced to death.”
Across the faces of the commoners he saw it, slowly but surely. Surprise, and an expectation that his words would be refuted. But his words were not refuted, nor would they be except by the tongue of a liar. And from that realization came awe and reverence, which spread through the crowd like a fire.
Lukas subdued a smile.
But when he turned his attention to the priests and the bishops and other holy men and women, eventually settling his gaze on the elderly visages of the Lower Council, he did not see a speck of approval or awe, and more certainly not reverence.
His heart sank into the pit of his stomach.
“A-and,” he continued, “it must be said that I did not start this war alone. I operated with express approval from the members of the Lower Council. I acted on the holy guidance of the Oracle. Many here, in this very room, were privy to my actions. To my assignment. Few protested. So few that it could be said I was met with overwhelming support. Support so overwhelming that a plan was fashioned for me in a matter of days, an army raised for me in a matter of weeks. And in mere months from the idea being uttered from my lips I was leading our holy kingdom in battle against the…” he paused. The dogs who think themselves the master, he wanted to say. But there were too many eyes, too many ears, and too many hearts not set with Hilva. “...against the Empire.”
“So the blame is to be shared, then?” Councilor Gregoire asked, eyes alight with distaste. Always something to nitpick at, ay, Gregoire? In all Lukas’s life he had never seen the man smile. The result was a set of wrinkles and creases about his mouth and eyes that left him permanently frowning.
“If that is how you care to hear my words,” Lukas replied. Gregoire’s frown deepened, if that were possible.
“What I care to hear, young Lukas, is the meaning of your words. So I ask again: are you suggesting that the blame is to be shared?”
Lukas sucked in a defiant breath. “I am not of the opinion that my words, or their meaning, need to be restated. I believe I spoke clearly enough, and I do not believe there are any in this room with intellect so diminished that I was not understood.”
“Forgive me, then, young Lukas. Perhaps it is my ears that are not working. They are not what they once were. I am quite old, after all.”
“That is the case,” Lukas said.
Gregoire let out a silent snarl. “My ears are in poor shape, so correct me, if you would be so obliged young Lukas, but from what I was able to make out it did not sound like you presented any refutation to what you have been accused of.”
So the mind in that shrunken head is still sharp, I see.
“Yes, it is true,” Gregoire continued. “There was much support for the war. And is there any question as to why? It was a nice speech you gave us just now, I must admit. Even now, having heard your words, my blood is flowing in a way it hasn’t for years. You were the obvious choice. The Oracle, by the will of the Gods themselves, ordained as much to us. There could have been no other.”
The crowd was leaning in now, enthralled, letting loose a hundred whispers that came rushing down the aisles, building upon each other until it was deafening.
Gregoire raised a hand, and all fell silent.
“But,” Gregoire said, and suddenly, in the span of a single word, all of the praise and the renown that was his, and all the awe and reverence that had been showered upon him only moments before dissipated into the air. “As I recall, you do not stand accused of starting this war. If you were so accused then your words may hold some sway. But they do not. You stand accused not of starting this war, but of your defeat.”
The crowd was against him now. What started as angry whispers grew louder and louder until, at last, the crowd was half crazed and shouting.
“Off with his head!”
Lukas scoured the crowd for the source of the voice, but in all the frenzy he couldn’t make out who, or even where, the voice had come from.
Then, from the outermost edge of the room, the knights, who brandished long spears in their hands, began to beat the butts of their spears against the floor in rhythmic unison until the crowd fell silent.
“There will be order,” Councilor Renaud said.
Attention turned to the table of councilors. The eight of them spoke to one another in silent fashion, motioning with their arms, hands, and fingers to pass along messages indecipherable to all but them. A trick developed some hundred-fifty years ago, shortly after Hilva’s subjugation.
The councilors continued for unbearable moments, and Lukas felt the words rising up out of him.
“If I may,” Lukas said as Councilor Marc was halfway through a sign. The councilor’s cheeks turned rosy red as the man stared at him.
“What?” Marc asked, indignant.
Lukas scowled at the man as he tried to rein in his temper. “What, you ask? Councilor, ‘What’ is the question I would like to be asking of you.”
“I care little for your tone,” Marc said.
It is you who should be watching his tone.
But before he could speak Moreau rose from the stands. “Apologies, esteemed councilors, but I believe the accused is requesting that you speak openly. Judgment is meant to be before Gods and man alike. So say the scriptures.”
There was a flurry of whispers from the observers as they repeated the words. “So say the scriptures.”
Marc gaped at them all. Lukas almost smiled. It was not often the Lower Council was made to feel powerless.
“So be it,” Marc declared. “The Lower Council has come to a difficult decision. One we have yet to make, and will now do so openly, before Gods and man.”
“The issue at hand,” Renaud said, “comes from the words of the Oracle, before they were lost to us.”
“Words of warning, as I recall,” Sandrine added.
“Told only to the most esteemed members of the Church, the Oracle said unto us that should the Maker’s Mark present itself on the battlefield then the war was lost,” Gregoire finished.
The words were digested slowly, a heavy meal on an otherwise empty stomach. In the end, however, the result was no more than simple confusion, and few seemed to grasp the meaning.
But the revelation, minor as it seemed, filled Lukas with hope.
“May I request an explanation for those uncertain, esteemed councilors?” Moreau asked.
Marc nodded. “We cannot, as agents of the Gods, condemn a man for what is clearly the will of the Gods.”
“There are some who believe that everything is as the Gods will,” Moreau said, to muttered agreement from the commoners.
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Renaud shook his head, the wrinkled flesh of his neck swaying from the movement. “It is not so. From prophets past we know the will of the Gods and the will of the Maker. And it was the Maker’s will that life exist, and that those alive be granted the freedom of choice.”
Lukas rolled his eyes, then shut them. Was this meant to be a sermon, or a Judgment? In either case, it was a farce.
“Then has a decision been made?” Moreau asked.
Renaud’s shoulders slumped, Sandrine clasped her hands together, and Gregoire’s frown deepened. Marc, for his part, did not change, and the other councilors merely exchanged uncertain looks.
“Some among us have,” Marc said. He turned to Lukas, his gaze dark and threatening. “Guilty would be my choice.”
“But if the Maker’s Mark was present…” Renaud protested.
“If,” Gregoire exclaimed, cutting past Renaud’s feeble voice. “What evidence do we have?”
“The Oracle…” Renaud said.
“The Oracle,” Marc interrupted, “merely gave us a possibility. There is a chance, and a likely one, that the Maker’s Mark was not present.”
Lukas sucked in a deep breath, straightening himself. Preparing.
“I believe the Maker’s Mark was present,” he said aloud. Heads turned. “Those in the Church have heard the details, and the rest have heard the rumors. In Grensfield our forces met a single mage. A giant. With a single conjuring of magic he rendered our forces unconscious, including myself, then stormed Baron Licester’s manor and set it aflame. But his powers were far more incredible than you all may believe. It was like nothing else in this world. Limbs and organs blown apart by magic, only for them to be regrown. And his power! He possessed magic power on a scale unheard of in modern times. I would have needed another mage of my own caliber to have defeated him.”
Murmurs spread through the stands. Even the councilors appeared distraught at his words. They believed it, as well they should have. It was the truth, plain and simple.
But, from the corner of his eye, Moreau stood and the murmurs stopped. With slow disregard for the proper manner of things he walked into the aisle, then down onto the main floor. At the room’s edge the knights moved, ready to stop this transgression in its tracks. Then, with a single raised hand from the man who called Moreau his protege, they stopped.
“Ask for permission next time,” Gregoire said in the scolding tone one would use with a child.
“Apologies, councilor,” Moreau said. From the man’s smile it was obvious he did not feel sorry at all.
A tremor went up Lukas’s spine as watched the events unfold. Unusual did not begin to describe Moreau’s action, and Lukas could only think of the message.
Play along.
What game was Moreau playing? A curious question that only grew as the man rounded on him and stared him in the eyes, the black pits of his pupils like tiny portals to the darkest depths of hell.
Lukas was beginning to regret listening to the man.
“What is the Maker’s Mark?” Moreau asked. He turned away as Lukas parted his lips to answer. The question was not for him. “How many here have asked themselves that question. Go on, raise your hands, there is nothing to be ashamed of.”
A few raised their hands in sheepish fashion, then others, a bit quicker this time, then more still as understanding set in. By the end of it all of the commoners had their hands raised high in a joint display of ignorance. Those of the Church were little better. Priests, bishops, even some of the minor cardinals held their hands up high.
“As I thought,” Moreau continued. “Thank you all, you may lower your hands.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Lukas asked. The question seemed to amuse Moreau even further, to Lukas’s displeasure.
“Simple, is it not? How else can it be attested, before such a gathering of godly men, that the Maker’s Mark was present at the battle, as you claim, when so few even know what the Maker’s Mark is?”
“An item…” Renaud offered.
“That is not certain,” Marc protested
“What else, then?” Renaud asked.
“A sigil or drawing?” Councilor Emric asked uncertainly.
Sandrine nodded. “Possible. Or a holy blessing, perhaps? Something incorporeal rather than material? The power of the Gods is separate from magic as we know it, after all.”
Gregoire clapped his hands together, producing a thunderous boom that echoed throughout the room, silencing the councilors.
“We are off track once more,” he said. “Moreau, continue.”
Moreau bowed. “Of course, councilor. But I must say, the debate just now is proof. How can a man claim that the Maker’s Mark was present when not even the highest members of the Church are certain as to what it is?”
Damn you, Moreau. For a fearful moment Lukas wondered if he’d been lied to, and that the conniving bastard merely derived some perverse joy from tormenting him. And what could Lukas do now, with Moreau twisting things as he pleased? He’d burned the message, the only proof. And even had he not, and the evidence was accepted, which was unlikely, it was too late now. The seeds were planted, and all in the room questioned if the Maker’s Mark had been there.
Even Lukas questioned it.
“I am certain,” Lukas lied, head held high. Most looked unconvinced. “I have never encountered a more astounding mage, nor have the men that were afforded me. The things he did, the magic he conjured, was unlike anything ever encountered before.”
“You are suggesting Discovery magic,” Renaud said.
“No, I am stating it. Discovery magic at the least, or else a gift from the Gods themselves. The magic I encountered was one of a kind, brand new, and impossibly powerful.”
Marc sighed. “I believe this to be overstating the matter.”
“Overstating? How can one overstate rendering an entire army unconscious? Or regrowing limbs?”
Sandrine raised a defensive hand. “You must forgive my fellow, Lukas. Our station is not one that endeavors to know all there is to magic, as yours does. As such, you must understand that these claims…well, we don’t know what to make of them.”
“Ask any mage. Ask the Magehead’s Custodian, if he’ll dein to respond, or one of Magehead’s councilors if not. Or ask any of the mages that line these very walls. They will all tell you what I am telling you now. What was done in Grensfield… it was something I could never have prepared for.”
“Then we shall ask,” Marc said, defiant. He selected two mages from the outer wall to step forth. Hesitating, selected a third. The mages descended down the aisles in a flutter of robes and an invisible tension that could not be hidden, a tension that reached its precipice as the three stood before the Lower Council. The mages knelt.
None had been present at the battle, Lukas knew. They were not his mages, after all, but other, lower mages on loan from the Magehead. But they heard the rumors all the same from mages too well respected to attempt refutation. Mages such as Louis of Cieltrou, Adelaide of the White Flames, Maelys the Proper, and even Eric Aigremont. Perhaps one or two accounts could be denied, but to deny all of them…
The mages gave their opinions in a manner that was both succinct and vague, yet the meat of the matter was laid bare well enough. The councilors looked shaken, pale.
“It’s true, then,” Renaud muttered.
“As likely as not,” Sandrine added.
Lukas dared not feel joy from their words. He turned to Moreau, only to follow the man’s expectant gaze to Gregoire.
But the man did not move to speak, nor did he show any hint that more should be said. The man was distraught, with a deep fear in his eyes that Lukas could not recall ever seeing before. And yet, despite his hatred of the man, who was so easily cowed by his subordinate, he found no joy in that fear. He could only share in it.
In his place, however, was Moreau.
“Esteemed councilors, astonishing as this news may be, I must protest. It is not proof. We still do not know what form the Maker’s Mark takes, nor do we know of its whereabouts at the time of the battle. And let us not forget the misdeeds for which this man stands accused. Not merely defeat, but the loss of the Oracle.”
Lukas imagined Moreau’s head on a pike, with blood dripping down his head and his face deformed by rot, stretched in an expression of agony. But what he saw with his eyes was not the decaying skull of an apostate, but instead a man with a uniquely worrisome smile. He was the only one in the room who appeared pleased with the situation.
There was a tapping from the councilors bench. The dour Emeric, Cardinal of Advancement and once a renowned knight, clasped his hands together and leaned forward, as if what he was about to say was a secret between conspirators. “I concur with Minor Cardinal Moreau’s opinion,” he said simply.
“As do I,” Gregoire said.
Whatever apprehension existed faded then, and one by one the other councilors came to the same conclusion.
The time for arguing was done. They would charge him as guilty.
Instead of pleading with them, as they seemed to expect from him, Lukas stood patient and observed the knights and mages in the room, counting their numbers again and again. Twenty knights, fifteen mages. Forty common men-at-arms. Twenty knights, fifteen mages. Forty common men-at-arms. How many in the crowd?
Killing them all gave him no peace of mind, but he would not let them lop off his head. The only question was how.
A blast of force was out of the question. The number of knights was no matter, but they were evenly spread throughout the room. Release two blasts and they would be upon him before he could conjure a third. He could go all out and strike half of them down in an instant, sending the rest into chaos, but the Majestic Hall, as venerable as it was, could not withstand such a blow to its structure. Fire was the only choice, but that had issues of its own. Heat, for one, and…
…a light revealed in the darkness, shining dim, round, and big, bigger than him. Orange, like fire. At its center a slit of darkness, so deep and black he thought himself dead. Then the fire and the darkness left, descending deeper. His lungs burned. His skin was cold. His heart raced in his chest. Air left his mouth in bubbles that rose up. Fear. Panic. He was drowning, dying.
Another vision, a memory. When he was a foolish boy trying too hard to tempt fate. Was that what he was doing now? Tempting fate by planning rebellion? He did not know if he had the choice. If death was to be the final result, going down with a fight suited him well enough.
But as his eyes interlocked with Moreau’s own he saw a glimpse of hope in them.
Moreau turned to the Lower Council, who were again in the midst of communicating with hand signs, and clapped. Eight pairs of eyes fell upon him like wolves staring down their prey, yet he did not cower. If anything the attention emboldened him.
“Esteemed councilors, what is to be your verdict?” Moreau asked.
Renaud stood, his body shaking from the effort. “Our decision is unanimous. Lukas Merveillo, we, the Lower Council, as the rightful embodiment of the will of the Gods, judge you guilty.
“However, the issue of your punishment is troubling. We are at an impasse. Councilors Marc, Emeric, Louis, and Gregoire of the opinion that you should be sentenced to death. Given your showings of devotion, however, Sandrine, Lionel, Arnaud, and I have come to the opposite conclusion. The votes are tied.”
All this, and you haven’t the courage to have me killed? Lukas would be the first in a generation to be judged guilty and live. Assuming one of the four who wanted him dead could be convinced.
The reverse seemed the more likely of the two. Marc was the Cardinal of Effort, and often took that to mean stubborn; the man was bullheaded and relentless in his decisions. Twenty years ago the decision was made by Marc to redirect the Verteblanc river to be closer to Highharrow, a decision that proved immediately to be an overwhelmingly costly affair. Rather than switch to the Boisjaune river, which would have saved years of effort and hundreds of thousands of impera, Marc continued onward until the Verteblanc river ran within a mile of Highharrow’s walls.
That Emeric and Louis were childhood friends of his did not ease matters. Where one stated an opinion, the others were only a step behind.
And Gregoire…
“Is this how the devout are rewarded?” Lukas asked, snarling. He gripped the wood of the railing that surrounded him, and it groaned in protest. “Fifty years! For fifty years I served the Gods loyally. I have given sweat and blood in their names! I have taken lives, and saved them. I have tithed more than my fair share time and again, and have aided the construction of numerous churches in honor of the Gods.
“And twice! Twice have I gone on the Pilgrimage of Od to proselytize, first in the east, and then again in the south.” Lukas looked at the faces of the clergy and saw shame. “I can name more than a dozen clergymen here who have not gone even once, despite its requisite nature.”
Gregoire was not enthused. “Do you proclaim to be the most devout believer here? Is that your aim?”
“No, and you damn well know it isn’t.”
“Do not take that tone with me, boy,” Gregoire snarled. “You speak of service? Each of us councilors was a priest before the seed that gave you life took root. Loyal for fifty years? Worthless! None on this council have served for less. Nor do we expect our service to be rewarded. It is our place, as it is yours, to serve the Gods. Loyally. The same holds true for every man, woman, and child that has graced this good earth. That you have the gall to think that your service should be rewarded, let alone that you stand before us now and proclaim it aloud! It is disgraceful.”
“Disgraceful is the right word, I think,” Marc said. “Has Lukas shown us anything but? Even now he refuses to submit to us. To the Gods. You can hear it in his words.”
“I have always submitted to the Gods! Now and forever more!” Lukas yelled. The sound echoed in the room until all was silent.
In the pause of the moment time stood still, until, at the far end of the councilors bench, there was a movement. Moreau had, with unorthodox grace, placed himself beside the last councilor and whispered something in his ear.
Then something happened, and Lukas was left grasping for clarity. It was a simple thing, subtle, barely worth recognition if not for the man who had made the movement.
Councilor Arnaud, Cardinal of Conclusion, held up a single finger.
“Prove your submission,” he said.
Gregoire’s mouth parted, then shut in reluctant acceptance. The Cardinal of Conclusion is the Cardinal of Conclusion, Lukas thought. A common saying among the clergy. Equal as Arnaud’s status was meant to be as councilor, the fact remained that he held the position of Cardinal of Conclusion, which historically possessed an inordinate share of power. A share of power greatly enhanced during Arnaud’s tenure. That the man rarely spoke only added to the mysticism that surrounded him.
“A fine idea,” Sandrine said. “You attest to being a loyal follower and have achieved many meritorious deeds. Though you stand guilty, it would be remiss of us to kill such an accomplished servant of the Gods.”
“If that is what he is,” Gregoire retorted.
“Let us vote, then, and put this matter to rest.” Lionel said, though from a look it was clear the matter was settled. “All in favor of testing this guilty party, please raise your hands so that all may see.”
Five hands shot up. A single changed vote. And despite the placid frown Gregoire wore, there was the unmistakable glint of joy in his smiling eyes as he held his hand high.
“It is settled, then,” Renaud said.
Lukas bowed. “How may I prove my submission to the Gods?”
“On that,” Moreau interjected, “I have a proposal. If I may?”
“Yes, yes, on with it,” Gregoire replied. Moreau bowed.
“Have you spent time in the north, Lukas?” Moreau asked.
“The White Wastes? No, I have not. As I understand it our borders are being breached by the northern savages.”
“Refugees, we hear,” Moreau said.
“I’m to deal with this invasion of refugees, am I?”
Moreau nodded. “That is my suggestion. There is growing unrest among the serfs along the border. Too many mouths for such a chilly climate, not to mention the host of pagan religions these refugees are smuggling into our territories.”
“Any violence?” Lukas asked.
“From them? None, so far. As for your part, conversion is the preferred task.” A shame. Though he was not green in the arts of proselytization, a show of force was the quicker method.
“It will take time, then.”
“Oh, much time indeed,” Moreau replied. “Months, at least. More likely years.”
“It seems to me,” Lukas said after a short consideration, “that this duty, in effect if not in intent, will have me exiled.”
Moreau’s lips curled upward in a devious grin. “Better than death, I imagine.”
“Better than death,” Lukas agreed.
“Then it is settled, if the council agrees.”
Renaud turned to the other councilors, head swaying from the effort, looking for any sign of opposition. Seeing none, and with great effort, he stood. “Then this matter is settled.”