Arren dragged himself over to the bed; it was soft, and warm. Its comforts helped chase away his wariness, but did nothing to sooth his troubled mind. If Rathore was an indication, the elves seemed to hate him, all because of someone else’s crimes. At least the elves treated their captives well; aside from the initial pain the bracelets didn’t hurt and the “cell” was spacious and clean.
It was hard to believe that a day that had started so well had seen him stabbed by a bunny then jailed by elves, not to mention the grandma that killed monsters and used their blood to knit scarves who subsequently informed him that he was probably stranded in a different universe than the one he was born in. The forest scene still sent shivers down his spine, the scarf around his neck was warm and felt great on his skin, but it still unnerved him. The grizzly scene in the woods now seemed like an omen, he was probably going to die in this village. Had The Old Woman known that this would happen? That the elves would greet him only to throw him in a cell?
For a long time, he just laid on the bed, his mind lost in the anguish of the upcoming trial, if they even gave him one. It might be possible that the elves would realize their mistake, but somehow, he doubted it. If elves were anything like humans, they would gladly let their rage blind them. Rage and revenge had always been one of humanities greatest passions; he doubted the elves would be different. Sure, there might be magic to assess truth in this world, but likely they weren’t interested in truth, not when rage was so satisfying. Even with all these thoughts churning inside his head, Arren soon found himself falling asleep, exhausted after his eventful day.
He awoke with a headache, hoping for a moment, that the events of the last day was nothing more than a nightmare. His eyes opened to a flat wooden roof, and for a moment he thought he was back in his apartment, but looking around he instantly recognized the smooth wooden walls. They seemed to be the hallmark of elven construction as far as he could tell. What little he had seen of the village all seemed to be constructed, or grown, in the same manner. Tiny windows of golden amber were interspaced along the roof, filling the bungalow with a soft golden light. If it hadn’t been for the fact that it was his prison, he suspected he might have found the effect beautiful.
He hadn’t noticed much of it the day before; exhaustion and confusion having distracted him from the scenery. It was plain; there was his bed, a small desk with a chair and a wooden stand with a water basin. Someone had obviously been in the room while he slept because he could see a spare set of clothes on the desk, as well as a bar of soap and a towel that hadn’t been there before.
As he got up from the bed and ambled over to the basin he idly wondered whether washing was for his or their benefit, no one wants to stand next to a reeking man after all. In the end, it really didn’t matter, Arren relished the opportunity to wash, eager to discard the bloodstained robe and free himself of the dirt. Sadly, whoever that had brought the clothes and water had neglected to bring any food, and his prize trophy, the rabbit was gone. Logically, he knew that the slightly mangled rabbit was not what most would consider a great prize, but damn it, it was his prize. It couldn’t be helped though, the rabbit was gone, probably thrown away. Seeing nothing to do about it, Arren threw his robe in a heap on the floor before washing thoroughly and donning the new outfit.
The clothing fit well, but they were a far cry from what he was used to, being clearly rough spun and handmade. Not that he would have expect anything else; so far this didn’t seem like a modern world. If the swords and bows were any indication, the industrial revolution was a long way off.
Having already cleaned himself Arren cast about for something to do. He wasn't the type to just sit down and patiently wait for his captors to drag him of, not that he had been captured before, but sitting around doing nothing just wasn’t him. The elves however had neglected to leave him anything with which to entertain himself. Most likely, that had been on purpose. There was no better form of torture than to force a prisoner to languish in boredom with only the company of his own thoughts and past crimes. The problem was that Arren didn't have any great past crimes to accompany him, only some minor shoplifting a few years back. He did however have plenty of thoughts, mostly regarding his own wrongful imprisonment and impending doom.
Besides those, all he had where his few remaining pebbles and the knitted scarf Alice had given him. He paced around the room for a while, trying in vain to use his magic to create light globes, that way he would at least have been able to practice his spells. When that showed no results, he tried to break of the bracelets that cut him off from his magic, they didn't budge. He tried hitting them with the pebbles, biting them, even bracing them against the bed and trying to pull them of, all to no avail. All he was left with for his struggles were bruised and scratched wrists.
Finally tiring of his pacing and useless attempts at magic he sat down on the floor, leaning against the bed. The situation seemed hopeless and he had no idea the elves planned to keep him in their little prison. He thumbed on of the pebbles thoughtfully, thinking of how he could escape, but nothing came to him. There was however, a whisper, so faint he could hardly hear it, but so familiar and calming it almost hurt. The stone! The stone was still singing, although it was far more subdued than before.
He sat quietly and strained himself to listen, he drew the whispers of the song into himself, letting the tranquility of the earth fill him. It was fainter than before, so much so that he felt no fear of becoming lost in the music like he had the day before. He was mostly aware of the world around him, but his attention was on the music inside him. For hours he sat transfixed, he flowed with and studied the music. With every breath and every note, the song became clearer, the words still mysterious, but revealing a profound insight to him; The song was not singing only of its history, or its cycle, it was much deeper than that. The song he was listening to was both complex and simple, it was about being, not living as such, but existing in an endless and strange way. He envied the earth for its tranquility and eternal nature, as his own life might be approaching its end, but it was also comforting. If these were to be his final hours, then spending them in the presence of the eternal seemed fitting. Several times he tried to float away on the currents of the song, but it seemed the bracelets anchored his spirit, for he could not leave his body behind.
There was a mixed blessing in this, for he could finally study the song without fear of losing himself to it. With every note and cord, he understood more of it, he grasped at the secrets of the earth and found them yielding for him. Arren opened his eyes and looked around in surprise; the room had grown darker, illuminated only by the soft flickering light of lanterns outside his windows. He must have been listening to the song for longer than he thought.
Just as he was about to return to the song the door started creaking and the vines started receding. Most likely, this was what had brought him out of the trance in the first place. It seemed to take only a few seconds before the snake like vines to crawl back to the wall, and although it was a fascinating sight, it filled him with dread of what waited outside. Quiet terror started rising in him as he waited for the door to open. When it did, it was not the angry noble from before but rather a slightly taller man in a blue robe edged with silver. He looked a bit older, perhaps middle age, but he still shone with vitality. Arcane runes gleamed in the falls of the robe and Arren could feel the mana radiating from it, an enchanted object no doubt.
Strangely, there were no guards this time, only the man who stood there regarding him with a quiet, searching gaze. Given the absence of guards and the strange shimmering robe, Arren suspected that this man was quite a powerful mage. His features were sharp, even handsome, he held himself with an aura of quiet confidence that warned of hidden power. Even so, his eyes were surprisingly kind, they were filled with the wisdom of old age and lifetimes of experience. Arren was unsure what to do in this situation, but manners rarely hurt, so he gave a short formal bow and greeted him.
“Hello, I’m Arren, am I to be presented to the council?”
It was a simple, polite gesture, but it seemed to surprise the elf. For a long moment the elf said nothing, before giving a slight bow in turn
“I am Caelian Whisperwind, I have come to guide you to your trial, follow me”.
Arren followed reluctantly, but there was no point in defiance. Likely, there were guards all around him, hidden in the shadows; he wouldn’t be able to run anywhere, especially without any magic. They walked through the village in silence, here and there elves poked their head out windows and doors to get a look at him. Some looked hateful, others afraid, none seemed to look at him as anything but a criminal. What crimes could warrant a death-march without a single glance of sympathy he wondered? He had expected there to be more elves, but so far, he had seen no more than a few dozens, all of which seemed to be doing other things. Perhaps they were afraid of him, or maybe some just couldn’t be bothered to watch. After seeing all the anger and hatred in the small crowd he had been expecting people to start throwing things, or at least shout abuse, but no one ever did. Were the elves a more civilized people then, he wondered, maybe they were more rational than emotional, even in the face of the clearly violent emotions his presence evoked? Peopled had always fascinated him, but now he was simply perplexed, if these were humans he might even have been killed by now.
After a good five minutes they stopped in front of a set of oaken doors, they were carved with a simple image, one of a ring made of interlaced branches. Within the circle where a set of scales equally balanced though one held a stone and the other three feathers. The carving was beautiful, although it seemed illogical that the feathers could counterbalance the stone. The mage besides him, obviously aware of his reverie answered his unspoken question.
“In elven law, every action is seen as part of a greater whole, thus repeat offences are seen with greater severity than the first crime committed. It made him thoughtful, to what extent did they hold such a belief?
He wanted to ask, Caelian seemed to read his mind again and elaborated.
“A thief caught once only gives back what was stolen or pays reparations, a thief caught for the second is forced to work for the offended, the tenth it’s prison and work, after that they are banished”
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
Arren considered it for a bit before asking; “what about more serious crimes?”
Caelian hesitated, “A willful murderer is banished, or executed, depending on the circumstances” he paused, “an enemy of state or a mass murder can be sent into the void”
That sounded ominous, Arren thought, before asking.
“What is the void”
Caelian didn’t answer, he turned away from Arren, seeming almost ashamed. As if he wanted to flee he waved his hand and the doors opened. Either Caelian didn’t like the Void, or that was what was in store for Arren. The room was shaped like a coliseum, filled with elves, rows upon rows of elves. They sat in the circular rows leading down to the center where an open space faced a slightly raised platform filled with five stern-faced elves.
Caelian guided Arren down the steps into the amphitheaters center, but he made no indication of what Arren should do, instead he simply stood there stoically by his side waiting for the council to speak. The silence was oppressive, hundreds of elves stared at him, but not a one made a sound. Arren looked around, searching their eyes for any who looked at him with anything other than scorn. He might have missed some, but as far as he could tell the only ones that didn’t look downright hateful wore stony expressions hiding all their emotion. The sole exception was Caelian who looked at him with something akin to curiosity, though he too masked it well.
The middle judge, Rathore, the noble from the day before broke the silence;
“Lord Ashfield, you are presented before this court to account for your crimes, against Elves, Men, Dwarves and all other races that you have injured in your insane quest for dominance. There is little need to remind anyone of your crimes, as they are well remembered by our people. The passing of time may allow your crimes to pass into history for the younger races, but we remember. We know not how you escaped your death three centuries ago, but we will find out and you will answer for your crimes. Have you anything to say for yourself?”
The small speech was not very encouraging, even if it was something like what Arren had expected given the rage he had seen. Still, he had to try, he should not have to answer for crimes he had not committed, and so, he spoke:
“Honored judges, I stand before you innocent, free of guilt, my name is Arren Blackthorn, I do not know any Ashfield. I was born twenty-one years ago, how could I have committed crimes centuries before my birth? I do not know why your people see me as a monster, nor anything about the man you call Ashfield, the first time I heard the name was when I was thrown into my cell. From what I gather, I look like this man, this monster that you all hate, but there must be some way to prove that I am not him? A truth spell to attest to my words? I do not wish to die”
The last words came out mostly as a whisper, he felt weak and sick, tears threatened to fall, but he held them back, if he was to die, he would at least try to hold on to his dignity.
Once again, the room lapsed into silence, then screams and shouting erupted from all around him. The elves worked themselves into a fury, spitting abuse at him, angry because they felt he was lying. It was as he suspected, revenge and rage would seldom give way to doubt and reason. They were screaming that he should die, the council members looked at each other before Rathore rose from his seat, sneering at Arren
“You lie boldly Ashfield, but it matters not, for your crimes, we of the council sentence you to be banished into the endless void”
The crowd cheered, applause and cries of approval rang out around him, Arren felt numb, dead inside, how could he die now? Now that magic was real, and he had an entire world to explore?
“Shut your yapping”
A voice full of power and anger called out, it resounded in his mind and cut through the noise of the crowd. A voice that was familiar, it sounded like a little old grandma, but this time the love was missing, there was anger, disappointment. Alice was hobbling down the walkway towards the judges. All the way down she was supporting herself on a cane creating a loud, persistent tap, tap, tap as she slowly came closer to the center. No one dared speak after her words. There was no doubt that the elves knew who she was, everyone stared at her; some with fear, others with fascination. It took her a while, but eventually she came to a halt when she reached Arren’s side. The room was deadly silent, everyone waited to see what Alice would say or do next. What followed would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so serious.
Alice, who already looked like a cute grandmother chose that moment to reveal what Arren would always remember as her most matronly aspect. It was the guilt treatment, as he had never witnessed it. Speaking with a soft, kind voice, she made grown men and women quake in their boots and bow their heads in shame. The judges looked like they would much prefer the earth to swallow them up rather than face her stern gaze. It was a magnificent display of pure grandmotherly power.
“Now children, I have always been proud of you, loved you, I settled in these woods to watch you grow. I remember when your mothers and fathers came to me for advice; those were the good times, times that are long past. They were times when your people strived to embody justice. Have you forgotten these virtues? To judge and condemn a child, to judge his tale false without evidence, to deny him a trial of truth? What depths have you fallen to, that you would murder a child to satisfy a base desire for revenge? Your ancestors would be ashamed.”
Silence filled the room as she let her accusation hang in the air, one of the female judges broke the silence, it was obvious that she didn’t quite want to oppose Alice, but felt she had to defend her actions, and those of her people.
“Honored One, he requests a trial of truth because he knows that willfully lying will kill him, the sword would end him, he needs only tell one lie to escape the void, his death should not be so swift, nor should a divine relic be used on one such as he.” She flashed Arren a look of cold hatred “He deserves to suffer for his crimes”.
Arren really didn’t know what to say, he had known jealousy and scorn, but such cold hatred directed at him was a new experience, and an unpleasant one at that. Most of the other elves were nodding along with her, it seemed to inspire confidence because she continued.
“He should have died in the war, Caelian was there when he perished” she turned to Arren “I do not know how you fooled him, but by the divine, you will not escape again”.
Surprisingly it was not Alice that spoke this time, but Caelian;
“I was there in the last battle, when both Balor and Ashfield perished three centuries ago, back then I went into the war to avenge my family, to kill the man who slaughtered my son. This is not that man.”
Arren stood there gaping, both from the shock of Caelian speaking of centuries as if they were decades and that he, who should be the angriest, was standing up in his defense. Caelian looked around the room with a steady gaze, before resting his eyes on Arren.
“The man I helped kill all those years ago was a cruel tyrant, a murderer, but he was not an actor, nor a politician, he lacked control. There is no way to create a doppelganger that can wield mana, if Ashfield somehow found a way to survive, he would recognize me, he would want vengeance. This child did not even recognize me when I came to collect him, he may look like my old enemy, but I don’t believe he is, I trust the Old One” He bowed towards Alice
Alice nodded approvingly, the audience went mute and the judges looked horrified, especially the woman who had drawn Caelian into the confrontation, clearly this was the opposite of what she had expected to happen.
“Fetch the sword” Caelian bellowed.
A guard hurried out of the hall. Another judge spoke:
“You are making a mistake Caelian, and I will not stand for it. I vote that we cast this abominable creature into the void immediately, so he may not escape in death, only to return once more”.
The other judges slowly raised their hands, staring frightfully at Alice all the while, clearly afraid of her reaction, but once again, it was Caelian who spoke. This time his voice was cold, measured with a hint of barley-concealed anger.
“I invoke the hero’s boon”
It was like a thunderclap, everyone shouting out at once, but he cut everyone off.
“I demand that Arren be tested with the sword of truth and that the council be bound to accept divine judgment”.
Arren didn’t know the significance of the hero’s boon, but given the strong reaction it seemed it was something very special, especially if he could overturn the judges combined voices.
The judge that had originally appealed to Caelian spoke up again.
“You would waste it on this filth, why?”
Caelian didn’t even hesitate;
“Because he is innocent, and I will not see his blood spilled for the crimes of another”. The judge looked as if she wanted to beg him not to proceed, but couldn’t seem to find the words. Caelian retrieved a small dagger from the folds of his robe and held up his hands, one clutching the dagger. He spoke in a loud booming voice; “I invoke my hero’s boon; I demand that this man be tested by the sword of truth and he be given visitors rights as long as he stays with us, should he live through the trial.”
With that he slashed his palm and let the blood fall freely to the floor where it hissed and evaporated.
Local Notice; Divine Boon innvoked Caelian Whisperwind has invoked a hero’s boon. He has demanded that Arren Blackthorn be tried by the Sword of Truth and that he be given visitors rights should he survive the trial. Breaking the boon will be seen as an affront to the gods Jesira, Halon, and Hecate.
Given the combination of horror and fury in the faces of the surrounding elves, this must be quite a significant thing for the elves. Everyone was looking at the screens in front of them, the boon would be upheld by gods. By the looks on their faces, the elves weren’t pleased with this outcome, not at all. The judges sat very still in their chairs staring at Caelian with unconcealed rage. Rathore spoke up, his voice barely more than a hiss
“We are bound to obey. Bring the sword?”
A guard stepped forwards, panting slightly from his run, he was now holding a long wooden box that he opened reverently. Inside was a sword that glowed with thousands of tiny, tiny runes, all of which were on the blade itself, surprisingly the handle was completely plain, just a regular steel guard and a leather handle, the exception being a brilliant emerald star adorning the pummel. The guard approached Arren, holding the box out towards him. Arren cast a questioning glance at Caelian who immediately handed him a knife followed by an instruction. “Slash your palm and let the blood drip on the emerald star, then speak these words:
“Let the emerald star reveal the truth and by death purge illusion and lies. When you do the star will shine and the sword will rise into the air above you and if you willfully lie, the sword will end you.”
Arren felt he was an honest person at heart, even so the idea of dying over a single lie seemed excessive, massively so. Couldn’t they just have a lasso of truth or something, a truth serum maybe? mind reading, anything. It wasn’t even that he wanted to lie, but what if they asked about his earlier life? Could he reveal his true origin? How would they react if he did? Still, he reached out and slashed his palm, intoning the words as he did so. For a moment the world seemed to spin, his blood seemed to be on fire, the emerald glowed with intense green light and the sword floated into the air.
The pain seemed to lessen a bit, but then seared when Caelian asked him a question; “Are you, or have you ever been the one called Lord Ashfield?” It was a simple question, but even had been a complex one, he didn’t think he would be able to lie, the fire compelled truth. “No” he said, hoping that was enough to satisfy the council, the fire in his blood was agony. That was the only question Caelian asked, then the judges laid into him, one question wasn’t enough, not by a long shot. Arren didn’t know how long the trial lasted, he thought he answered questions for hours, often the same ones asked in many different ways. Some seemed irrelevant, like how many spells he knew, what his level of mastery was, what titles did he have, list them all. Answering didn’t require thought, the magic compelled answers anyway, sometimes he would cry, the agony was tearing him apart, when he finally lost consciousness he welcomed oblivion, almost hoping he could die, so as not to suffer.