You sent the mother who bore you to her death; would you kill your own father as well? And you call me evil?
Dorrin ignored that, took step after slow step, as if wading through thick mud. His power pressed on her; she could see no effect of hers on him; he stood there smiling.
Remember those nights in the cell? Remember how you begged for your puny suffering to end? What a coward you were … and are still. Now you are old, barren, weak. An empty husk, useless for anything but torment. I will take your body but keep you as a mind-slave, helpless but aware, and use your power as my own.
Memory flooded her mind: the pain, the smells, the tastes of it. Her father, worse than Carraig … nausea cramped her belly; the vile taste filled her mouth. Unshed tears burned her eyes. Again her knees sagged; her hand’s grip on her sword loosened, and the sword tip fell to the stone, ringing a warning. Her hand clenched tighter. Not again, not again … She tried to say Falk’s name, but her mouth was dry, dry as bone-dust and as bitter. Dry as a cursed well …
A well that now brimmed with clean water. From the depths of despair, from that recent memory, she reached for the source of her own power, the power Falk promised was hers, untainted. Falk’s knight, not her father’s daughter; Falk’s knight, who had freed a woman and her unborn child from a curse that bound them in unending torment, whose tears had renewed the waters.
“Falk,” she managed. At once that sweet, cold water filled her mouth, washing away the taste of evils she had endured, washing away fear and hatred. As she swallowed, the water seemed to renew her whole body; her strength surged back, as water had done in the well. She saw her father’s expression change even as she felt her power mastering him. Could he feel her new determination? Now she held him motionless, and knew he could not flee. Should she bind him for others to capture, or would it be better to kill him herself? She raised her sword, saw his concentration change to fear, and then to glee again … the look she had seen on the child’s face who had been about to force a transfer.
“Falk!” she cried, pleading, and for the first time in her life cast the death spell like a spear, not knowing if it would truly kill.
His face contorted for an instant, and then he fell and lay motionless. Dorrin ran to the fallen body—she felt nothing there—no taint of evil, dire mist as she’d seen after Carraig died, no hint of lingering malice. “I’m sorry,” Dorrin said, to the body that had once been an honest groom’s, as she sheathed her sword. “You were a good man once; you deserved better.”
She looked around—the courtyard was still in chaos. With a touch of magery she calmed the horses, put out the smoldering fire that had started the panic. She hoped no one would notice that part. Duke Marrakai still lay where he had fallen; now his sons crouched beside him, staring at her wide-eyed.
She walked back to them.
“You killed him!” Kirgan Marrakai said, eyes blazing. “You killed them both! He should have known you lied! You’re just like the rest! Traitor!” He drew his dagger and lunged at her. Dorrin barely evaded the thrust, and backed away.
“Kirgan Marrakai—I did not!”
“I saw—he was beside you, he fell, and you tried to make it look like it was that groom. We know him; we’ve known him for years!”
“It was not that—” Dorrin stepped back again as the young man still advanced, dagger now in his left hand, right hand reaching for his sword.
“I saw it too,” said one of the counts. “Seize her—”
Glancing around, Dorrin saw only hostile faces, weapons drawn. Nobles and palace guards alike, they formed a ring around her, all clearly frightened but determined. Was this the gods’ punishment for killing her parents, even though they were evil? Well, if so, at least she had saved her king. She folded her arms and stood still, waiting for the blow that would kill her.
“Hold!” That shout from the palace stopped Kirgan Marrakai’s arm in midswing. “Stand away—let me see her.”
The Marshal-General of Gird, with Duke Mahieran and the king, came down the palace steps and across the courtyard. Slowly, reluctantly, the nobles sheathed their weapons and bent a knee to the king. Dorrin, arms still folded, made her bow as well.
Into the moment of silence, Aris Marrakai spoke, a boy’s voice shaky with fear and surprise. “He’s—he’s breathing.”
“What?” Kirgan Marrakai turned.
“Wait,” the Marshal-General said. Everyone stared at her as she went to Duke Marrakai, knelt beside him, and looked him over. “How did he fall?” she asked. A dozen voices answered, tumbling over one another.
“She did it—he fell backward—he just fell—I didn’t see but I heard—”
“He’s alive,” the Marshal-General said, “but he hit his head on the paving stones.”
“She made him fall,” Kirgan Marrakai insisted, pointing at Dorrin. “He was beside her and there was a flicker of light and then he fell. She used magery—”
The Marshal-General turned to Dorrin. “Well? What say you?”
“I did use magery, Marshal-General. Duke Marrakai pointed out the man we were sure had poisoned the horses a tenday or so ago … not the real groom, but a Verrakai who had taken over his body during his illness. I thought he would attack me first, but he attacked Duke Marrakai, and my attempt to shield him from that attack was not enough. To my shame.”
“Is this what you were telling me about on the way, Duke Mahieran?”
“Yes, Marshal-General. I went to warn the king before he came out here, and she and Marrakai went to find Pedraig—the groom.”
“You are convinced she was telling the truth?” Before Mahieran could answer, she turned again to Dorrin. “How did you kill him? And do you know which Verrakai he was?”
“I killed him by magery, Marshal-General, because he was too far away to reach with the sword when he attempted another transfer, to another innocent man.”
“Which Verrakai was he?”
“My father.”
The Marshal-General chewed on her lip for a moment. “To kill with magery condemns you to death, under the Code of Gird—you know that.”
“Yes, Marshal-General.”
“Did you think of that at the time?”
“No. I thought how horrible it was that another man might die—and hated what I did, but—I did it.”
“The Code of Gird offers no alternatives to death for your act,” the Marshal-General said. “Do you feel that is just?”
Dorrin just stopped herself from shrugging, which would add rudeness to her crime. “Marshal-General, laws are written as they are for a reason. I swore fealty to the king, which included swearing to obey the Code of Gird as administered in Tsaia. I have no complaints.”
“I do,” the king said. He looked from Dorrin to the Marshal-General. “I believe she saved my life—and other lives—by acting as she did. This man nearly killed my brother and Aris Marrakai; we asked Duke Verrakai to help us find the one who did so, and she has done that. By all reports, she has carried out the commands we first gave her, when we asked her to take on the Verrakai domain. I am not moved to waste a valuable peer for a quibble of law.”
“You must, my liege,” Dorrin said. “For if a king does not obey the law, how can his subjects?”
“I do not want to see you die, Dorrin Verrakai.”
“And I am not particularly eager to die,” Dorrin said. “But the law is the law, and we are both sworn to it.”
“As administered in Tsaia,” Duke Mahieran put in, quoting the oath. “And in Tsaia there are other things to be considered, mitigating factors, and also the King’s Mercy. That Dorrin Duke Verrakai killed with magery is not—since she freely admits it—in question. But the King and Council may, if they choose, consider her motives, what alternatives she might have had available, and then at the king’s discretion, he may choose an alternative punishment.”