Chapter 9 The Stánrocc #2
“Right,” said Dinadan, “you all know why we’re here.
The Head of the Fyren Order was caught at the Haelan Order’s waystone.
She attempted to escape and gravely injured a Warden in the process.
On her person were poisons, explosives, and weapons of various descriptions.
The Heads of every Order have received a full inventory as well as a report of the events of the night of her capture.
She insists that she merely intended to drink at the Publish or Perish—”
“Hah,” said Xanthe.
“Which does not, of course, explain her immediate violence against a Warden when the wards caught her. These wards were painless, set to trap, and not to dismember. Tristane is being held at Tintagel Castle, awaiting the Stánrocc’s judgement. We’ve gathered to decide what should be done.”
“The Peace Accords are clear on the consequences for those who contravene them,” said the Head Ingenaut, Birtwhistle, consulting a hefty tome.
“We needn’t extend this process unduly. Tristane showed up armed at the door of another Order with obvious ill-intent.
She seriously injured a Warden, who only escaped death because she was surrounded by Haelan.
No act of aggression against another Order is permitted under the Accords, unless in self-defence. The penalty is death.”
“Are there any objections among my colleagues to my asking the Fyren representative to speak?” asked Dinadan.
No objections were raised.
Sacramore stepped forward. “Thank you. With respect to the items found on Tristane’s person, I wish to advise my colleagues that none of those objects are unusual for a Fyren to travel with; they are the tools of our trade.”
“Have you any idea why she went to Swanstone?” asked Xanthe.
“None. The Fyren Order was not involved—and, indeed, has no information on what, exactly, Tristane hoped to achieve at Swanstone, if it was anything other than a drink at the pub.”
“If we entertain the notion that she was merely passing through, have you any explanation for why she retaliated so fiercely upon capture?” asked Birtwhistle.
“I think any of us would react similarly, if trapped,” said Sacramore lightly.
Cynical looks were exchanged between the Bright Path leaders.
“Attempted murder is a normal reaction?” asked Dinadan.
Sacramore gave her a winning smile. It did not work on Dinadan: one of her Wardens had almost died.
Sacramore’s smile turned to a grimace. He turned to the other leaders.
“We would ask for Tristane’s return to our ranks, so that our Order can deal with her—and the damage incurred to our Order’s reputation—as we see fit. ”
Xanthe, Dinadan, Birtwhistle the Ingenaut, and Shearwater the Leyfarer variously scoffed and shook their heads.
The ancient woman representing the Agannor, Omerra, moved for the first time. She raised a wrinkled hand from within the confines of her violet cloak.
“I don’t think any of us, no matter our Path, can be convinced that Tristane would go to the Haelan fortress without a greater purpose.” She spoke in a voice hardly above a whisper. “And because it was Tristane, the purpose must necessarily have been lethal.”
Sacramore gave her a look of wounded betrayal. The Agannor were fellow walkers of the Dusken Path and usually sided with the Fyren.
“However,” continued Omerra, “as her visit did not result in the death of a member of an Order, I move that we consider an alternate punishment.”
“What do you propose?” asked Dinadan.
“A tācn excision.”
All present shuddered, including Osric. An excision was an excruciatingly painful process involving the removal of the tācn—and usually the loss of one or two fingers, if not the whole hand. It would strip Tristane of her seith and leave her as good as dead.
“An excision could form a part of the remedies contemplated by the Fyren Order, should Tristane be released to us,” said Sacramore.
The Heads gathered together in a muttering knot to discuss the proposal. Sacramore stood off to one side; the Hedgewitch, who had not yet spoken, stood on the other.
Dinadan broke away to deliver the verdict. “We have weighed the excision option. However, given the aggression, the injury, the intent, and the sheer unapologetic gall of assailing another Order’s headquarters, the consensus is clear. Execution.”
Sacramore wilted visibly. Lirain hissed. Leofric shouted, “Bollocks.”
Dinadan turned to Sacramore. “In the interest of maintaining stability between our Orders, the Heads have generously decided to take your word that Tristane was the sole Fyren involved. Neither the Haelan nor the Wardens will seek additional reparations against your Order.”
“May I ask by what means this execution will take place?” asked Sacramore.
“I offered to do the honours,” said Xanthe, “but given that it was a Warden’s blood that was spilled, Dinadan has asked to deliver the finishing blow.”
“And when will it take place?” asked Sacramore.
The Hedgewitch, who had heretofore not said a word, raised a hand. Their amber eyes were almost luminous in the dark.
“You have a proposal, Vel?” asked Dinadan.
“Do it at Lammas,” said the Hedgewitch in a voice that was neither a woman’s nor a man’s but a mellifluous combination of both.
“The harvest festival?”
“Yes. Tristane can reap what she sowed,” said the Hedgewitch. In the shadows of their hood, they were smiling.
“No objections from me,” said Xanthe.
“We will reconvene here for Tristane’s execution,” said Dinadan.
“In the meantime, she will remain at Tintagel. All present are encouraged to review the Peace Accords and standards of behaviour among our Orders. I am sure we all agree that it would be best to avoid gathering under these circumstances again.”
Sacramore joined the Fyren group, looking grim.
“Tristane is done for,” whispered Lirain.
“She shouldn’t have gone to Swanstone,” said Sacramore.
“We’ve got a bit of time,” said Leofric. “We might work something out.”
“Work something out? She’s in Tintagel Castle,” said Osric.
“We can’t lose Tristane,” said Beaufort, passing his hands over his face.
“Let’s talk elsewhere,” said Sacramore.
The Orders dispersed and milled towards the waystone at the centre of the Stánrocc. A rainbow of tācn gleamed in the dark as their owners pressed them to the stone: blue, white, crimson, purple, green, bronze, and gold.
Through the shuffle of hoods and cloaks and helms, Osric didn’t spot Fairhrim until he was two feet away from her. They caught each other’s gaze.
She had won. He had lost.
The scene would later come back to him like a painting; the silhouettes around her massing at the edges like a frame, heavily moulded, and she, pin straight, the subject of the portrait, cold and pitiless.
In that summer night, she was the sting of frost, the silence of winter, remote, untouchable.
Silver at her shoulders, iron in her countenance, and in her eyes, only disdain.
She was a mere arm’s length away, but the commonplace bit of grass between them was an impossible gulf.
Osric had never so acutely felt their difference as when they stood there, surrounded by their respective Orders, in purest white and unrelieved black, on opposite sides of the Stánrocc.
Could anything mend the breach? He felt so far from her.
There was beauty in it. The mournful beauty of things that could never be.