Chapter 4
Casrian woke up with a pounding headache.
He hadn’t slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw tears running down the face of the dark-haired girl he’d locked up in a cell before he’d gone to bed.
He thought he might have a fever. The cut he’d taken from the witch in Widrin was crusted over and warm to the touch.
Unfortunately, the only healer to be found within a hundred miles of this godforsaken town was currently on trial.
As he was the one presiding over the case, he didn’t think it would be in his best interests to become her patient.
Mistress Yahl would likely poison him. Based on how the trial was proceeding thus far, Casrian wasn’t certain he’d blame her.
The accused sat straight-backed on a hard wooden bench near the center of the town square. Usually, trials were held in small rooms and attended only by the principal parties. The mayor, saying that there were no rooms big enough to hold all of the witnesses, had moved the trial outside.
Mistress Yahl had said it would happen like this. Casrian remembered her bitter laugh when he’d told her the trial would be a quiet, sober affair. She’d known from the beginning that things would get out of hand. By the time he realized the same, he’d been unable to prevent it.
The weather was fine. They’d not yet reached harvest time. As far as Casrian could tell, everyone within a day’s travel of Jarn had shown up to watch the spectacle.
In recent years, the Church had made an effort to minimize crowds to prevent mobs from bypassing the king’s justice and taking matters into their own hands. His men were doing a fine job of keeping the crowd under control. But he wouldn’t go so far as to call what was happening here today justice.
The people of Jarn hated Lasandra Yahl.
As far as he could see, there was no good reason for it.
He suspected that jealousy was at the root of Mistress Harlec’s testimony.
Spurned lust—that, sickeningly, from the mayor.
A good deal of pure insular territoriality.
She was an outsider and had no kin here.
No real allies, though some patients had stepped forward to speak for her.
Half of her accusers were former patients—healed patients—who testified as to the uncanny nature of her skill.
To his mind, a person shouldn’t be punished for competence, but the people of Jarn clearly viewed her with suspicion.
The mayor was the worst. He was the one who’d sent the letter to the king requesting the assistance of a witch hunter. The man’s expression was smug as he looked upon the healer. She met his gaze bravely and lifted her chin.
This was a travesty.
He stood. “Enough.”
The woman in the middle of giving her testimony looked up at him. “Sir?”
“We will reconvene at noon.” He needed to find a way out of this. There had to be some way to get things back on track. He didn’t know where he’d gone wrong. He’d followed every rule.
Nodding shortly at the mayor and priest seated beside him, Casrian turned and left the raised stage. A stage. The town used it for plays and midsummer celebrations. People in the crowd were selling roasted nuts.
He strode over to Daris and jerked his chin. “Walk with me.”
There were townspeople on his heels, calling for his attention—the mayor’s pretty daughter and her friends, one of the town elders, the priest’s brother.
He ignored them all, angling away from the town square and heading toward the stables.
He’d like nothing more than to get on his horse and ride out, but that wasn’t really an option.
Daris fell in beside him, holding his tongue until they were out of earshot of the townspeople. In a low voice, he said, “The mayor wants to see her punished.”
Casrian looked at him sharply. “You see it too?”
Daris nodded. “He looks more smug about how the trial is proceeding with every passing hour. And he sits in judgment over that poor woman.”
“I sit in judgment over her. He casts the town vote.”
Daris grimaced. “And the priest votes for the Church. Want to bet which way he’ll fall?”
Casrian shook his head. He walked past the stables, past the fenced area behind them, and turned so he could see anyone who might dare to approach. “The priest will vote however the mayor wishes him to vote.”
“You could stop the trial,” Daris said.
“The woman has fae blood. The law requires it.”
Daris leaned back against a fence post and made a noncommittal noise.
Casrian shot him a glare. “What? Speak your mind.”
Daris gave a slight shrug. “The law doesn’t take into account people conspiring to rig the trial.”
“Is it rigged? The mayor may hate her and still believe her to be a witch. Even the woman who spoke on her behalf said her recovery was nothing short of miraculous.”
“Maybe it was a miracle,” Daris said. “Who’s to say otherwise? Miracles do happen, you know.”
Casrian rubbed a hand over his face. “She admitted to making potions.”
“A minor offense. Most of the time, no one would even report it. Half the soldiers in the city have bought potions off street vendors.”
“The mark isn’t meant to punish the irredeemable. It’s meant to save the soul of a person who’s only just turned from God, not those already lost to darkness.”
Daris said nothing to that, nor did he quite meet Casrian’s gaze. Right. It was his decision to make.
And what did he have? A woman of fae blood, powerful enough to trigger the witchstone. A town full of witnesses willing to testify against her. And against that? His unproven instinct.
He couldn’t dismiss the possibility that he was being manipulated. That’s why the rules were in place.
He sighed and stared down at the ground.
The soil here was black and fertile. Duke Aran bragged that in this part of his province one only had to cast seed into the wind to have it produce a full crop.
His greatest trouble was that there weren’t enough people willing to live in the shadow of the mountains to farm it.
Casrian couldn’t blame them. He wanted to leave, too.
The back of his neck tingled and he looked up.
Daris had turned his head to peer into the woods behind him, a frown darkening his brow.
There was no visible threat, but his heart began to beat faster.
There was a strange scent in the air, faint and sour.
A chill touched his skin. Then, a light wind stirred the branches, sunlight glittered through the gaps in the foliage, and the feeling passed.
Was there magic here?
Daris shook his head and turned to look at him. “So what do you want to do? We could bring her back to the capital for further examination. Throw it into the Church’s lap and let them sort it out.”
“A waste of time and we wouldn’t be doing her any favors. The Church thinks it’s better to err on the side of caution. They might execute her just to be sure. All of the evidence is here. Besides, there’s the daughter to think of.”
They could take the witch. The daughter they’d have to leave here, and he’d no sooner do that than abandon her in wolf-infested woods.
Coming to a decision, Casrian jerked his head toward the town. “Come on. We should get back.”
Daris fell into step beside him. “What will you do?”
“My Godsworn duty,” Casrian said. “Even if I don’t like it.”
When the captain returned to the dais, Rowan pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
Her mother sat quietly before the men who would judge her.
Father Anson had never left his seat. He didn’t seem to need refreshment or relief…
or air. He never smiled or laughed or seemed to take any pleasure in life.
The mayor, on the other hand, looked very pleased with the way things were going.
He nodded gravely at the captain before taking his seat, but his sober act didn’t fool her.
Rowan recognized the bright gleam in his eyes.
He was enjoying himself immensely. And why not?
This was exactly the sort of thing he loved—having the eyes of the town on him, arranging the world as he saw fit.
The witch hunter didn’t look nearly as pleased.
The captain’s back was straight, his expression stern.
The glare he sent the mayor was harsh enough to strip wood.
Maybe…just maybe, he wasn’t the stupid rule-bound soldier he seemed to be.
And if he saw through the mayor’s games, he would have to stop this.
She clasped her shaking hands together as the captain rapped the butt of the trial rod on the wooden table and waited for the crowd to quiet.
“I will hear Mistress Yahl’s testimony.”
The crowd fell silent for a moment, and then people started to speak all at once, making a sound like a flock of sparrows taking to the air.
They sensed it too—that the captain might be about to change course.
Witches weren’t generally permitted to speak during trial.
The risk of them casting a spell upon the town was considered too great.
The captain hammered at the table again, but it took him climbing to his feet and approaching the accused to silence the crowd. He nodded to the soldier standing guard behind her mother. The guard removed the gag from her mother’s mouth.
Rowan hissed in anger at the red marks on her mother’s face. The baker’s wife looked down at her and sniffed. Rowan stared at her mother.
She was so brave. She’d sat so calm and proud through the whole trial, ignoring the taunts from the crowd.
The captain had allowed Rowan to bring her a change of clothes and a brush.
She hadn’t been allowed pins for her hair, but she’d managed to tie her long braid back with a leather cord.
Even exhausted and worried, her mother was still the most beautiful woman in the whole town.
She tilted her face toward the captain. “What would you like me to say? I have told you that I am not a witch. I can say it a dozen more times if you like.”