To L.A. With Love

Beautys Justice – By Alexa Santi

BEAUTY'S JUSTICE

BY ALEXA SANTI

The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and Firchara saw the god for the first time.

Ulfjadir.

Overwhelmed at having reached her destination at last, she concentrated on the small details. The sound of her feet on the flagstones. The obsidian walls veined with gold. The murmurs of those who watched her walk towards the god as though drawn by a lodestone.

It all faded away as she faced the god she had traveled weeks to confront.

His features were harsh, as though carved from the granite of the mountains she had journeyed through to reach this place.

His dark hair was trimmed short and his face clean-shaven, in stark contrast to the bearded petitioners who surrounded him.

They milled about at the foot of his throne, vying for his attention.

He’s lonely.

Where the thought came from, Firchara did not know, but she knew it to be the truth. Truth was her magical gift—sometimes welcome, sometimes a burden. But always with her.

As she moved closer, the god turned his head and met her eyes through the crowd. A bolt of awareness surged through her like lightning, and she stiffened her spine against it. She was here for a purpose, and she would carry that purpose out.

An armsman spotted her and thumped his spear against the floor. “A petitioner approaches, my lord.”

“Let her come,” the god said. His voice rumbled through the hall like boulders tumbling from a mountain peak, and the crowd fell silent, turning to watch Firchara as she approached the god Ulfjadir on his throne.

His gaze never left her as she curtsied and then raised her own gaze to his.

Close up, she could see his eyes were dark brown, with the golden sheen of immortality glinting through.

“You have traveled far, little mortal. What do you seek?”

Firchara’s chin went up as she met his eyes. “I am Firchara of Mochain. I seek justice for my mother.”

“Your mother is an outlander. What right does she have to seek justice with me?”

Firchara succeeded in not allowing her jaw to drop. Of all the ways she had pictured this moment on the long journey to his palace, a flat refusal to even hear her out had never been one of them.

Thinking quickly, she said, “My father was born here, and his father before him. I have the right to seek justice on her behalf.”

The god gazed at her for another long moment, seeming puzzled by her insistence. Firchara kept her face impassive, unwilling to show her fear and too weary to show any other emotion.

“No,” he said.

Firchara blinked. “What?”

“No. She must seek justice of her own gods. I cannot help her.”

Anger began to boil up beneath Firchara’s disbelief. The same frustrated anger she had used to fuel their long journey now looked for a new way out. “This is not fair.”

“I am not the god of such a small thing as fairness.”

The armsman thumped his spear, and the god turned away, dismissing her.

She had failed.

The shock of it froze her knees until the armsman frowned at her and gestured for her to leave. She glanced back to the god, hoping to find the words for another appeal, but he was already looking past her to the next petitioner.

“Move along, now,” the armsman said impatiently. “The god has spoken.”

Firchara stiffened her spine, wheeled around, and began stalking back to the door. Her hands clenched and unclenched as she walked, trying to dissipate the force of her anger. Dismissed without even being allowed to speak!

She pressed her hands to her temples, hard, feeling as though her head could explode with her rage.

Her mother would go unheard after Lord Ohrean’s accusations.

With no money left, they could never reach Mother’s homeland to seek justice there.

Their exile and long journey had been for nothing. Nothing.

All because of an unfair, unjust, un godlike rule.

The next petitioner brushed past her. A tingle of Firchara’s magic followed in their wake, gentle but insistent.

Firchara’s steps slowed, then stopped. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then another, allowing the magic to surge through her and reveal the truth.

This was her chance to change his mind.

The petitioner was a woman dressed in worn clothing that had been carefully mended, her manner humble, but with a thread of deception that Firchara’s magic compelled her to follow.

From his throne, the god frowned at Firchara’s return, but turned his attention to the new petitioner when Firchara halted at the edge of the crowd.

The petitioner smiled, her voice soft, and the god leaned forward.

“My lord Ulfjadir,” she said. “I am but a poor widow seeking what is just. My husband’s children have taken the house he promised to me, and refuse to give it back.”

“She lies,” Firchara said.

A murmur rose through the crowd as the petitioner turned red and spun to confront Firchara. “How dare you? I have traveled far to make my plea, as far as anyone in this room. How dare you say I lie?”

“Did you?” the god said, and his voice echoed through the suddenly silent hall.

“I… I…” With one last glare at Firchara, the woman pushed her way through the crowd and was gone.

The god leaned forward on his throne, spearing Firchara with his gaze. She met it steadily, bolstered by her magic.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“I have the gift of truth.”

Firchara lifted her chin as the god scanned her face, seeming to look for any sign that she herself lied. She could sense his sudden, intense interest, though his expression did not change in the slightest.

At last, he crooked a finger. “Come here.”

With a swallow, she obeyed, setting first one foot on the steps that led to his throne, then another, moving as if pulled by a string until she stood in front of him. She could not look away from the dark pools of his eyes, where the glitter of immortality surged and ebbed like the sea.

Without breaking their gaze, the god snapped his fingers, and an armsman rushed to bring a stool.

The god pointed to it. “Sit.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Firchara obeyed, settling her skirts around her. The god wheeled on his throne to look down to where she sat.

“It is rare for one of your gifts to come to this land. Why are you here?”

“To seek justice for my mother.”

He studied her for a long moment, and she willed him to believe her.

At last, he said, “I will make you a bargain, little mortal. You sit here, with me, and tell me when the petitioners lie. If you do well, I will hear your mother’s plea.”

Firchara swallowed hard to push down a surge of hope that made her dizzy, sending her soaring back up from the depths of her anger and despair. “When? When will you hear it?”

“When it pleases me. Do we have a bargain?”

It was a new chance. Her only chance, if she wanted to save her mother. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

“Yes,” Firchara said. “We have a bargain.”

Firchara knew time must be passing, but she had no sense of it in the windowless Great Hall.

She had never used her gift for such a sustained amount of time, and it was far more exhilarating than she had realized it would be.

She seemed to float just outside her body, riding the ebb and flow of her magic as petitioners approached and faded away from her fuzzy vision.

She blinked hard, determined to continue on for as long as the god required.

The doors to the hall swung shut with a clang that made her jump, the armsmen murmuring amongst themselves as they made certain they were fully closed.

Awareness of her body returned with a jolt as she realized her back was aching and her thighs cramped from sitting on the low stool for so many hours.

It would be a wonder if she could stand without stumbling.

She looked up to see the god looking down at her from his throne, his face as impassive as ever.

At last, he said in a considering voice, “You did well.”

“Thank you.”

“We begin again tomorrow.” He stood up from his throne, preparing to descend, and she followed suit, trying not to stumble as she rose to her feet with a wince.

“And my mother?”

“What of her?”

“She awaits me a few leagues away. She is elderly, and cannot be expected to camp in the open until you are prepared to hear her plea. We have already had a long journey from the mortal realm.”

Ulfjadir gazed down at her for so long, she expected him to dismiss her immediately. She steeled her spine and met his gaze without flinching.

“You may not leave,” he said. “Send two of my men to fetch her.”

Firchara nodded. The relief that flooded her made her knees wobble as she curtsied to him.

“Find a bedchamber for yourself and your mother. You will need to be well-rested for tomorrow.”

He swept from the room through a small door, followed by his armsmen, leaving Firchara alone in the echoes of the Great Hall.

The summer sunlight had begun to dim before Firchara was able to pick out the outline of two men carrying a litter up the hill towards the god’s palace. She raced down to meet them, her heart in her mouth.

“Mother!”

With Firchara’s help, her mother sat up from her reclining position. A smile flashed across her face before she resumed her customary impassive expression. She might be “Nurse” at the Mochain keep, but she was “Mother” to Firchara.

She leaned down and pressed a smacking kiss on her mother’s cheek. The men resumed their walk up the hill and Firchara kept pace beside the litter, holding her mother’s hand to keep her steady.

“Has he decided? Will he hear my plea?”

“Not yet,” Firchara admitted. “He wishes me to help him first.”

“Help him? What does he need help with?”

“He needs my gift of truth to determine who is lying and who is not.”

To Firchara’s surprise, her mother nodded gravely, rather than scolding her for discussing her dangerous secret. “I knew your gift would be consequential.”