Chapter 23
The Citadel’s great hall reminded me of the hall where Ellan’s party had been. It was a cavernous space with a tall, arched ceiling, only there was no party to be held here.
Quite the opposite, actually.
Harthon was holding a justice hearing, and judging by the number of axes, swords, and knives held by the guards in attendance, it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.
Ana had warned me yesterday of the event, which was a quarterly occurrence in the Territory.
While most crimes and disputes were handled by the Lords, the justice hearings gave people the opportunity to appeal to Harthon himself.
They also gave Harthon the opportunity to very publicly punish a few unlucky criminals who’d been selected for his judgment, rather than that of their local Lords.
It was a necessary evil for maintaining order and emphasizing authority, Ana had said.
I shifted on my cushioned seat, trying to relieve the soreness in my lower back.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever not feel sore again.
It’d been a week of horseback riding lessons now, and it no longer pained me as it had the first few days.
As a result, I’d increased the intensity of my trainings with Callen and Stefano, and both had knocked me onto my ass yesterday more times than I could count. Hence today’s pain.
Tomorrow, I’d probably be hurting somewhere else.
But my skills were improving, so the discomfort was worth it.
A guard approached us from the wing, his steps echoing on the stone floors. He bowed and notified us it was time to begin.
I glanced at Harthon, who sat to my right on a velvet-lined throne that extended high above his head, donning his regal black ensemble and that golden crown.
The top half of his hair was pulled back in a series of braids that only highlighted the striking lines of his face.
Since our meeting with Aric, I hadn’t seen him much.
Occasionally, he would attend my horse riding lessons, usually watching with a small smile on his face and speaking to Jac for a few minutes before leaving.
According to Ana, when he wasn’t enforcing the crop plague mandates, he was working with his soldiers, strengthening them to prepare for an offense or defense against Koerlyn.
Ana sat on the other side of him, and Callen stood just beside her. North wasn’t with us.
The Lords from Harthon’s cabinet were in attendance, seated in two rows of chairs that lined a wall to our right.
All of them had greeted us with bows, though some—like Jonathan—refused to meet my eyes, apparently still weary.
Select townspeople were allowed to stand along the remaining walls, the audience necessary for publicity.
“Send in the first,” Harthon bellowed, his voice easily reaching the corners of the quiet hall.
The two tall wooden doors at the end of the hall swung open with an ominous creak, and a haggard-looking man with chains linking his hands to his feet was escorted in by two guards.
With every step, the chains scratched the floor in a caustic scrape that bit at my ears.
A sliver of trepidation crawled down my spine.
He was a prisoner, a criminal. We would be starting violently, then.
They stopped before us, and I caught the scent of urine and sweat.
“Bow,” a guard told the man.
The prisoner only scowled, making no attempts to appeal to us with respect.
The guard kicked him in the knee and he fell, his knees landing on the stone with a sickening crack. His head swung down on impact.
It was a bow. Of sorts.
“What are you accused of?” Harthon asked bluntly.
The man didn’t respond. Harthon looked to the same guard who’d kicked him.
“Assaulting several villagers and stealing from their homes,” he reported.
Harthon addressed the man again. “Do you have a defense for yourself?”
At this, he picked up his head. “It’s survival of the fittest. Not my fault they can’t fight for shit,” he snarled before spitting on the ground.
Clearly, the man didn’t have a single ounce of sense in him.
Anxiety sank in. I wasn’t worried for the man. Whatever Harthon deemed an appropriate sentence, the criminal clearly deserved it. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to witness it. But I was the “magvis” who stood beside Harthon, and so I had to witness it.
“The next thirty years in our prison, or the loss of both hands. Decide now, or I will decide for you,” Harthon stated, not an ounce of emotion in his voice.
Please choose the prison.
The man simply laughed. “Just fucking kill me. It’s easier for us all.”
Not a soul breathed in the room.
“It’ll be the hands, then. Do it now,” Harthon ordered in that same apathetic tone.
The prisoner’s facade immediately slipped as two masked soldiers stalked over, one carrying a dark wooden box, the other an ax. “I’ll take the prison,” the man rushed out.
Harthon’s lips curled into a casually cruel smile. “Too late.”
His eyes widened, and he tried to launch to his feet, only for the two guards beside him to wrestle him back to the ground. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I’ll take the prison! You gave me a choice!”
The box was set down before him, and I realized that it wasn’t made of a dark wood at all. It was dark because it was stained with blood, a few pockets of natural wood showing through around its base, and it was marked with the divots of a blade.
One of the guards wrenched the prisoner’s right hand onto the box, his struggle futile. “No! No! The prison!” the man gasped.
His words did nothing to slow the momentum of what was about to happen.
Would a magvis watch, or would she close her eyes?
If I watched, I would probably faint, and that was definitely something the magvis wouldn’t do.
The masked guard raised the ax, lined it up with the man’s wrist, and swung. I shifted my eyes to my feet. Heard the impact. Saw the spray of blood.
There was silence for a moment, and then came the same kind of soul-churning screams I’d heard day after day with Koerlyn. Nausea hit, and I fought it down, even as the noises continued. This man deserved this. I couldn’t lose it.
There was another thud. Another spray of blood.
And the screams got louder before they abruptly stopped after the crack of a fist on bone.
“Remove him and the hands and send in the next,” Harthon calmly directed, and I looked at him. The cold smile was gone, but he appeared completely unphased, his body relaxed.
When he wasn’t fighting any enemies, it was easy to forget that he was…ruthless. There was a reason he had such a fearsome reputation, and it wasn’t due to exaggeration.
The man deserved it, I reminded myself, glancing at the blood covering the ground before setting my eyes on those opening doors.
Hopefully, the next man wouldn’t.
The next person to enter, though, wasn’t a man at all.
It was a middle-aged woman wearing a stained burlap dress and a white kerchief in her hair, her blue eyes so wide with fear that I could see them from where I sat.
She cradled a sleeping baby in one hand, while her other held the hand of a toddler.
The little boy, not older than three, struggled to keep up with her pace, his oversized tunic dragging on the floor and tripping his feet every few steps.
Her hurried steps hitched as she took in the pool of blood, but she continued forward, her hand white with strain around the child’s hand. She stopped just short of the blood and bowed.
Considering the lack of chains and guards, it was safe to assume she wasn’t a criminal, but rather someone hoping to appeal a dispute.
Thank the Domus.
“Bow,” she whispered to the toddler. Clueless, he stuck his free hand in his mouth and looked around.
“Bow. Just like we practiced,” she said with a little more force, and the boy finally caught on and slung his head down.
“State your matter,” Harthon ordered. He addressed her with the same tone as he had the criminal, as if there was no difference between the two.
The boy kept his head down, like he intended to bow forever, while the woman slowly lifted her chin. Her face was tired and drawn, and her chin trembled with nerves before she forcibly set it, steeling herself.
Still, her voice shook. “Princeps, I am seeking your pardon for a fine that I cannot afford,” she forced out, meeting his eyes for only a moment before staring at his feet.
“And what is the fine for?”
Her throat rolled over a nervous swallow. “I didn’t pay last year’s taxes. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t.”
“So you have yet to pay both last year’s taxes and your current fine.”
Her skin paled a shade at his hard statement, but she nodded shakily.
“Do you know why we require taxes?” Harthon articulated carefully.
“For protection and the state of the Territory, Princeps.”
“Do you think these things are important?”
Her lip wobbled just as her baby shifted, those little hands curling into her burlap neckline. “Yes, of course, Princeps.” Her voice had grown quiet.
“Then only a very, very good circumstance could be considered an acceptable reason to neglect your civil responsibilities. State your reason.”
For her sake, I prayed to the skies that it was a sound one.