Lightblessed
Chapter 14

“Sandar strove against the sun for four days. Unprotected, lost in the vastness of the desert, he struggled along on his way to Praxoenn. On the third day, the burns on his chest, face, and arms itched and blistered. When he scratched, puss leaked out, and he tore in desperation for relief. In the end, so much light only gave him scars.” - Blessings, Canto 234

***

Ditan and Trynneia only had to deal with Fant’s acerbic attitude until midmorning, when the magistrate arrived. He strode in, flanked by Evar Gress and three other conscripts. To address the day’s occasion, the magistrate wore the ceremonial uniform of his station. A dark amber robe opened to reveal a light tan tunic and pants, lightly embroidered with silver thread upon the cuffs and lapels. He carried a symbolic set of scales with both hands. Upon his head sat a conical cloth hat with a sash about it bearing similar embroidery.

Evar Gress approached Ditan first. “Ditan Coinlock, the magistrate is prepared to render his verdict upon you. As the accused, you are allowed to choose either a public or private proclamation.”

“What kind of choice is that? By the Light, I want it public. Maybe my parents will see and come to their senses about me. Or not, and be suitably ruined. At this point I don’t care,” Ditan said, resigned to his fate.

Evar nodded. “The accused, Ditan Coinlock, elects for public judgement under the Light,” he said ceremoniously to the magistrate.

“I accept the accused’s wishes,” affirmed the magistrate, unsurprised.

The conscript sidestepped to Trynneia’s cell. “Trynneia Lightblessed, the magistrate is prepared to render his verdict upon you. As the accused, you are allowed to choose either a public or private proclamation.”

Trynneia remained silent, weighing the two options given to her since the same had been proposed to her friend. This was highly unusual, as she’d never heard of a prisoner being given this choice. The value behind going public lay in the gratification of the masses, and suited the magistrate just fine. A private proclamation might rob them of the spectacle, but there was no assurance the punishment wouldn’t be dealt in public anyway.

This whole sham was unjust, and Trynneia knew it in her core. It felt as if she were being tried for the crimes of her mother and in retribution for Driver, against fabricated motives to suit an agenda merely for the placation of an aggrieved populace. She and Ditan were scapegoats.

“Tha magistrate requires ya to answer, Trynneia,” Evar prompted, the formal speech abandoned in favor of his more rustic dialect. “He doesn’t got all day.”

Trynneia leveled her eyes at the magistrate, their yellow glow mirroring the amber rise of the second sun, just then fully above the horizon. “Magistrate, I do not accept any proclamation you may levy on me, in public or private. I submit myself only to the Light’s Judgement.”

The magistrate returned a scowl, upturning an eyebrow. “I accept the accused’s wishes,” he said skeptically, before turning and leaving the deputy station. The four conscripts split up, two per prisoner, releasing them from their cells and binding their hands. Deputy Fant watched the proceedings, and took point to lead them out.

Much of the populace had turned out in witness, even drawing in farmers from outlying lands to bring the crowd size near one hundred. Not a large turnout, but in the wake of the disaster that had visited their village. It was indeed all that could reasonably observe the event, and all there had a vested interest in the outcome.

The magistrate was in the middle of the town’s center, where a short platform had been erected to elevate this abomination of justice. All present would have a clear view. Trynneia easily picked out Ditan’s parents, dressed in their dark gray suits. Master Coinlock checked the time on an expensive timepiece he wore, while Ohla focused her glare solely on Trynneia. Old Chet nodded somberly from the front of his inn.

Deputy Sule stood next to the magistrate with bags under his eyes, not yet relieved of his duties though his night already had been long. “Bring forth prisoner Coinlock, that he may receive the public proclamation of the magistrate!” he yelled for all to hear. He slammed down a polished, crooked staff that the village used for official ceremonies.

Trynneia watched her friend take the pair of steps onto the platform, flanked by his two conscripted tenders. Ditan’s head hung in shame, and he did not look for his parents. Her own heart beat rapidly and she didn’t know if she was feeling fear for him, or terror for herself.

The magistrate looked out over the crowd, a subdued look on his face. For all that their fates hung on his decree, his gaze was one of pity and compassion. Resignation even. It was clear to all that he did not relish the duty upon him. Perhaps that was what he meant to convey. Trynneia couldn’t be sure.

“Ditan Coinlock, you have been found guilty by eyewitness accounts as well as personal admission of being a thief. More egregiously you have been found guilty of being a pagan shaman, unsanctioned by the Light. What have you to say for yourself?” The magistrate’s voice rang loud, carrying throughout the crowd. A murmur of talk sprung up among those to whom this was news. Ditan did not expect to have an opportunity to speak, and it showed in the uncertainty on his face as he searched the crowd. Alighting on her, she mouthed back at him “Reason.”

He brought up his wrists, holding them palms up and bound before him, and addressed the crowd. “Many of you know me. I’ve lived here all my life. I have stolen a few paltry things, yes. Not enough to beggar anyone, nor in a frequency to call much attention. For that I apologize.”

Raising his head up, his shame turned to defiance as he looked at the magistrate. “I do not regret or denounce my powers. I have trained them in secret for years, to no one’s detriment. In a time of need, to protect the Chapel of the Light,” he emphasized, “I used them to douse a fire. If that does not deserve Light’s sanction, I submit myself only to the Light’s judgement.” He dropped to his knees before the magistrate, arms still held before him.

“Very well,” proclaimed the magistrate, turning to the people. He seemed shook, and uncertain of himself. “My friends, you’ve heard his words for yourself. In what manner shall he atone for his crimes?”

Cries rose up, among them “take his hands!” “make his parents pay!” and “exile!” The magistrate nodded, hearing many suggestions he’d already considered in private voiced by the citizenry. Ditan looked scared, his defiance draining in an instant to hear those he’d thought friends make such declarations. Trynneia could only weep. The friends locked eyes, and listened as the magistrate raised his hands to silence the crowd. Deputy Sule pounded the staff once more to punctuate the gesture.

“Of these suggestions all, I hear you. I shall be just, but merciful. The Coinlocks are hereby ordered to surrender two hundred silver coins to the dispensary. A portion of this money is to be paid out to those directly wronged by prisoner Coinlock’s thievery. The rest shall go to a fund to assist in rebuilding this village.” Scattered cheers arose. “They are also hereby stripped of their banking charter, and have one month to conclude their business venture and depart this village.” More cheers, for the goblins were not well loved. Ditan wept. His parents left the crowd without a word.

“To the next order of business. Thievery itself is a personal act, committed out of greed and cowardice. In a small community such as this, it is detrimental to the sanctity of a hard-earned lifestyle. As such,” he motioned to Deputy Fant, who brought forth a small table and placed it near Ditan. “I order the loss of one hand, to teach you the lesson that you do not have a right to all things you can touch.” Ditan looked around, but his two conscript guards grabbed his arms and held him fast. “You may choose which to lose, prisoner.”

The crowd roared in anger, and Trynneia couldn’t tell if it was an agreement with the punishment, disdain for it as a whole, or overall too merciful. She watched Ditan close his eyes, then reach out with his left hand. He declared the same, but his words were lost in the crowd. He did not struggle as they brought his arm down, hand over the edge of the table. He stared at her as Deputy Fant brought up his sword and sliced through Ditan’s wrist with one stroke.

Her friend screamed, and her runes flared to deep metallic gold. Ditan’s guards released him, and he clutched his ruined arm. Trynneia watched him talking and he held his wrist out while his right hand gesticulated. Flames appeared in the wound, sealing it shut as he gritted his teeth. Cries of horror grew from those close enough to see it, while he stood cradling his arm to his chest in front of the magistrate.

“Anything else for me, magistrate?” he taunted through clenched teeth. Blood mingled with the dirt and tears staining his shirt, and his green face flushed brown in shame and pain.

Deputy Sule called out “Order, order!” while tamping the staff. The crowd shifted to a different part of the clearing, away from the prisoners. Many were uneasy being close to the young woman who glowed in anger, and a young man who could burn himself after paying such a price.

“Yes, I have one final proclamation,” the magistrate said as the crowd fell silent. “You have invoked the Light’s Judgement. You are ordered to seek the Illuminari at Praxoenn, in the Falsyn Desert. Beg for Sanction under the Light. You are stripped of all protection from the Light.” The magistrate nodded at Fant, who began slicing Ditan’s clothes from his body, taking extra care to knick him as much as possible. “You are banished from this village for life, effective immediately.” Deputy Fant spat on him, then led him naked and bleeding from the platform.

The magistrate spared no further attention to Ditan, instead turning to face Trynneia. Deputy Sule swallowed, and had a sorrowful look in his eye as he wrested control of the crowd by saying, “Bring forth prisoner Lightblessed, that she may receive words from the magistrate.”