failed to appoint a new magister. This winter my other cows caught the bloaty shakes and had to be burned. With no milk or meat, and little grain from a poor harvest, my family starved —”
“Punishment of the gods, my lord,” Kudor snorted.
“Pennar, have you proof of this debt?” Uther asked, leaning forward on the bench.
“Kudor’s left forearm has three small scars marking the debt in the usual way.”
Kudor laughed as he rolled up his sleeve. “I paid it back two years ago. As you see, my lord, the lines are cross-scarred, signifying payment.”
“A lie,” Pennar claimed. “Never did I crosscut them. If the magister were alive —”
“Silence!” Uther said.
No one spoke for a while, and Merlin asked his father what was happening.
“Uther’s examining Kudor’s arm, and by its girth I’d say that man hasn’t missed any meals.”
“Kudor,” Uther said. “I see the debt scars and the payment cross-scar, but what scar is this from under your sleeve?”
“That, my lord? A mere scratch.”
And Merlin heard him cough. Twice.
“Lift your shirt, man,” Uther said.
“My shirt?” Kudor’s voice turned shrill. “How will that decide the present case?”
“Lift your shirt.”
“No sense, no sense, I say!”
Uther’s bench creaked as he rose.
“Merlin,” Owain said, “Uther’s jumped down from the rock, and the man’s backing into the crowd. Hah! Uther grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic and is hauling him back. Wait … Uther’s limping. I’ve never seen him limp before.”
Kudor blubbered as Uther ripped the man’s shirt off.
“As suspected!” Uther said. “Not only has he been whipped for thievery, but — if I can tell from the different ages of the scars — thrice. Vortigern,” he commanded, “inspect the back of the accused.”
“It is clear, my lord. No scars.”
“I protest,” Kudor screeched.
Uther’s bench groaned as he sat down again.
“He’s conferring with his wife,” Merlin’s father said.
After a few moments, Uther rose again. “The accused is to be set free. Kudor’s cross-scar is recent, and he tried to hide his past thievery.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Pennar said.
“Colvarth! Where is my bard?”
“Tas,” Merlin whispered, “I didn’t know there was a bard here. What’s he like?”
“It’s the same man who served Uther’s father. I wouldn’t have thought him still alive. And his beard’s twice as long since last I heard his harp.”
“Colvarth,” Uther said, “write a declaration of this man’s innocence and my judgment that Kudor is to pay an honor price quadruple the theft.”
“No … I’ll have nothing left!” Kudor pleaded.
“His family will be in poverty,” Pennar said. “Please, High King, change the judgment —”
“Have him whipped? Are you a fool?” Uther asked.
“Please. Just lessen the fine … in Jesu’s name.”
Uther paused. “Because you claim this by the Christ, Pennar, the honor price will be reduced to double. Colvarth, please write that down.”
Colvarth’s quill scratched on parchment as the bard wrote out the High King’s decision. Then he spoke to the king, slowly. “Is … that all, my king?”
“No. Record as well that our merciful Pennar is to be the new magister of Garrinoc.”
Colvarth coughed. “King Gorlas might not be … pleased with the appointment. Is it not … better to ask him first?”
“Certainly not. Pennar will do nothing but please our Gorlas, and I will tell him myself when we see him.”
Pennar fell to his knees. “Oh, my great lord, I don’t deserve —”
“Nonsense. We need able men in leadership. Mercy. Action. Faithfulness. Loyalty. Wisdom. All these I seek. Rise, Pennar. Shake off your bonds and instead receive this bronze torc of office from my hand.”
“Merlin,” Owain said, “it’s my time. Before Uther goes on to something else. Come with me to the front. Here’s the sword. Hold it till I call.”
They wended around the crowd, and Merlin felt his father’s sweat drip down to their joined hands. Merlin’s stomach felt as if he’d swallowed a frog. Would Uther think his father had been faithful? Loyal? Wise?
“Sit here,” his father told him. “And pray.”
CHAPTER 22
THE MOST CHERISHED GIFT
Owain ground his teeth and offered up an awkward prayer. How could he do this? He must be stupid to think Uther would forgive him for his desertion. He had spit on their friendship the day he’d run after Gwevian. Couldn’t he have trusted God to save her and obey Uther? Had a right decision even existed?
But Owain had chosen her, and God in his grace had given them a few sweet years and a son of high character. And then she had died, leaving a rift in his heart that might never heal.
Uther had just taken