and no doubt he drew closer to taking vows at Stone.
And why did that bother her? Stone offered many an honorable profession, she had decided. Necessary in the structure of Fae life and society. But Raaf knew nothing of other options, and that ignorance of choices bothered Dari.
“Today brings justice for Lord Altar’s niece,” she said, hoping that would appease the boy’s curiosity.
Raaf looked at Lord Altar again. “Seems to me the likes of him, he’d have other reasons to be here. Now, I mean. Instead of out on the battlefield.”
Dari gave Raaf a longer, more discerning look, even checking once more to be certain he had no significant amount of legacy. “Very few lords actually fight with their armies,” she countered, relieved and disappointed to find nothing special in the color of Raaf’s essence.
Raaf seemed oblivious to the close brush of her mind-talents. “Lord Brailing fights with his army. Aron says it’s madness and meanness that drives him.”
Dari coughed and glanced around to be certain no townspeople were close enough to hear the boy’s disrespect. “Lord Cobb and Lord Ross often fight alongside their Dynast Guard,” she said, lowering her voice in an attempt to lead Raaf to do the same.
“Courage, Aron says, drives those two.” Raaf spoke just as loudly, still staring openly at the steel-and-copper-colored viewing box where Lord Altar waited. “So what does that make him up there? A coward, a cautious man—or up to something?”
Aron shouldn’t have spoken so freely in front of this boy—in front of anyone outside the Den. “Perhaps today, Raaf, Lord Altar is only an uncle who wants to see his niece’s rapist put to death.”
Raaf looked as though he was getting ready to debate with her, but Triune’s bells began to ring. Three long, dolorous notes. A pause. Three more sad notes, another pause, then three more after that.
The Call to Judgment.
No other bell sequence sounded so formal, or so final to Dari’s ear.
The ringing of the bells crushed the crowd’s talk. Bits of words and phrases just spoken lingered in Dari’s mind, echoes of the liveliness that had seconds ago surrounded her—now every bit of it had been converted to unnatural silence. Almost as one, onlookers found seats, and all eyes turned toward the gate where the Judged would enter.
On his bench, Aron sat straight and still, also staring at the door.
When it swung open, Lord Baldric stepped into the fiery blue-white sunlight, carrying a long parchment. He let the wooden gate slam firmly closed behind him, the sound like the crash of a mallet against a tree trunk.
He’s walking on the blood of hundreds, even thousands, of men and women. Dari sucked down a thick breath of early-summer air, and waited for him to reach the center point in the oval. How many Stone Brothers or Sisters have died across the centuries, right where his boots now tread? How many criminals have perished on the same spots?
Odd, that connection between Stone and its many Judged. They bled the same. They died the same. Did anyone at Triune ever pause to give that reality some serious consideration?
Aron’s firm, placid expression gave her the answer.
Of course not.
As far as Stone was concerned, this was inevitable, and decreed by both courts and fate, and absolutely right.
The doorway to the ready rooms opened as well, and Stone Brothers and one Stone Sister Dari recognized as the tall, willowy, blonde called Marilia Deadeye filed out to stand behind the apprentice bench. Each wore their traditional gray robes and scabbards crisscrossed over their backs. Sword hilts rose like horns from behind their shoulders, and Dari knew each guild member also carried at least one dagger. They, like their potential prey, were allowed to bring up to four weapons of their choice into combat.
“There’s Stormbreaker in the front,” Raaf said, disrupting Dari’s firm attempt not to look directly at the Stone Brother’s face.
When she did, she immediately wished she hadn’t.
His squared stance and folded arms made him seem otherworldly, and his emotionless expression made him that much more enigmatic and handsome.
Dari tried to breathe, but found her chest too tight. Her fingers worked into a tangle with one another, jumping in her lap like some child’s captured frogs.
Raaf put his hand atop hers and patted her once. “He’ll come out the winner,” the boy murmured so quietly his words seemed like nothing but a bit of breeze. “He always does.”
Dari glared at the boy, then immediately felt ashamed of herself when his cheeks colored and