The Sentencing

 He was woken early by Captain Pashurnipal announcing his presence. Hastily he covered himself in a robe and stepped into the atrium to which his bedroom and those reserved for his guests were connected. A knot of guardsmen almost totally obscured Asphodel's manacled form, looking more apprehensive about the situation than their captive. Neteth demanded to know where they were taking her.

“To the dungeon. Ubashekar requested it and your father agreed.”

“Leave at once. She is under my protection.”

“I'll not defy his majesty,” the captain said in a cautiously neutral tone.

Neteth summoned his full measure of regal bearing. “I shall see to it myself. You are dismissed.”

The captain hesitated. He had held the post many years and understood this was due as much to loyalty as to skill. He was accustomed to following orders swiftly and efficiently, only improvising to the degree he knew his sovereign would tolerate. What Neteth said bent those rules to the point of breaking. His eyes narrowed.

“If that is your wish.”

“It is.”

At their leader's signal the guards dispersed. He handed over the key to Asphodel's restraints and with one final uncertain look recused himself.

“Follow me,” the prince said as he started walking and when he felt they had gone far enough he unlatched the manacles about her wrists. Her expression was unknowable to him, like the purposeful but meaningless lines of a foreign inscription. “Do you know any spells that would get you out of here?”

“If I had that kind of magic don't you think I would have used it by now?”

“I see. It would be better if we could avoid this.”

She didn't know enough of the palace's layout to notice until they arrived that his destination was not the cells to which she'd been consigned but rather the main hall. They entered through a side door normally used by servants, brushed past a row of vibrantly colored tapestries hanging from the gallery above, and stood before the throne where Pazugesar conferred with the sukallu. The king stopped mid-sentence, fixing his son with a reproachful gaze.

“Who is this with you?”

“I told you yesterday, she is Asphodel of Zannu.”

“That isn't how that bandit tells it. He says she is a witch of Nar.”

“He must be mistaken. I-”

“Who are your people?” asked the king.

“You already know the truth,” Asphodel answered.

“I do, as would any man with sense. It was a poor lie.”

“The lie is my own,” said Neteth, and a grim silence fell over them.

“What did you hope to gain by protecting her?” Something cold and dangerous had entered the king's voice, an intimation of the terrible violence that had secured the throne and kept it all these years.

“I am only repaying a debt.”

“Do you think she helped you out of the kindness of her heart?”

“All I know of her is her actions, which have been blameless.”

“Yet you know who she is. Do you approve?”

The prince looked down. “No, father.”

“They sacrifice humans to their heathen god and yet you think she has enough respect for life to save yours. You are right that her motive is obscure to us, but that is a poor excuse for trust. I thought you knew better.”

“Even so,” said Neteth, “I gave my word she would have a fair chance at clemency. Please consider she has done us no harm. Surely she can be returned to her home.”

“You know the story of the viper and the eagle,” the king said and his son nodded. “The viper wanted to cross a river whose waters were too swift for it to swim. She asked an eagle to carry her, but the eagle refused, saying that she would bite him and he would die. Yet the viper insisted that if she did so they would both die and thus persuaded the eagle. You know what happened next.”

“The viper obeyed her nature.”

“As do all beings.” The king nodded fractionally to the sukallu, who had thus far remained silent. The old man approached, took the empty manacles from Neteth and, gently but with an air of finality, clasped them about the witch.

“You've done what you can for her. You should go, young sire, and not trouble yourself with what is beyond your control,” the sukallu said softly.

Neteth departed without further protest, but a sullen lump in his heart that could not be crushed nor ignored, a spiritual tumor that he knew would grow to consume him if he allowed this injustice to pass though he had no idea how to stop it. His thoughts were a jumbled, desperate farrago of outrage and despair so powerful that he was surprised when he found himself back in the atrium, as if the decision to return had carried him there immediately. And having returned, he was able to do the one thing that might help.

“Are you in there?” he asked at Tex's door.

“Yeah, come in.”

He wasn't able to go very far due to the clay figures that littered the floor. Tex sat cross-legged, methodically brushing white paint onto one.

“What are you doing?”

“Just a hobby. Had one of your guys bring these over for me. Your paints are pretty good, but some of them are hard to mix. Hard to get a good base coat.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Make them fight. Haven't got a map yet, though. Once I do, I'll show you how it all works.”

“Never mind that, they've taken Asphodel to the dungeon.”

“Do you care?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Didn't think you'd mind having her out of the way like that,” Tex said with affected disinterest. He finished applying a white and red zigzag pattern to the figure's chest and stopped to appreciate his work.

“Well, I do. This is a matter of honor.”

“So what are you going to do about it? You can't order them to set her free, can you?”

“I... No, I cannot,” said the prince, who wrestled with some internal quandary before continuing. “I will free her, no matter what it takes. And if she will not have justice here, I will escort her to her home country.”

“You didn't seem too keen on her before.”

“How I feel has nothing to do with it. It's merely something I have to do.”

Tex shrugged. “All right. I'm in.”

“And this time you can spare me whatever platitudes you have about rivers and the crossing thereof.”