Eldred, with the art of a showman, held his place and the quiet to the breaking point, waiting until Margrit, at least, fidgeted internally, though she didn’t let it seep through physically. Then, sonorous and deep, he announced, “The trial is ended—”
“What?” Despite her best intentions, Margrit’s voice shot up. “I only went to change clothes! I haven’t stood the third—”
“Margrit.” Alban spoke from behind her, soft and calming. Margrit knotted her hands in the towel and set her teeth together, forbidding any more words from escaping. Eldred glowered at her until satisfied she wouldn’t interrupt again, then started over.
“The trial is ended. We demand tests of strength, of wisdom and of compassion. Of these tests two are decided at the heart of the tribunal, and we name those two as strength, gone to Biali’s champion, and wisdom, gone to Alban’s. But for the third, the trial of compassion, we must look beyond our trials and determine the larger actions of our combatants.
“Margrit Knight has, at great risk to herself, taken Alban Korund’s place in this trial. Why have you done this?”
“Because it’s wrong not to fight for what’s right,” Margrit replied, then winced at the rhymed phrasing. Eldred, though, nodded acceptance, so she pressed her lips shut against trying for more eloquence.
“Biali’s champion should not have won the battle of strength. Why did she?”
Margrit shot a guilty look toward Grace, whose expression remained neutral beneath the bruises. “Because I threw the fight, Your Honor. Eliseo Daisani gave me a sip of his blood a while ago, and I heal faster than any human should. Grace couldn’t hurt me enough to win, but she wasn’t going to betray Biali’s honor by not trying. I wasn’t going to let her kill herself on the moral high ground.”
Eldred nodded a second time. “And why are you part of these proceedings at all?”
“What, beyond Alban throwing himself on his sword? Because he needed help a few months ago, I guess. Because he asked me to help clear him of the suspicion of murder.” Her answers had none of the polish of a prepared ending argument, and the lawyer in her cringed at how raw and inexperienced she sounded. But once more, Eldred nodded.
“And are you willing to have these answers, these memories, recorded for our histories, so that we might all feel and see their truth?”
Margrit blinked. “Sure. What do I have to do?”
“You’ve joined our memories. The process of us entering yours is somewhat different.” Eldred broke off, glancing at Alban. “Unless the exchanges have gone both ways?”
“No.” Alban shook his head, as though the deep, rumbled word was insufficient. “She’s been an inactive participant in our joinings.”
Scarlet leapt up Margrit’s neck to burn her cheeks, tears of laughter and embarrassment and half-real offense carried on the heat. She knew what Alban meant, but couldn’t help taking it wrong. Beneath blood rushing in her ears she heard Janx chuckle. “What a dreadful thing to say to a lady, Stoneheart.”
The weight of two dozen Old Races’ gazes landed on her. Margrit’s blush grew hotter and she clapped her hands over her cheeks, wishing she had the skin tones to hide such furious color. Unable to command a full voice, she croaked, “You’re not helping!” to the dragonlord, who laughed aloud.
“Do forgive me, my dear. I only thought to chide our friend for his careless words. Pray continue,” he added brightly to the silent onlookers, and after shooting Margrit a pained look of apology, Alban did.
“It’s been much as any sharing of memory with one who is not a gargoyle, save that Margrit seems to be susceptible to my unguarded thoughts. That, I think, is unprecedented among the Old Races.” He hesitated, waiting for correction, but Eldred urged him to continue. “Her memories have been closed to me, as would be any of theirs,” and with the word he gestured, including the other Old Races with a circle of his hand, “if I wasn’t invited to explore them.”
“Then the ritual of request will suffice to allow us access to her memories?” Eldred’s rich voice held a mix of fascination and dismay.
Alban shrugged. “It’s entirely possible her memories will be cut off from us entirely. We haven’t tried.”
Margrit said, “Um,” and her voice cracked on the syllable. Another blush rose as the gathered Old Races turned to her again. “There was that one dream…”
Alban blinked at her slowly, and then to her delight, color flushed his pale face, the first time she’d ever seen him blush. “I assume that contact was initiated by my thoughts of you,” he said quite formally.
Suddenly cheerful with camaraderie, Margrit flashed him a bright smile that helped beat down the heat in her face, then turned to the gargoyle council with open hands. “So let’s try your request ritual. What do I do?”
“You may wish to sit comfortably.” Eldred gestured to the chess-table chair, and Margrit, relieved she’d dried off and changed clothes, set her towel aside and sat.
“Who’ll be in my head?”
Eldred’s hesitation was barely perceptible. “I will. But in such cases it’s traditional for the entire tribunal to follow, so we can all experience the events as clearly as possible.”
Goose bumps shot over Margrit’s arms as she looked from stranger to stranger, finally bringing her eyes to Alban’s. He inclined his head, small movement of reassurance. She dragged a deep breath and nodded, looking back at Eldred. “What about—” She tilted her head at the gathered selkies and djinn. “Will everyone be watching, or just the gargoyles?”
“Only the gargoyles. Sharing thoughts with the others requires repeating the welcoming ritual with each of them. I see no need to risk a greater link, particularly when we’ve never shared with a human before.”
“Did you have to say risk?” Margrit made a face, then brushed concern away: she’d ridden Alban’s memories with no ill effects. “How do I guide you?”
“By focusing on the events in question. We will not sift your memories, searching for things you don’t wish to share, but you should know that this is not a…” Humor curled the corner of the elder gargoyle’s mouth. “Not a surgical procedure. I can’t promise you your privacy.”
Janx, just within Margrit’s peripheral vision, shifted enough to be seen, making himself a deliberate reminder of things that should remain hidden. As though she could forget. Margrit quelled the urge to scowl at him and only nodded to Eldred. “I understand. You said there’s a ritual?”
Eldred sat across from her, moving chess pieces out of the way so he could place his elbows on the table and put his hands palms up, like an offering. “Your hands over mine, please, but not touching. And, perhaps, the name you go by.”
Margrit put her hands above the gargoyle’s, laughing softly at their comparative dark daintiness. With her fingertips above the heels of his hands, his fingers extended well past her wrists, talons making a thick and dangerous-looking cage. “My full name is Margrit Elizabeth Knight. My friends call me Grit.”
Another smile curved Eldred’s mouth. “Very well. Margrit Elizabeth, called Grit, the gargoyles ask to share memory with you, so that it might be recorded in the history of our peoples for all time.” His voice deepened, becoming more sonorous as he spoke. Prickles waved over Margrit’s nape, then soothed again as she relaxed into his words. “I am Eldred of Casmir. If you grant us this sharing, I will be your conduit into our memories, my eyes to yours, my hands to yours, my heart to yours, your eyes to us, your hands to us, your heart to us. Do you consent?”
Margrit, too aware of another ceremony, answered with the same words, heard herself say, “I do.”