There are individuals who relish a spectacle, and who dote on seeing those on high brought low. Though I am not sorry to have witnessed this trial, I am not one of them, and I took no relish in the proceedings. Lyonette de la Courcel de Trevalion was foremost among the accused, and the first brought for questioning. I had glimpsed her only once, from Cecilie’s balcony, but I had heard tales all my life of the Lionesse of Azzalle. She swept into the Hall of Audience attired in a splendor of blue-and-silver brocade, the colors of House Courcel, reminding anyone rash enough to forget it that she was sister to the King; and bearing, prominently, the shackles of her confinement. At the time, I was surprised to see that Ganelon de la Courcel had demanded his sister enchained. Later I learned that this dramatic touch came at Lyonette’s insistence; but it mattered naught.
Never let it be said that the Lioness of Azzalle lacked for pride. Of her part in the scheme, she denied nothing. The evidence was brought forth; her chin rose, as she stared defiantly at her brother. He was a full twenty years her elder-she was born late and they are long-lived, the scions of Elua-and it was plain that neither bore each other a great deal of filial affection.
"How do you plead to these charges?" he asked her, when the matter had been laid before Parliament. His voice strove for sternness, but nothing could hide its tremble, nor the palsy that shook his right hand, though he held it down at his side.
Lyonette laughed, tossing her greying head. "You dare ask me, brother dear? Let me charge you, and see how you plead! You cripple the realm with your lack of resolve, clinging to the ghost of your dead son in a murderess' get, without even the decency to make her an alliance through marriage." Her eyes flashed, dark-blue, the same color as the King’s. "And you dare question my loyalty? I admit it, I have done as I saw fit, to secure the throne for the D’Angeline people!"
The crowd murmured; somewhere, there were those who would voice approval, if only they dared. But the faces of the King and the lords and ladies of Parliament remained stern. I chanced a look at Delaunay. He stared at Lyonette de Trevalion and his eyes burned, though I could not say why.
"Then you plead guilty," Ganelon de la Courcel said softly. "What part did your husband play in it, and your son and daughter?"
"They knew nothing," Lyonette said contemptuously. "Nothing! It was my doing, and mine alone."
"We shall see." The King looked to his left and his right, his expression sad and weary. "How will you sentence her, my lords and ladies?"
It came in a whisper, the answer, accompanied by the ancient Tiberian gesture. One by one, they lifted their hands, thumbs extended, and turned them downward. "Death," came the answer.
Ysandre de la Courcel was the last to give her vote. Cool and pale, she gazed at her great-aunt, who had named her a murderess' get before the peers of the realm. With slow deliberation, she lifted her fist, rotated it downward. "Death."
"So be it." The King’s voice was as thin as the wind rattling the autumn leaves. "You have three days to name the manner of your choosing, Lyonette." He nodded once, and the Palace Guard came to escort her from the Hall of Audience, accompanied by a priest of Elua.
She offered no struggle, and went with her head held high; and her husband, Marc de Trevalion, was called onto the floor.
The Duc de Trevalion looked much like his kinsman Gaspar: older, a trifle taller and more slender, but with the same raven’s-wing hair streaked with grey. Lines of age and sorrow were engraved on his face. He made a gesture, before the accusation was read, holding the King’s gaze and lifting his empty, shackled hands.
"In the writings of the Yeshuites, the sin of Azza is named as pride," he said quietly. "But we are D’Angeline, and the sin of angels is the glory of our race. The sin of Blessed Elua was that he loved too well earthly things. I have sinned against you as they do, brother, in pride and love."
Ganelon de la Courcel’s voice shook. "Do you say you aided my sister and conspired against the throne, brother?"
"I say I loved her too well." Marc de Trevalion’s gaze never wavered. "As I love my son, who shares your blood. I knew. I did not countermand her orders to the admiral of my fleet, nor the Captain of my Guard. I knew."
Again the vote; again the thumbs turned downward, and it came at last to Ysandre de la Courcel. I watched her, and her face showed no more emotion than a cameo on a brooch as she turned it to her grandfather. Her voice was like cool water. "Let him be banished," she said.
I grew up in Cereus House; I knew well how to reckon steel beneath a fragile bloom. That was the first time I saw it in Ysandre de la Courcel. It was not the last.
"What say you?" asked the King of his Parliament. None spoke, but with judicious nods, their hands opened, turned palm outward. The King spoke again, his voice stronger. "Marc de Trevalion, for your crimes against the throne, you are banished from Terre d’Ange and your lands are forfeit. You have three days to clear the border, and if you return, there shall be a bounty of ten thousand ducats on your head. Do you accept these terms?"
The once-Duc de Trevalion looked, not at the King, but at his granddaughter, the Dauphine. "You jest," he said, his voice trembling.
She made no reply. The King drew his chin into his beard. "I make no jest!" His voice echoed in the rafters. "Do you accept these terms?"
"Yes, my king," Marc de Trevalion, murmured, bowing. The Palace Guard closed round him. "My lord…my daughter knew nothing! She is innocent in this matter."
"We shall see," the King repeated, weary again. He waved his hand without looking. "Begone from my sight."
A whispered consultation took place at the table. They had planned to call Baudoin next, I knew; Delaunay had had it from a friend who drew up the lists. But they changed their minds, and called instead Bernadette de Trevalion, his sister.
I would have known her for Baudoin’s sister, for they looked much alike, but her manner was as shrinking as his was wild. It was not easy having the Lionesse of Azzalle for a mother, I thought, if one was not the favored cub. Within several minutes of questioning, it was obvious that she had known as much as her father, and done as little. I watched closely this time, saw the old King look to his granddaughter, saw her faint nod. The vote fell out the same: banishment. Father and daughter would survive, albeit cut off forever from the land that nurtured us, whose glory ran in our veins like blood. I thought of Thelesis de Mornay’s poem, and wept. Unseen in the crowd, Alcuin put his arm about me and steadied me.
Baudoin de Trevalion was summoned.
Like his mother, he made the most of his chains, letting them clank as he strode into the Hall. He was beautiful, and magnificent in duress. A sigh echoed through the room.
"Prince Baudoin de Trevalion," the King said aloud. "You stand accused of high treason. How do you plead to these charges?"
Baudoin tossed his hair. "I am innocent!"
Ganelon de la Courcel nodded to someone I could not see. From the wings, Isidore, Duc d’Aiglemort, approached the floor.
His face was like a mask as he inclined his head to Baudoin, then bowed to the King and gave his testimony before the High Court. Only his eyes glittered, dark and impenetrable. It was the same story Gaspar had told: a soldier’s drunken boast, a loyal Duc’s investigation. Baudoin flushed, and stared at him with hatred. I remembered that they had been friends. Isidore d’Aiglemort withdrew, and Melisande Shahrizai was summoned.