"That whore has lured my son to her bed with her promises and her witchcraft. She's made him her slave. He even sold our inn. The Gallant Gendarme has been in our family for three generations and he sold it to buy a cottage out in the woods because that- that tart 'didn't like all the crowds'. Bah! He knows full well his father left him that inn expecting it to be the succor of my old age. And now what do we have? Nothing. A one-room cottage on the edge of town, right by the offal ditch. I demand satisfaction! This is a magic-free county and I want the witch punished! One has only to look at her to see she is fey. Her hair is unnatural, for one thing." The woman who spoke was late in years, her back hunched, wrinkles making a map of her face, but there was passion in her voice and a hard gleam in her eye. Most petitioners were humble, with downcast eyes, aware of imposing on their lordship's time, but any humility the crone had ever possessed must have been used up long ago. She looked Lord Torrance dead in the eye and demanded an end to the troubles her family had seen ever since her son had brought that woman in from the cold two years ago.
Aric crossed one black leather-clad leg over the other and let his gaze sweep around the oak-paneled hall that served as courtroom. The floor was made of flagstones with a stone dais built against the far wall, upon which rested one chair made of smooth mahogany. It had wide arms and was large enough to curl up in, though it was not quite a throne. Though it was larger than the man who sat in it, he was not made small by comparison.
Acting as judge was one of the many duties that had fallen to him since the death of his father. He'd had no idea there was so much business involved in being lord. Small wonder his father had sought his escapes where he found them. The young man switched his attention back to the accuser. Most likely her son had made an ass of himself for a pretty face. It was not unique in the history of men. But she had brought her complaint and waited her turn so it must be addressed. And suppose there really was magic at work here? His features hardened. If there was, he would root it out.
The young lord had warm brown hair and eyes that were as dark a green as pine. Currently they were fixed on the woman standing in the accuser's box. She was a stoop-backed crone with gray hair and a face as wrinkled as an old apple. She trotted out one story after another and the accused had not even been brought into the courtroom yet. There were another 6 cases to hear and if he let her go on like this he'd be stuck in the courtroom til mid-afternoon. He didn't have time for it. Aric had never realized how much his father had to accomplish inside a single day, but since the old man's death all the responsibilities of Lord Torrance fell upon his shoulders along with the title. He stifled a yawn. God, sitting still like this was making him sleepy. What was the old woman on about now? Something about a neighbor who'd moved away years ago but used to let his pigs into her yard or some such thing.
"The name of the accused?" he asked, his voice ringing clearly.
"She calls herself Lora, my lord," said the old woman. "But it's probably Bellara, or Gwenyff, or some fey thing."
"Thank you, Mrs. Bersham. Your complaints have been heard and I will bring in the accused for questioning."
Lord Torrance motioned to two men standing by the far doors—double doors made of sturdy oak and carved with a whirling pattern of leaves and vines—and they left, returned shortly, accompanied by a young woman.
Her head was bowed as they brought her to stand in front of him. Her thick, long hair was white, a color unnatural in one so young. That counted against her but it was not unheard of. Perhaps she'd experienced some trauma in her life. He didn't know if she was fair of face but her hips and bosom were well-fleshed and her waist dipped neatly between them in a space a man might ache to curve his hand around. No, it was not necessarily witchcraft that had made the old woman's son a fool over her.
"Are you the woman who calls herself Lora and lives with Mrs. Bersham and her son?"
"Yes." Her voice was clear though her head stayed down.
"An accusation has been brought against you. You are accused of corrupting a man with witchcraft and bringing him to your bed without his will. You are accused of inducing him to sell all he owns and accepting jewels and gifts he could not afford to bestow. How do you answer these charges?"
"Not guilty." Sidra knew this couldn't last for long. Looking at the floor was not a solution. But somehow she couldn't bring herself to raise her head. Any minute now he would see who she was– Maybe he wouldn't recognize her. It had been nine years. She'd grown up some. What can she have meant to him anyway? Surely, he wouldn't recognize her. But she was standing not fifteen feet away from him and it felt like a vain hope. But something in her couldn't bring things to a head; she couldn't look up herself. She had to wait for him to say–
"Why do you stare at the ground? Is it because you don't want me to see the guilt in your face? Look me in the eyes and tell me again how you plead."
Sidra lifted her head and looked him square in the eye and said nothing. He was a sight to take her breath away, even though she had been expecting to see him. It took a moment to find in him the gawky 17-year-old he had been, too tall for his body, rich brown hair hanging in his eyes. He had grown up in the last nine years. If he had been attractive as a boy he was devastatingly handsome now. His hair was cut short but the bangs were still too long. His dark green eyes were riveted on her. They seemed to rake her body the way her pale green ones scoured his. He was lean and his black leather breeches fit him as though the skin were his own and not the deer's. A flowing dark gray shirt was tucked into them—he was still in mourning, of course—embroidered in silver at collar and cuffs. Sidra almost couldn't breath, he was so beautiful. His cheekbones angled down to his perfect lips that were twisted into a scowl, directed at her.
She tried to speak again. "Not guilty, my lord," she said, somehow, in a clear, loud voice, but then looked quickly down again.
His dark green eyes were riveted on her. Sidra. She was older and her hair was not nearly so long—long, pale hair wrapping in coils around her head, her body, his body, plaited or twisted into ropes. He used to brush it for her as they sat on the floor, his legs wrapped around her—but she had the same pale green eyes, wine-red mouth. She had grown up but there she was.
He felt a rush of warmth toward her which he quickly capped.
Sidra. Magic-user. Escaped by witchcraft from the West Tower nine years ago. Abandoning him to his father's wrath, his father who was sure that he had helped her. The entire courtroom was hushed, almost silent. She peeked up through her lashes and saw that he was leaning forward in his chair now, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. Still studying her.
He wanted to have her taken from his sight. Thrown in the dungeons. Imprisoned. So he could keep an eye on her. Certainly not! Because he knew this woman had magic. She'd probably used it against him as she had against that innkeeper's son. This was a magic-free county from the days of his grandfather. He wouldn't allow her to flout their laws. He wanted to declare her guilty and have her removed at once but something stopped him. He was still a new lord. His actions had to be transparent to his people so they would learn they could trust him as they had never trusted his father. Almost choking on the words he forced himself to continue but his tone was harsh.
"And why should we believe you?"
"Because I didn't do it, my lord," Sidra said.
"Is it true that these people took you in, 'out of the cold', two years ago?" he said, his voice scathing.
"It is true."
"And did this man give you gifts, sell his patrimony and give the proceeds to you?"
She was silent.
"Speak up, girl, I cannot hear you."
"Yes, he gave me gifts," she said.
"Did he sell his patrimony and give you the proceeds?"
"Yes."
