Jadde - The Fragile Sanctuary Read Free Page B

floating
before his fogged vision. ‘Any further lapse will be your last Malkrin Owlear.
Be warned, next time your highsense fails, banishment to the deadlands of Monjana
awaits you . . .’ The Fox wheezed, and for a moment appeared to forget the ancient
ritual’s words. ‘. . . You will then only be eligible to return when your highsense
gift returns to you.’
    Malkrin bowed. The verdict was no surprise.
He had conditioned himself to its inevitability these last four days. Jadde had
taken a prized highsense from him, and the Council were about to take one of
the gold suns pinned to his tunic. It could have been worse; he still had half
of his authority. But under his relief a sad wish that he usually kept
carefully suppressed surfaced to drown him. He wished he had never been gifted
by Jadde. He could have just run off with Cabryce and hunted just for the two
of them. Higher in the mountains they could have created their own tribe. They
could do it now, and build their home next to a full stream of leaping salmon
and a meadow full of tamed mountain goats, and . . .
    No, it was not for him; he had to hunt to
help the ordinary people of the Seconchane. Some were here now, at the back of
the hall, seated on benching brought in for the trial.
    He tapped his temple for the secret
highsense boost that his once mentor Josiath Nighthawk had taught him. His
hearing increased as if he’d put a hollow rams horn to his ear. He was
comforted by the beat of the two hundred hearts his highsense picked up in the
huge stone hall.
    The heart beats turned into a single, thump,
thump, thump . He realised it was his own.
    A court attendant strode over with a padded
cushion for the confiscated gold insignia. Malkrin ceremoniously removed the
golden sun from his tunic and placed it in the centre.
    Thump, thump, thump.
    He left the second insignia still pinned
over his heart. The attendant stepped back and turned toward the Brenna Council.
    The Fox jerked upright, as if the trial
wearied him. As tradition decreed he completed the trial. ‘If there is a second
appearance for you here Malkrin Owlear; you will face the trial of Jadde.’
    Thump, thump, thump.
    Malkrin dared a glance at Jadde’s altar, and
his highsense tingled for a fraction of a moment. The altar was pivotal in
Jadde’s second trial. The rectangular stone was framed by chiselled pillars
supporting a marble top. Its time-worn edges sat imposingly on a raised dais
before the Council seats. It looked dead with its contours smoothed by many
priests admiring hands over countless lifetimes. The altar was endowed with her
lost magic and during a serious trial it came to life. Jadde’s presence
returned to it to deliver her verdict. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t suffer
her judgment . . . ever.
    T hump, thump, thump. H e placed a
hand on his chest hoping to slow his heart before it burst.
    He nodded grimly and clasped hands before
his face in the traditional response. A mix of emotions swirled in his mind,
somehow enhanced by his highsense. He felt shame, defiance, and then vengeance.
This turned to misgiving as he strode toward the crowd. They parted respectfully,
he still commanded some authority. His highsense peered within the sea of faces
as he walked slowly past. Some revealed sadness, compassion, others anger or
resentment. A few faces gloated with fiery eyes at his partial downfall. On a
couple he noticed a combination of all the lowly emotions - they were the
dangerous ones. In many minds he caught a whisper, an echo of fact; none who
have begun to lose highsense have ever recovered it.
    Malkrin shunned the face-images and their
whispering thoughts; and pictured his beloved Cabryce. A slight smile returned
as he thought of her bright face and their wedding last fall. His heartbeat
slowed.
    He walked out of the great hall into the roaring
winter gale and straight past the meandering rows of the ordinary folk’s huts.
Past all the broken cart wheels, piles of bleached