Exiles of Forlorn Read Online Free Page B

down by the officer, a snotty thirdson named Claster. He refused. In the ensuing fight, he crippled the two men and broke Claster’s arm and nose.
    Of course, Claster told a different tale. Standing there before the magister, he sounded hilarious with his broken nose and hot temper, all nasal and slimy. To his telling, it was they who interfered with Antioc being ungallant with the young maid, and in the course of subduing him, he assaulted all three. His story didn’t make any sense. Antioc was arrested hours later and went voluntarily. If he were the mad dog Claster claimed, why would he pummel one set of superiors but submit to another?
    Unfortunately, Claster’s tale had two advantages over Antioc’s: it was the word of a noble verses a common born, and there were witnesses. Two witnesses, actually. Claster’s severely beaten minions, who appeared before the magister with the kind assistance of several healer’s aides—one in a wheeled chair, no less.
    This could have been cleared up by the watermaid, but alas she was nowhere to be found—doubtless, one of Claster’s friends in the officers’ barracks had her moved to another fort or sent her off for labor. Lacking any obvious way to prove his innocence, Antioc was in for a beheading. Yet, there he stood, no sign of fear or apprehension, as if he’d accepted his fate was set long before he stepped into court. I found him admirable, and not just for his bravery in the face of the inevitable. I also admired his handiwork with the three snotlings. There was no disagreement about one thing: Antioc had single-handedly subdued three enemies, unarmed, without taking a scratch to his own person. In fact, Claster had likely exaggerated the fighter’s prowess to sugar the sting of his humiliation at losing a fight three-to-one, and to demonstrate how dangerous it would be to allow Antioc to live.
    “Are there any here who can verify this young man’s claim?” the magister had called, looking about the court. “Are there any who witnessed these events willing to come forward now?” Everyone but the accused scanned the room, waiting to see if anyone had the will to challenge a nobleman and his two broken accomplices.
    Well, what did I have to lose?
    “I was there,” I called, stepping forward. That got Antioc’s attention. He turned and looked at me for the first time, in shock. I gave him a quick look and shrugged.
    “Lew Standwell,” said the magister, his fat cheeks jiggling under his chin as he spoke. He likely remembered my name because I’d flippantly accepted exile before him earlier that session. “You claim to bear witness to the events that transpired?”
    “Indeed, good sir!” I bowed a little. “If it so please your grace . . .”
    “He’s lying!” Claster roared, waving a finger at me. “He’s lying, he wasn’t there. He didn’t see anything.”
    I crooked an eyebrow at him. “How would you know where I was or what I saw?” He was right though; I was lying, and I hadn’t seen a thing. I was sound asleep in my quarters when all this happened, but more importantly, I was alone. For all I or anyone else knew, I could have been there. His anger was telling; if his account was the truth, what did he have to fear from a witness?
    “I’ll hear your testimony, thirdson of Standwell,” said the magister, pointing his stone-tipped gavel at me. “You are still sworn by the Daevas of justice to speak the truth in this court, are you not? Do you intend to tell the truth?”
    “I certainly do, your grace,” I lied with a smile. I was already exiled, the worst they could do to me now was . . . oh, I suppose they could have killed me. I hadn’t thought of that—probably better that I didn’t.
    “Then you will relay to the court what you saw that night.”
    Everyone watched me, anxious, except Antioc. He just looked surprised. I took a moment to enjoy being the center of attention before I shrugged toward the common-born fighter. “It