Chapter 127 The Tribunal
Chapter 127 The Tribunal
The sun crept higher into the sky in Litus Solis with the hush of a held breath.
Mist rolled off the river in thin, ghostly sheets that clung to the garden walls of the governor’s manor before dissolving into the warming air. The courtyard—the broad, stone-paved expanse at the heart of the estate—had been transformed overnight.
This morning it was a court.
A canopy of Avalonian blue and black stretched overhead, heavy as a storm cloud. Beneath it stood a single, imposing high table, arranged with ceremonial precision. Its surface was already crowded—scrolls and ledgers, wax seals, and the first records of the morning all vying for space around a single, curious stone set at its center. Stewards crept along its length, adjusting banners, placing inkpots, and straightening the tall stacks of parchment the tribunal would soon call upon. The air carried the scent of wax and parchment, the stillness of expectation before judgment begins.
Around the court, red and yellow banners of Litus Solis fluttered in the rising breeze. Merchant guild pennants hung beside them. The courtyard walls themselves had been draped with fabric, turning the stone enclosure into a ring of color and authority.
At the center of it all sat the tribunal.
Behind them, a row of stewards stood ready; the whole tableau looked like an ancient painting newly come to life.
As the gates opened, people streamed in.
Merchants with neat braids and stained fingers.
Fishermen with raw palms.
Midwives. Sailors. Bakers.
Men and women who had nearly lost their city the nights before.
They filled the courtyard until every stone step and every stretch of wall bore witness to what was about to unfold.
And then came the defendant.
Four guards escorted Joral of Eastwatch, Ser Dalen, and Master Clyne.
Joral walked with an attempt at swagger—but it was a thin, brittle performance. His hair stuck damply to his forehead. His once-fine coat was wrinkled and torn, still carrying the stale scent of dungeon air. The shackles around his wrists rattled with each forced step, drawing murmurs from the crowd.
The guards brought them to the solitary table reserved for the accused.
He sank into the chair with a snarl.
“Unhand me,” he spat at the nearest guard. “I’m not some gutter thief.”
The guard didn’t even look at him.
The gate clanged shut behind the crowd.
A bell rang.
Silence folded over the crowd.
Eldric, seated in the center of the tribunal, rose to stand. The sunlight caught on the clasp of his cloak—a serpent swallowing its own tail—and turned the metal cold and bright.
He surveyed the courtyard, the people, the banners. When he finally spoke, his voice carried like water flowing down a mountain slope—soft, unstoppable, ancient.
“These are the lands of Avalon,” he began.
Every head turned toward him.
“My forefathers claimed them by right—earned in battle, secured in blood, and upheld through law. The sea-shores, the river roads, the high passes of Haldrith, the grasslands reaching toward Isenford—these lands are ours. They have been ours for generations.”
He let his gaze sweep the courtyard.
“And so they remain.”
The breeze dipped. Even the banners seemed to lean in to listen.
“In Avalon,” he continued, “the law flows from one source. It flows from the Lord of Avalon and extends to every soul within these borders: noble, merchant, sailor, priest. None stands outside it. None stands above it.”
A low murmur rippled through the onlookers.
Joral stiffened in his chair.
Eldric did not look at him yet.
“Even the King himself acknowledges this truth,” Eldric said. “By oath and decree, he recognizes that Avalon is Warden of the Heartlands. His authority here is honored—but it is enacted through me.”
He paused on those last two words.
A carefully laid stone.
The trap’s first hinge.
Only then did Eldric turn his gaze fully upon Joral of Eastwatch.
“And so,” he said, voice sharpening, “I declare that this tribunal stands lawful. It holds jurisdiction over your actions. That your crimes shall be examined, your accusers heard, your evidence weighed.”
Joral slammed both hands on the table despite his shackles.
“This is madness!” he barked. “You cannot try me. I came bearing the King’s writ.”
Whispers hissed across the crowd.
Eldric inclined his head—slowly—like a man tolerating a child’s tantrum.
"You came bearing a forgery," Eldric said. "One which deceived no one for long.
A scowl clouded Joral’s face as anger welled up inside him like a rising tide. “Lies! Do you think to twist truth into an excuse for such an affront? I demand acknowledgment of my station!”
Eldric stepped down from the dais.
The move startled the stewards. Branric’s brow lifted. Tamsin’s sigils glowed faintly, perceiving the shift in atmosphere.
Eldric walked until he stood directly before Joral’s table.
“You demand recognition?” Eldric asked softly.
The softness was more terrifying than any shout.
“What I demand,” Joral said, voice cracking beneath his fury, “is that you honor the authority of the King!”
Eldric’s eyes narrowed in a way that made the hairs rise on the arms of every person watching.
“The King’s authority,” Eldric said, “is honored through my law.”
He let the sentence fall into the silence like a blade dropped point-first.
“And if you wish to dispute that,” Eldric said, “you may challenge me.”
A collective gasp swept the courtyard.
Even those unfamiliar with high justice knew what that meant:
A formal challenge to the Lord of Avalon.
A duel of arms or power.
A death sentence in all but name.
Joral froze.
He stared at Eldric as if the man had become a mountain looming over him. He swallowed once. Twice.
The nobles of the court—Captain Darius, Branric, even Demagus, the merchant— exchanged subtle glances. They recognized what Eldric had offered:
A noble's path out. An honorable submission. A way for Joral to bow without shattering.
Joral's lips began to quiver. His jaw clicked with efforts to conjure bravado that no longer came.
“You—” he rasped. “You wouldn’t…”
“I would,” Eldric said, perfectly calm.
Tamsin’s fingers moved softly across her arm, sigils brightening in anticipation.
Brother Renn whispered a prayer.
Marcus watched, his heart pounding, aware he was witnessing something that would be recounted in the city's annals.
Eldric leaned forward slightly.
“So,” he said, “shall we face one another? You and I? Here and now? Before all these witnesses?”
Joral opened his mouth —and nothing came out.
His hands trembled on the table.
Eldric’s gaze softened by a hair’s breadth. Enough to be merciful. Enough to show he was offering the boy a way off the cliff.
“You may instead,” Eldric said, “submit to the tribunal. Submit to the charges. Submit to the process of justice.”
The entire courtyard listened, breathless.
Joral closed his eyes.
He exhaled.
And the fight went out of him like water draining from a broken jar.
“I… I will submit,” he whispered.
Eldric straightened.
The banners stirred.
The morning sun broke over the awning, casting a golden light on the tribunal.
“Then,” Eldric said, his voice carrying with the weight of finality,
“Let the Tribunal of Avalon begin.”
A bell tolled again.
Stewards stepped forward with scrolls.
Witnesses approached the left-hand table.
The city leaned forward in anticipation.
And for the first time since his arrival in Litus Solis, Joral of Eastwatch truly understood:
He was no longer the master of his fate.
The law—Avalon’s law—held him now.
And it would not be bent.
…
Tamsin rose, the scroll unfurling at her touch like a living thing. Light crawled faintly beneath the sigils around her as silence fell over the courtyard.
Her voice carried a calm, unyielding tone.
“By the authority of the Tribunal of Avalon, these are the charges brought against Joral of Eastwatch.”
“First—Forgery of Royal Authority.”
“You did present a document bearing the King’s seal, knowing it to be false. You used this forgery to assert powers you did not possess.”
“Second—Unlawful Seizure of the Levy.”
“You did attempt to take the silver held in trust for the Crown’s levy, removing it without sanction, without record, and without lawful cause.”
“Third—Incitement of Riot and Public Disorder.”
“You employed thugs, mercenaries, and pirates to create chaos in the lower quarters, to scatter the guard, and to mask your criminal intent.”
“Fourth—Unlawful Arrest and Endangerment of Avalonian Citizens.”
“You ordered the seizure of myself and Ser Dathran without warrant, without cause, and without jurisdiction.”
“Fifth—Alliance with Raiders for Purposes of Theft, Escape, and Murder.”
“You employed known pirates and raiders to seize ships, assault sailors, and escort you from the harbor by force.”
Tamsin paused, unrolling the last segment of the scroll.
The sigils along her arms brightened.
Her voice deepened, gaining a resonance that made the stones beneath her feet seem to resonate.
“And finally—Charge the Sixth.”
Her eyes lifted, meeting Joral’s without flinching.
“Crimes Against the Lex Arcanum, the Law of Avalon.”
“You did willingly—and with full malice—set loose your Magus upon the city.”
“You ordered him to break open the treasury vaults.”
“You ordered him to burn one of the governor’s villa buildings.”
“You ordered him to assault the servants and the guards who stood in his path.”
“And in your desperation to escape justice, you ordered him to unleash fire upon the harbor and lower quarters, to destroy what you could not steal.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd—fear, anger, disbelief.
Tamsin’s voice remained steady.
“In total, by the actions you commanded, one hundred twenty-three people were injured, fourteen are dead, and 28 structures were destroyed!”
A hush fell over the courtyard so absolute it smothered breath.
Tamsin set her hand upon the table, the scroll settling into stillness.
“These are the charges. They are witnessed. They are recorded. And they shall be judged.”
Joral sat rigid, skin gray, eyes darting like a trapped animal—
as the full weight of his crimes settled over the city like a rising tide.
They then called for the witnesses.
Captain Darius was the first to take the stand.
He stepped forward in his yellow-and-red surcoat of the guard, his helm tucked beneath one arm, his presence cutting through the crowd’s murmurs. When he bowed to the tribunal, the courtyard grew still.
“My lords,” he said, voice steady but edged with fire, “I will speak plainly.”
He turned toward Joral, who struggled not to flinch.
“On the day of the riot, in the morning, this man sent his mercenary Dalen and guards to seize warehouses along the quay. Not to secure them—” Darius’s eyes hardened, “—but to take from them. Grain stores, salted meat, dry goods, casks of spirits. All removed without writ or record. When I demanded justification, I was informed that ‘royal need superseded local rights.’”
A low rumble of anger moved through the gathered merchants who owned those warehouses.
Darius continued, “By nightfall, he had paid off known dockside thugs—men I’ve arrested before for brawling, smuggling, and worse—to draw the city guard away from the harbor. Fires were set in stacked fishing nets. Oil spilled over the cobbles. My men put down three riots before the bells even sounded for midday.”
He nodded once, sharply. “That is my testimony.” He stepped back, jaw tight.
Next came the merchants.
Master Vardano, the oldest of the shipwright guild, walked with a cane but spoke with a voice that carried over the courtyard wall.
“My ship,” he said, pointing a shaking finger toward Joral, “The Dawn’s Ambition—she was boarded by pirates under your coin. They tried to cut her moorings and take her to sea. When my deckhands resisted, one was thrown overboard. I would have lost the ship, and my boy both had the White Company not intervened.”
A murmur of grief and fury rippled through the crowd.
Mistress Hevelin followed.
Her shop sold dyes—her fingers were still stained crimson and blue while she pointed at the accused.
“Your thieves broke into my storefront,” she said, icily. “Smashed jars. Took coin from my lockbox. When I confronted them, they said you needed resources to ‘secure order.’ I saw no order, my lords. Only theft wrapped in arrogance.”
Then a young dockworker, barely twenty, stepped forward.
“They came for my sister,” he said, voice cracking. “Said she owed taxes she never owed. Dragged her out by her hair. She’s still bruised. If the guards hadn’t returned to the harbor when they did—” He looked down, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what might’ve happened.”
One by one, voices rose.
Sailors, Shopkeepers, Stall vendors. Mothers who’d spent the night calming terrified children.
Their words piled like stones on the scales, like a tide rising inexorably against the accused.
And Joral, once flushed with indignant fury, now sat pale and trembling— as the weight of what he’d wrought was spoken aloud for all to hear.
A long moment after the charges were read and the witness spoke, Joral sat perfectly still—like a man stunned by the magnitude of a blow he had not seen coming.
Then his jaw clenched. His back stiffened. His chin rose in brittle defiance.
He stood.
“I will answer,” he declared, loud enough to make the nearest guards shift warily. “All of this—every action I took—was within my right. I came here under orders to collect the King’s levy. I acted in the name of the Crown. I exercised the authority granted to me.”
A few minor nobles in the back nodded in understanding. More citizens hissed softly.
Before Joral could continue, Steward Hadron—calm, composed, with ink yet smudged on his cuffs—stepped forward from the side of the tribunal.
“Lord Joral,” he said with mild curiosity, “as you claim to act under the King’s authority, perhaps you will clarify something simple.”
Joral’s eyes narrowed. “What clarification?”
Hadron folded his hands with the deliberate calm of a tutor addressing a wayward pupil.
“Tell us, if you please,” he said mildly, “what is the levy?”
Joral blinked, momentarily wrong-footed by the gentleness of the question.
“The levy,” he said sharply, “is the collection of goods and coin owed to the Crown—the due revenues of the realm! You old fool.”
“Indeed?” Hadron inclined his head slightly, unruffled. “Then perhaps you will enlighten us further. What precise amounts were you commissioned to gather in Litus Solis? What weights of grain? What measures of salt? What coinage, and in what mint? What tithe upon which guild?”
The questions fell one upon another like measured blows—soft in tone, but cutting clean through the bluster.
Joral opened his mouth—and stalled.
The pause lengthened.
The watching crowd shifted like a single living being.
Hadron tilted his head.
“You seem uncertain, my lord.”
Joral bristled. “The levy is at my discretion! The King’s agent determines what suffices to meet the realm’s needs—”
Hadron’s eyebrows rose gently.
“Oh? Your discretion determines the levy of Avalon?”
A soft wave of shock to that audacious statement moved through the courtyard like wind over still water.
Lord Branric’s lips thinned to a hard line. Lord Eldric’s gaze sharpened, the steel in it unmistakable. Beside him, the faint blue of Tamsin’s sigils brightened, casting a quiet radiance across the flagstones.
Joral flushed, the confidence in his voice slipping. “Yes, I— I had the authority—”
Hadron lifted a single hand, and the words faltered.
“So,” Hadron said, his tone measured, almost polite—though the silence around him gave it an edge. “You’re telling us now, before witnesses and tribunal, that you alone have the right to set the levy in Avalonian lands? That the taxes, the burdens, the coin and labor of this city all fall under your single judgment?”
Joral hesitated, throat working. “I speak with the King’s authority—yes.”
The courtyard held its breath. For a long moment, no one moved. Only the faint sound of banners stirring in the wind broke the silence—as though even the air waited to see what judgment would fall next.
Hadron bowed slightly to the tribunal. “My lords,” he said, “may I present evidence?”
Lord Branric nodded once.
Hadron reached for a tightly rolled scroll and unbound it with the care of a man handling something sharp.
“This,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the courtyard, “is the Kingdom’s formal agreement with Avalon regarding the levy and its collection.”
He unrolled the parchment and began to read:
“The King’s ministries shall set the levy amounts for each duchy, march, and land under the Crown. These amounts shall be conveyed by royal messenger to each lord, who shall endeavor within their domain to meet the levy as decreed—provided that the total amount is rendered in full.”
The words hung in the air, steady and cold as iron. Hadron lowered the scroll and looked across the assembly.
He raised the scroll again.
“And here,” Hadron continued, unrolling the parchment further, “is the clause specific to Avalon—signed by the Sovereign himself, and witnessed by the Crown Prince,” as he pointed out the seals.
He read, his voice clear and deliberate:
“Avalon will assess which goods, currencies, or tithes meet the levy requirements in its region. No outside entity may impose collection, set conditions, or seize its resources, unless explicitly ordered by the Lord of Avalon.”
The steward rerolled the scroll and struck it against the palm of his left hand, with a deliberate finality as if concluding a chapter in a journal. “These are the decrees of the realm itself!” he stated. “Not hearsay, not conjecture. Pray tell, Lord Joral—where does your authority fit into this?” “Nowhere,” Hadron responded quietly, “does it allow any individual envoy to fabricate or modify those amounts. The law specifies the King’s ministries, not his messengers.”
People gasped. Merchants whispered fiercely. Darius allowed himself the faintest smirk.
Hadron tapped the parchment.
“This year’s levy amount was ratified but three weeks ago,” he said, “and personally confirmed in Avalon by the Crown Prince himself.”
He turned his gaze fully upon Joral.
“Would you care to tell the tribunal, Lord Joral… what that levy amount was?”
Silence fell like a dropped veil. Joral’s lips parted soundlessly. He had no idea.
Hadron bowed once more, the gesture precise and unhurried. “I submit,” he said, his voice carrying with the calm authority of judgment, “that this young lord holds no commission from the Crown—no knowledge of the levy’s terms, and no sanction to collect so much as a single copper within Avalon.”
He lifted the parchment. “This document stands as proof: he is not the Crown’s appointed agent.”
The courtyard erupted. Cries of outrage mingled with shouts of vindication; even the incriminated shifted uneasily, their whispers flickering like sparks in dry grass.
Tamsin’s eyes shone with a calm assurance—the expression of someone who understood that the Law had established itself even amidst the futility of parchments and phrases.
Lord Branric stood tall, and the whole assembly fell silent, awaiting his words. “Lord Joral,” he proclaimed, his tone soft yet resonant throughout the courtyard, “The Stewart's testimony and your failure to offer a defense leave this tribunal with no doubt. You did not come as the King’s envoy, but as a fraud—an opportunist cloaked in the stolen King’s colors.”
Joral’s face twisted between anger and fear. “I—I had instructions!”
“From whom?” Branric asked, the words striking like a drawn blade.
Joral faltered. The silence that followed was absolute. He could not answer. He would not.
Hadron placed the scroll down on the tribunal table with a crisp, final snap. “I submit that your claim to royal authority is as weightless as ocean mist,“ he said coldly, “it collapses under the lightest touch. Your ignorance proves the rest.”
Every gaze in the courtyard fixed upon Joral—measured, merciless, certain.
And for the first time, the truth settled over them like judgment rendered: Joral had not come as a servant of the Crown. He had come as a thief.
The tribunal reconvened beneath the blue-and-black awning. The midday light had shifted, falling across the stone courtyard like pale judgment. The air was heavy with the scent of wax and parchment; even the gulls circling above seemed muted, as though unwilling to intrude upon the proceedings.
Lord Branric gave the signal. “Bring forth the next.”
They led Dalen to the center—broad-shouldered, scarred, still in the stained remnants of a knight’s harness. He faced the high table with defiance only half intact.
Hadron rose, scroll in hand. “Dalen the mercenary,” he began, “you are charged with the orchestration of riot within Avalon’s lower quarter, the seizure of merchant property, and the attempted piracy of vessels moored within the royal harbor. Two witnesses stand ready to testify that you took part in the murder of a guard in the merchant district. How do you answer?”
Dalen’s jaw tightened. “I acted under orders,” he said roughly. “I was assured the levy and envoy were lawful. We were commanded to seize what was due.”
A murmur passed through the crowd, disbelieving.
Hadron’s gaze did not waver. “By whose command?”
Dalen hesitated, then looked away. “By the King’s envoy.”
That single word—envoy—struck the gathered assembly like a blow. Several heads turned toward Joral, still standing under guard, pale and rigid.
Hadron let the silence stretch. “And yet the envoy himself now stands accused of imposture and fraud. If your orders were false, Dalen, where then lies your loyalty—to gold, or to law?”
The mercenary swallowed, but his voice failed him. The hush that followed was its own verdict.
At last, Branric spoke. “You confess to taking arms against the city and its people?”
Dalen’s shoulders sagged. “I… did what I was paid to do.”
A low sound rippled through the courtyard—disgust, pity, and something colder.
Branric’s expression did not change. “Then payment is the only master you serve. Let the record show it.”
The guards led Dalen away. His boots scraped against the flagstones, loud in the stillness.
Hadron unrolled the next scroll. “Call Master Clyen.”
The man, who seemed to have wasted away, with a drawn face and stained robes, was brought forward. His eyes darted between the tribunal and the crowd, as if he were searching for mercy that was not yet given.
Hadron kept his tone even. “Clyen, you stand accused of robbery against the Crown and against Avalon—of falsifying levy records, of setting fire to the Lord Governor’s Manor, and of taking part in a plot to defraud both King and city. What say you?”
Clyen’s voice trembled. “I—I had no knowledge of any falsehood. I thought the orders genuine. I am only a scribe. I believed I was serving the King.”
Tamsen leaned closer, her gaze sharp and focused. "Nevertheless, the papers and signatures your hand replicated originated from counterfeit records," she stated. “Furthermore, within your belongings,” she gestured to the scribe's private satchel, exposing its items. “You possessed wax and seals that you had no permission or authority to handle or even use. Tell us, why would a guiltless servant engage in such actions without hesitation?"
Clyen’s hands twisted together. “I was told it was pressing—that the records had to be completed quickly—that the city and lands were behind in their dues—”
The words stumbled and fell apart. Even those standing at the edge of the courtyard could hear the lie collapse under its own weight.
Lord Branric rose; his voice rumbled like distant thunder. "You served greed, not the Crown," he said. "You burned what you could not carry-and you call that service?"
Clyen dropped to his knees. “I thought… I thought I was doing right.”
The subsequent silence was colder than any sentence yet spoken.
Hadron closed the last scroll and laid it on the table in front of the stone. “The tribunal has heard,” he said in a quiet voice. “The law shall answer.”
And in that stillness, even before the verdict was pronounced, every soul present knew it already.
The bell tolled once, low and resonant, calling the tribunal to its close. The murmurs in the courtyard stilled as Tamsen rose from her place at the tribunal table. The morning light had turned golden, glinting off the parchment and the stone before her. When she spoke, her voice carried with calm authority—the cadence of one who spoke not for herself, but for the Law itself.
“By order of the High Court of Inquiry, and by mandate of the Avalon, this tribunal has heard the testimony of witnesses and examined all documents placed before it. The findings are unanimous.”
A faint wind moved through the awning above, stirring the banners of Avalon and the Crown alike.
“The tribunals ruling against Frater Alborum, priest, found him complicit in this conspiracy. Though his failing health spared him from direct action, his counsel and consent gave aid to treason.”
A rustle passed through the assembly—half pity, half condemnation.
“The tribunals ruling against Master Clyen that Clyen be condemned as one who has forged and stolen and that his plea of ignorance be annulled, the court decides that he has acted with full knowledge of his deed and of the conspiracy against king and city.
After a slight pause, “We, the Tribunal, declare the following ruling against Dalen the mercenary,” Tamsen said, her voice calm but firm. “Dalen has been found guilty of deliberate and malicious violence against the city and its people, of starting rebellion and riots, and of the personal killing of a city guard in cold blood. This tribunal rejects any claim of following orders that exonerate him of this crime .”She paused and then continued, “No lawful command excuses the murder of the innocent.”
Tamsen paused then, her gaze shifted toward the center of the courtyard, where guards still held Lord Joral in place.
“And lastly: Lord Joral of Eastwatch, and the Magus who served him. The Magus is dead, but the guilt remains. The charge of treason, the deception of the Crown, the theft of Avalon’s due, and the blood that followed—all now rest upon the head of Joral of Eastwatch. The tribunal finds him guilty of every count.”
The rulings fell in a steady rhythm, iron against iron—each word forging the law into truth.
Tamsen lowered the parchment. Her eyes were bright, but her voice remained steady.
“Thus it is judged by the High Tribunal of Avalon, under seal of the Law and witness of the realm. So recorded. So bound.”
The wind had changed by the time Lord Eldric got up. The sea beyond the port shimmered like polished metal, the courtyard's atmosphere charged with the anticipation that always comes after a verdict.
He stood for a long moment, letting the murmurs fade, then spoke—his voice calm, carrying through the courtyard with the steady cadence of command.
“As I did with the lower court,” he stated, “so I do here now. I acknowledge the conclusions presented to me—and now I shall deliver the final verdict!” A silence spread outward. The assembled crowd leaned in closer, the flags above scarcely moving.
“The mercenary known as Dalen,” Eldric continued, “will face execution upon the city quay, before the eyes of Avalon and her people. Let us witness the fate of those without honor who spill blood inside our city and claim it as a service. His demise will serve as a caution: no weapon raised against Avalon will ever achieve honor.”
He took a moment, allowing the words to linger like burdensome stones. Then, his voice softened, though it retained its gravity.
“As for the others—the priest, the scribe, and the false lord—I have thought long and hard upon what justice demands of me, as Warden of Avalon.”
He reached within his coat and drew forth a small velvet pouch, sealed in crimson wax and stamped with the sigil of the Crown Prince. The gesture alone silenced even the faint rustle of the crowd.
“When word of this plot reached me,” Eldric said, “I sought counsel from His Highness. For this treachery did not fall upon Avalon alone, but upon the Crown itself. There are men within the kingdom who sent these fools into our midst—and the roots of their deceit lie deeper than any blade can cut here.”
He turned his gaze toward the accused.
“Thus, I honor the royal house, and these three—the priest Frater Alborum, the scribe Clyen, and Lord Joral of Eastwatch—will be sent under guard aboard the same vessel that bore them here. A skeleton crew will sail it north, to Eastwatch itself. There, I will send word to the Lord of Eastwatch to pass judgment upon his own house—or deliver them to the King for trial before the realm.”
He rested his hand on the table before him, the gesture final.
“The younger servants and those who followed in ignorance will be returned to their homes by the river route. Avalon will see them safely on their way.”
He lifted his head, his eyes sweeping the tribunal.
“The findings of this court, and every word spoken here, will be sent to Eastwatch and to the King. If Eastwatch fails to judge, the Crown shall. The law has been restored—and the law has been served.”
He drew a steady breath.
“If I believed these were the true architects of this plot, I would spill their blood here and now. But I see in them only opportunists and fools—men led by greed, not power. Let their lords, or the King himself, decide their fate.”
He turned his gaze upon the tribunal—Tamsen, Hadron, Branric, and Master Demagus—each of whom met his eyes in silent accord.
“If none here dissent,” Eldric said quietly, “then it is settled.”
No voice rose in protest. Only the sound of the sea answered.
“At first light, in two days,” he said, “they will depart on the morning tide. Eastwatch will judge its own.”
He straightened, the authority of command settling over him like armor.
“This tribunal has fulfilled its charge with integrity and honor. By my word as Warden of Avalon, it is dissolved.”
He gave a final nod to Tamsen. The banners stirred once more overhead, and somewhere beyond the walls, the bells began to ring—not in mourning, nor triumph, but in solemn recognition that justice, at last, had spoken.