Black Arcana

Disclaimer: Black Arcana takes inspiration from tarot cards, but the way they are used in this story is heavily fictionalized. Meanings, readings, and card effects may be twisted or invented for the sake of the plot, and are not intended as a statement on real tarot reading or those who practice it.

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The courtyard of House Valehart had not changed enough.

That was the first cruelty Lucien noticed as they dragged him through the iron gates. The stones were still the same pale gray slabs he had once run across as a child, smooth in some places from generations of boots and carriage wheels, cracked in others where winter frost had bitten deep and never fully let go. The fountain at the center still stood with its marble stag rearing toward the sky, though someone had broken off one of its antlers. The old training posts were still lined along the eastern wall, scarred by sword cuts from boys who had grown into men, then corpses, then names spoken carefully around dinner tables.

Even the air smelled the same. Wet stone, old hay from the stables, smoke from the kitchen chimneys, and the faint sharpness of crushed rosemary from the garden beyond the archway. For one absurd moment, Lucien expected to hear his mother's voice from the balcony, scolding a servant for letting mud get tracked into the west hall. He expected to see his father standing beneath the colonnade with one hand behind his back and the other resting on the pommel of the old family sword. He expected Gareth to be laughing too loudly near the armory, Cedric to be polishing his boots as though anyone cared, and Marian to be seated under the garden awning with a book open on her lap and her eyes watching everyone except the page.

But the banners were wrong.

That was where memory failed and the present returned its teeth to him.

The silver stag of Valehart no longer hung from the walls. Its place had been taken by a black tower stitched over a field of crimson, the sigil of House Malgrave. The cloth snapped in the cold wind as though it had always belonged there, as though Lucien's family had only been tenants in its own home, waiting to be erased by someone with sharper knives and better timing.

A soldier shoved him from behind. Lucien stumbled, caught himself badly, and almost went to one knee. His hands were bound in front of him with rope thick enough to burn the skin raw. The binding had been done poorly, not because his captors were careless, but because they did not think he deserved the clean efficiency given to dangerous men. His wrists were swollen. His lip had split sometime during the march from the holding cellar. Blood had dried along his chin and pulled at the skin whenever he moved his mouth.

"Walk," the soldier muttered.

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Lucien almost laughed. It came up naturally, the way it always had when pain, shame, or fear found him cornered. A stupid little reflex. Laugh first, make them laugh with you if possible, at you if necessary, and never let the silence decide what you were worth.

But the sound caught in his throat when he saw the gallows.

They had built it in the center of the courtyard, right before the broken stag fountain. Fresh timber. New rope. New nails. Someone had taken care with it. The wood still had the pale, exposed color of something recently cut and assembled for one purpose alone. There were steps leading up to the platform, and a hooded man stood beside the lever with his gloved hands folded before him. The noose swung gently in the wind.

Lucien's mouth went dry.

He had seen gallows before. Every kingdom had them. Every city square knew the shape of them. Thieves, deserters, rebels, debtors who had angered the wrong creditor, all of them had dangled from one beam or another while people gathered to watch justice pretend to be clean. Lucien had stood in those crowds once or twice during his wandering years, drunk enough to mock the solemnity of it and sober enough to leave before the kicking stopped.

It was different from this side.

From this side, the noose looked less like rope and more like a question. Not whether he would die. That had already been decided. The question was how much dignity a man could lose before death became bored of taking from him.

The courtyard had gathered to see him answer it.

Servants stood in clusters near the walls, their faces pale and guarded. Some were strangers wearing Malgrave livery, but others Lucien recognized despite the years and the fear that had hollowed them out. Old Rem, who had once carried him on his shoulders when Lucien was too young to see over parade crowds, looked at the ground. Jana from the kitchens pressed both hands to her mouth, but her eyes did not meet his. Tomas, the stable boy who had grown into a broad-shouldered man during Lucien's absence, stared at him with something worse than hatred. Pity.

Lucien hated him for it. Then hated himself for needing something kinder.

On the steps beneath the western colonnade stood Lord Edran Malgrave, newly appointed steward of Valehart lands by decree of Duke Halbrecht. He was not tall, but he had the posture of a man who believed height was something lesser men needed. His cloak was trimmed with wolf fur, his gloves were black, and his beard had been cut into a precise point that made his chin look sharper than nature had intended. Beside him stood two clerks, three knights, and a priest of the Crown's Law holding a sealed writ.

The priest began to read as Lucien was pushed toward the gallows.

"Lucien Valehart, third son of the late Count Aldren Valehart, is hereby judged under the authority of Duke Halbrecht of the Western Marches and in accordance with the wartime statutes of His Majesty's Kingdom of Avaron."

The words struck the courtyard and settled heavily over it. Legal words always did that. They fell like stones, polished smooth by men who never had to feel their weight.

Lucien kept walking.

"Charges brought forth are as follows. Desertion in a time of war. Failure to answer noble levy. Abandonment of sworn territory. Suspicion of collusion through absence during imperial incursion. Public disorder, unlawful debt, evasion of military summons, and conduct unbecoming of noble blood."

A few people murmured at that last one.

"That's all?" Lucien called out, loud enough for the courtyard to hear.

"You forgot a few. Surely the list isn't complete."