Perfect Justice

Arianta slid the sword smoothly from the man’s chest and he slumped to the ground. Around her, the rest of the Agnithi rounded up and executed the remaining Hashard. Only a few stragglers remained.

Arianta let her comrades finish their work, moving to check the perimeter for any remaining signs of life. The Judge King had demanded justice, and he would not suffer error.

Arianta was almost ready to walk away from Hashardin, its innards now silent except for the crackling of burning buildings and the occasional word of an Agnithi. Then she heard a soft whimper and spun instinctively, drawing her blade.

A child, no older than two, was pushing her way out of a sturdy wooden crate. She had barely managed to pry the lid up enough to poke an arm through, and it was now stuck. She whimpered again. Arianta stepped forward, blade extended. Apparently, someone had decided to try to hide their child when they heard the Judge King’s decree.

The child pushed another arm through, looking like a turtle with the head still in its shell. Arianta could see silver eyes watching her, terrified.

She hesitated, sword held in a steady hand. She had killed children before. Sometimes, the child paid for the sins of the father. The means did not matter, so long as justice was served.

But justice had been served, and every father in this village had already paid for his own sins. The Judge King was strict, but he did not kill for pleasure.

Arianta slid her sword back into its sheath and flipped the lid off the crate. Immediately, the child inside cringed down, eyes wide and terrified. It was a little girl, with curly silver hair that faded to pure white at the tips.

“What shall I do with you?” Arianta mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. The little girl just whimpered, not doubt frightened. A tall, lithe figure enhanced by sleek black armor, raven hair tied behind her back, and intense crimson eyes, Arianta was a daunting sight.

In the end, Arianta carried the child back to the Judge’s Court on her own horse.

***

“By order of Judge King Vatalus, you are under arrest for thievery and lying to the Agnithi.”

Syntaia watched as the man in front of her paled, flushed, and then scowled and clenched his fists. She remained calm.

“How dare you,” he sputtered.

“I am not authorized to give information,” Syn replied coolly. “Any complaints and cases must be taken before the Judges to be tried according to perfect justice.”

“Justice,” the man spat, a few drops of spittle hitting Syn’s face. “Is that what you call this?”

“The Judge King decides,” Syn said.

He spit to the side, narrowly missing her shoes. “Even his favored pets are just slaves.”

She sighed inwardly. She hadn’t expected him to come easily. “If you do not comply, I will use force.”

He actually sneered at this. “You? You think I’m afraid of some sixteen-year-old girl?” In reality, she was nearly twenty.

“You should be.”

Syn grimaced at the smooth, cold voice that suddenly came from behind her. She turned to see Arianta, leader of the Agnithi.

The man immediately paled, recognizing the King’s Justice.

“I now have several other crimes to add to your sentence,” Arianta continued, her voice never changing. “For one, you have insulted the Justice Heir.”

The man’s eyes bulged, and he looked to Syn. “I-I had no idea, Just One,” he sputtered. “I was only-”

Arianta cut him off with a wave of the hand. “As the King’s Justice, I have authority to pass judgement without the Judges.” She slid a long, steel blade from her waist.

The man stumbled back, nearly tripping in his haste. “Please, no,” he pled. “Please, I swear, I meant no-”

Arianta slit his throat.

Syn looked away. She had seen the King’s Justice kill many times before, but the experience remained unpleasant.

Arianta slid the sword into its sheath and turned to face Syn. “You are a messenger of justice, Syntaia,” she said. “You do not wait upon the criminal for justice to be served.”

“Of course,” Syn replied, bowing slightly.

Arianta studied Syn for a moment longer, eyes betraying no hint of what she was feeling. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer this time. Which was to say it was more like the rolling of distant thunder than a legion of galloping horses.

“Have you made the necessary preparations for the next wind cycle?” The winds changed patterns every twenty-four days, repeating after nine cycles. A full nine cycles made up a year. The current cycle of calm wind would end in three days.

“I have,” Syn said firmly.

“Good.” Arianta seemed satisfied. “Justice guide your way.”

***

The massive continent Parron was divided into five sectors. The borders were strict and firm, but not closed. Trade was free between the sectors, and travelers were not uncommon. However, once someone crossed a border into a new sector, they were required to abide by that sector’s law and way of life or be expelled.

Each sector was based on a different attribute: justice, mercy, purity, compassion, and strength. Each embodied their own way of living and governing.

In Courtia, the justice sector, each emerging adult underwent a year long journey into another sector, assigned them by a local Judge. They were to live among the people there, observe their way of living, and report back their discoveries and insights. Courtia believed in fairness and equality, and that could be developed by seeing the outside world and giving it an honest assessment.

In some cases, this year long trial was not difficult for the adolescent. Many of the sectors had overlapping values. Pleezha, the strength sector, valued determination and perseverance, for example.

But Syn, as the Justice Heir, was to have no easy trial. She was being sent to Ezria, mercy sector.

***

Syn arrived with nothing more than a thick cloak, her sword and two daggers, and a knapsack full of rations, a map, and a few coins. She followed the map to a nearby town where she could find lodging.

Once in town, she attracted stares. More accurately, her sword did. Ezrian’s avoided conflict whenever possible in favor of pretending the problem didn’t exist, Syn had been told.

She reached a farmhouse turned restaurant turned inn just as the sun was dipping below the horizon. A man was harvesting the final dregs of his crops before the ground froze solid. Several horses were tied to posts outside the barn, and sounds of merriment came from the main house. A girl in a stained apron hurried outside with a basket, ran into the barn, and returned a few minutes later with several large eggs in her basket.

Syn decided this was as good a place as any to stop. The farmer eyed her warily as she strode to the porch, which was lit by a lantern hanging from a peg. The glass was green, casting out an almost eerie green light.

***

Marcie, the lady of the inn and farm house, took pity on the stranger, allowing her to stay in the barn long term in return for some help at dinnertime. The girl-Syntaia-was a bit unnerving, with her solemn, strict mannerisms and quiet way of moving. Marcie knew she must be from Courtia, based on her ashen skin and shining silver eyes. But she was a handy enough worker, and never complained.

It had been nearly a full wind cycle before the girl made any indication that she should be moving on. Marcie had to agree. Many of the customers had complained quietly about a Courtian being around, particularly one who carried around a large sword. Marcie was putting together a travel bag for Syn when old Harvey arrived.

***

Syn moved to the doorway with the basket of eggs that Marcie had asked her to fetch. It was to be her last task in this place before moving on. Already, she could tell the next eight wind cycles would be very long. Ezria was a strange, unnatural place that seemed nearly lawless, or at least without consequences. Infractions and mistakes were met with disregard, and the worst of crimes received only fractionally more severe reactions. People who were out of work were given handouts from neighbors or local government officials, rather than being expected to find work for themselves. It made Syn’s stomach churn.

She entered the house in time to see Marcie greeting an older man, perhaps in his fifth decade. They talked amicably as she approached.

Then she froze in place, eyes going wide as she saw the man’s face.

Square jaw, dull grey eyes, and a thin scar across his right cheekbone. She knew that face. It was Dehan Amal, a convicted thief who had fled justice in Courtia six years ago. His punishment had been to have his left hand removed, the right one spared so that he could labor for the man he had stolen from for the rest of his life.

Syn dropped the basket of eggs, a couple of them cracking upon impact despite their thick shells.

“Child!” Marcie exclaimed, hand flying to her chest.

Syn drew her sword on the man. He froze, staring at the blade. Slowly, his eyes followed its length to her hand and then up to her face. His eyes betrayed horror.

“Justice Heir,” he whispered. She had been present with Arianta at his conviction.

Several gasps came from around the room, either at his words or at the confrontation.

“As the Heir to Justice Arianta, I carry out the sentence of justice that you escaped,” Syn said coldly. “For fleeing justice, you are not only a thief but a traitor. The punishment is death.” This was well within her rights, as he was an escaped fugitive from Courtia.

“Wait!” Marcie exclaimed, looking aghast. “This is preposterous! Harvey is a good man, with a wife and children. Please, show mercy!”

Syn sniffed. “Mercy is an excuse the weak use to justify their inaction.”

Marcie’s eyes hardened. “I see. So this,” she gestured to Syn’s sword, “is justice, I presume?”

“Absolutely.”

Marcie shook her head. “I know I’m just an ignorant innkeeper, and heaven forbid I question the authority of a Courtian, but if I may be so bold, I see no justice here.”

Syn made to protest, but Marcie overrode her. “This man has been nothing but a benefit to this town. He runs an honest, profitable business. He takes care of his family. If you kill him, what happens to them and all of his employees? Is it just that they all suffer as well?”

Syn hesitated. “He must pay for his crimes,” she said stubbornly.

Marcie scoffed. “Perhaps he already has, in the good he has done since committing them. Brutal punishment is not the only way to ensure justice is served.”

That was not what Syn had been taught. Still, she hesitated, gripping her sword. Killing him wouldn’t be fair or just to his family, or the others who depended upon him. Conflict churned inside of her. She had never been in a situation in which she could not serve justice perfectly.

After several tense, pained moments, her shoulders slumped, the sword dropping to her side. In the end, it didn’t come down to what was right. It simply came down to the fact that she didn’t want to kill him. She had never liked brutality.

She glared down at the man. “You have escaped justice once,” she said harshly. “It appears you will escape it again. Be watchful that you never cross my path again.”

She slammed her sword into her sheath and stalked away, leaving the small town behind without looking back.