Bram Ash stepped forward to the iron railing of the prisoner’s dock, his hobnailed boots crunching on the loose dark rock gravel of the arena floor.
He stood with his chin level, his sound left hand resting flat against his woolen smock, his right arm cradled in the black linen sling. The morning sun had climbed to its zenith, beating straight down into the bowl of the tiered arena, lighting up the dark stone benches and the five hundred citizens who watched him from the tiers. The mountain wind had fallen away to a gentle breeze that stirred the edges of the court dockets on the court bench. It carried the clean scent of crushed pine and river moss from the valley floor.
Chief Magistrate Thorne adjusted his half-moon glasses, picked up the final sheet of the thick parchment judgment roll, and stood erect behind the cedar bench. His robes fell in austere, heavy folds around his wrists. His eyes met Bram’s with unbending court gravity.
“Bram Ash,” the judge said, his voice deep, ringing, and carrying to every corner of the granite bowl. “This trial has reviewed your confession, your plea of guilty. The substantial sworn testimony presented by Surveyor Quill and Courier Vey. We have deliberated at length with the citizen tax clerks appointed by the ward assemblies.”
