Senior Justice Vance adjusted his glasses and looked down from the bench at Tomas Reed. “You claim, Master Reed, that the lit up campaign journal presented by the Marshal is a fraudulent palimpsest. How do you propose to show this to the court without cutting the binding?”
Tomas stepped to the cedar lectern where Brand’s crimson morocco volume lay open. His boots, stiffened by the cold mud, made no sound on the heavy velvet runner. His right heel ached with every shift of weight, but his hands were steady.
“The law provides an ancient sight remedy for sworn carriers auditing public escrows, Your Honor,” Tomas said.
Tomas placed his calloused right hand flat upon the lit up thick parchment of the fifth chapter—the page describing the ‘Glorious Cavalry Charge at Three in the Afternoon.’ He closed his eyes, centered his breathing. Then he focused his intent upon the physical fibers of the sheepskin.
The system slate flared above the lectern, its stone-grey border lighting up the grand ballroom with a pale, unearthly light. Before the three judges, the court stenographers, and the gasping spectators, the surface of the parchment began to shimmer.
The bright gold leaf of the lit up capitals turned dull and see-through as morning mist. Beneath the dark black ink of the court scribe, the ghost of the original writing appeared in pale, rust-colored strokes. The chemical shadow of dark oak-ink that had sunk deep into the animal fibers before being scraped with foam-stone eighteen years ago.
