Chapter VIII


Malik couldn't have dreamed up a better farce. The trial was a joke. Things had moved quick, particularly since he offered no tesimony on his behalf and asked no cross-questions to the witnesses. Instead, as each person took his turn relaying what he had seen that night, Malik was busy admiring the interior of the Council Hall. The hall held a scale and opulence unmatched among the tribe's more public structures, dwarfed only by those palatial houses belonging to the North's oldest, most powerful families. The roof of the hall boasted a massive dome that chronicled in elegant murals the history of the Water Tribe.

Directly beneath the dome stood a gargantuan sculpture of Kya. A thousand night pearls lit the fallen avatar's massive, frigid form. The statue stood with one leg in front of the other, arms upraised in the stance of balance.

The triarchy sat in judgement beneath Kya's stern gaze. The three elders may have been close in age, falling somewhere between their fifties and sixties. They wore matching blue robes of elaborate silk trimmed in vair, but there the similarities ended.

The judge chieftain sat in the center, a stern elder whose braided beard dangled almost to the floor. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, attentive to every word spoken in his court.

To his left sat a squat barrel of a man whose double chin overflowed his collar. When he yawned—and yawn often he did—his jowls quivered like gelatin. His expression was petulant, as if he'd already made up his mind and was eager to wrap this up.

To the judge chieftain's right was a thin spindle of a man; his face was a skull of sallow skin and sunken eyes, one of which was as white as milk. He wore a whisper of a mustache, so thin he might have might drawn it on himself. He leaned against the armrest of his driftwood chair. Of the three, the mustachioed judge seemed less interested in the proceedings than he did watching Malik. He did so with a strange look in his good eye, a look that unsettled Malik.

Six separate witnesses took the dais to testify against him. Their combined word was suitably damning. Most testified more toward the vandalism they'd seen on the banquet table, the gouged out divots that they say Malik had surely caused.

Others, like Unnaq the Elder, were more dramatic. Unnaq wept as he recounted the sorrowful details, casting Father in a sanctified light while dragging Malik's name through the mud, calling him little more than a troublemaker and constant thorn in his father's side. At one point a young girl had shouted out from the high chamber seats. "LIAR," the girl had yelled. The sounds of worried shushing had followed, and Malik had to bite the insides of his cheeks to stifle a grin.

Sifu Anik wasted no breath in beseeching on Malik's behalf when the time came to present his side of events. Anik spoke of a bright-eyed youth who had cracked under years of incessant abuse at the hand of a spiteful parent. Anik urged the council to exercise mercy, pointing to Malik's bruised face as just the latest example of abuse. It was the only moment of the trial where Malik felt bashful.

Some of those in the audience didn't seem to appreciate Anik's full-throated defense, judging by the murmurs and jeers that echoed down from the upper chambers.

When Anik had said his peace, the judges turned their attention toward the accused. "Malik, son of Tartok," said the judge chieftain. "You may rise."

The chains that linked Malik to the floor had seized up in the frost, and he had to give them a sharp tug before he could rise. The chains were intentionally short, forcing him to stoop low before the mighty dais like a supplicant.

The chief judge led the questioning. "You stand accused of a grave assault upon your kin. Six separate witnesses have attested to either seeing or hearing this attack as it was still in progress. All six are men of reputation. In light of their testimony, have you anything to say for yourself?"

"No," Malik said. "Everything they said was true."

The upper chambers began to murmur and stir. Court guards knocked their staves upon the ground in a general call to order.

The chief judge leaned forward. "Then you admit it?"

"I do."

"And during this wanton attack, were you or were you not aware of the strictures that forbid bending against your kin?"

Malik nodded once. "As aware then as I am now." He raised his head high, so all in attendance could see the plum shade of his eye, still swollen shut from Father's backhand. "I couldn't suffer the pain any longer. It had to be done." He turned his face to the crowd. "I only wish I'd done it sooner."

The high gallery erupted. A cacophony of shouts and insults were hurled his way, along with a few snowballs that fell just short, bursting at the base of the prisoner's dais. The triarchy exchanged glances. The fat one made no effort to keep his voice low. "The urchin has done our job for us," he said, batting his hand dismissively. "Let's be done with this."

Malik stood as tall as the fetters would allow, soaking it all in. It was a strangely righteous feeling to stand here like this, knowing he'd made the right choice. It took no imagination at all to picture little Atka standing here instead, crying, confused, shackled to the floor like some lowly criminal.

The deliberations were short. A murmur of anticipation swept through the chambers when the judge chieftain ordered all to rise. "Malik, son of Tartok," he said. "You have been named guilty in the eyes of the tribe; guilty of a vile assault upon your own kin, guilty of warping the blessings of sacred Ocean and Moon toward petty familial violence, guilty of dishonoring the sacred balance upon which the Water Tribes are built. Malik, son of Tartok, it is the judgment of this council that you banish yourself from these lands."

A general cheer began to erupt in the chamber until the elder called once more for silence. "At dawn, you will vacate from these lands for no less than one hundred cycles. Failure to abide by the fullness of this sentence carries weight of death. Heed you this sentence, Malik, son of Tartok?"

"I heed," Malik said. Only now he wasn't so sure. The words had tumbled out, as though someone else had spoken them. It was done. Atka was safe. So why did he feel so numb?

The triarchy rose and spoke in unison. "So speaks the council, so is it ordered."

A hundred lunar cycles. The number hadn't sounded so large at first, but as the guards led Malik back to his cell he found himself counting out his steps one by one. It was a sobering effect; numbers always seemed bigger once they were unpackaged. Every fall of the foot counted as a month, one passage of the moon. When he reached one hundred, he started over. The number rolled over and over in his head. One hundred cycles. Twenty-eight hundred days. Seven years and some change.

Seven years. A lifetime for little Atka.

Malik did not sleep that night. His thoughts never strayed far from his sister. By the time he could return she would be a woman. She could even be betrothed by then. He knew he could trust Luava to see that she came out all right, and he was already looking forward to the day he'd see his little Atka all grown up.

But what about him? A lot could happen in seven years. Would she recognize him upon his return?

Then again, would he?