"Bastien Kurick, you are charged with thirty-nine counts of manslaughter, seven-hundred ninety-three counts of negligence, and improper disposal of hazardous materials," Clarus said, "The Crown will pass judgement based on the evidence presented in your case. You are not required to speak, but if you have any further comments that have not yet been entered on record, you may make them now."
Chains were a suitable look for Kurick.
He no longer wore his custom-made three-piece suit. His hair was unkempt and a stubble grew on his chin—though it was difficult to note, as his chin rested on his chest. He knelt before Regis' throne on the landing in the middle of the stairs, a pair of crownguards flanking him.
Gone was the cocky narcissism from months before. Gone was the business owner who could do no wrong. Today he was a criminal. It was too late for any defense he might try to mount. Regis had already made his decision.
Regis lifted a hand and Clarus resumed his seat.
"Let the charges against this man be amended," Regis said, "Bastien Kurick is charged with forty counts of manslaughter."
Kurick lifted his head to look up at Regis. He didn't speak and it was just as well; the guards standing on either side of him looked to be waiting for an excuse to put a boot in his ribs. Speaking out of turn before the crown would have been justification enough.
"Do you recall the name Spero Perdita, Mr Kurick?" Regis asked.
"No, Your Majesty." Kurick's voice had lost that soft, oily quality as well. Instead, it sounded hoarse and a bit gravelly.
As much as he had expected Kurick would have no knowledge of those he had caused the deaths of, it irked him to hear the words spoken.
"He disposed of hazardous waste on your orders. The exposure landed both him and his wife, Elaisse, in the hospital. Only Spero returned home." Regis gripped the armrests of his throne and glowered down at Kurick. "It was evidence given by him that sealed your fate, but that is not why I speak of him. Two months ago, Spero killed himself in his home"
Kurick's lips moved, but Regis couldn't hear the resulting words. He dropped his gaze shortly after, as if regretting his decision to respond at all.
One of the crownsguards beside him gave him a firm nudge in the ribs with a boot. "Speak clearly before the king."
"I said: that is unfortunate, Your Majesty, but I fail to see how it makes me guilty on forty counts," Kurick repeated still staring down at the tile beneath his knees.
"Your actions caused his death, as they did the death of thirty-nine others, though for different reasons. Your negligence led to the death of his wife, which led to his own death. I therefore charge you with his death alongside the others."
Kurick made no response this time. Perhaps he realized it didn't matter; the sentence would be the same, regardless—the number was for Regis' benefit, not his.
The court and council fell silent and, in the silence, Regis gave a curt nod to Clarus.
Clarus rose from his seat once more. "Bastien Kurick, have you anything to say on your behalf?"
"No, my lord."
Clarus resumed his seat and looked to Regis.
"Bastien Kurick, I hereby find you guilty of the aforementioned crimes. Your life belongs to the crown, henceforth." Regis rose from his throne to make the declaration. It was no surprise to anyone present; his council had known and Kurick had guessed well enough. Regis glanced at the crownsguards. "Take him away."
Kurick would spend the rest of his life rotting in a cell, unless he could be made to do something useful—which Regis doubted very much.
And that, at long last, was through.
Justice for your Elaisse, Spero, Regis thought as he watched the crownsguards haul Kurick to his feet and lead him down the steps. And for you, as well.
Clarus wasn't the only one who followed Regis back to his study after the conclusion of Kurick's hearing. Weskham was waiting for them outside and Cor met them outside Regis' office. Perhaps they knew or guessed what was coming. More likely they were still concerned.
Two months the violin had sat on Regis' coffee table. He still wasn't sure what the last piece of the puzzle was. He had doled out justice, today, but it wasn't enough. He felt, somehow, that it wasn't the end of the story.
Regis sat down in one of the armchairs and leaned forward to pour himself a drink. Clarus glanced at Weskham as he did so, though none of them had moved to join him. It was clear enough what troubled Clarus. Since the day he had drank an entire bottle of scotch before nine in the morning, he had hardly touched the stuff. Not, leastways, until two months ago. Clarus, Gods bless him, was worried Regis would fall into the same hole.
But Clarus was wrong.
"He was an extraordinary man." Regis leaned back in his chair and motioned to his friends. It was unsettling enough that they had all come without being called just when he wanted them; he didn't need them hovering, as well.
One by one they took the invitation. Weskham and Clarus sat on opposite ends of the lounge and Cor took the armchair across from Regis. None of them said a word.
Regis glanced at the piece of paper that lay on the table beside Spero's violin. The blood that spattered it had turned brown with time and it was now creased from frequent handling. Just a few lines of typed words occupied the space, and Regis knew them all by heart.
"I know you all thought he was mad, but the madness never blotted out the brilliance." It had showed in everything Spero did. His writing was captivating; he was sharply observant, aware, in spite of his deteriorating mental state, of all that was in and around him; his manner of speaking was cleverness subtly disguised as brashness.
"He would make comments that, as an isolated event, might just have been overlooked as happenstance. But each one added together gave lie to any assumption that it was merely madness. He saw things other men do not, but he wasn't bound by duty or honor to not make them known. He knew people." Regis was still looking at the note. His full glass of scotch rested against the arm of his chair.
More than once, Regis had wondered if Spero didn't know Regis' mind better than Regis did, himself. All those months Spero had spent in the mental hospital convincing his doctor that he was making improvements and experiencing only expected symptoms of grief… had he been taking his medication at all, or had he stopped part way through? If it had made his hallucinations of Elaisse disappear, Regis could understand why he would have stopped. Still, no one had suspected a thing.
This is what I always meant to happen, and I'm sorry I let you believe it could be stopped.
"I truly did believe I could save him from his grief." Regis took his first drink from his scotch. It burned, but left a warm tingling in its wake. "It was foolish; I see that, now. I thought I could give him some meaning back, help him to find light in his life by placing expectations on him. But you cannot cure grief. You can offer a guiding light to those who are lost, but it can never replace the light inside."
This is what I wanted.
Regis' mind echoed in Spero's voice.
This is what I wanted.
This is what I wanted.
And the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
Regis sat forward and traded his glass of scotch for Spero's last note to him. Everything was there, written clearly, but cryptically—like everything else Spero had ever said to him.
This is what I wanted.
The words were important. So important that he had repeated them thrice within the space of a quarter page.
"I did everything I could to keep him holding on. I wished to read his book, to see him healthy, to hear him play the violin. All along, though, there was only one thing he wanted. That was what mattered. That is what he has, now." Regis spoke to the page, his eyes flicking over the well-read note. The words streamed out as thoughts fit together in his head. The last piece. The reason why the violin had lain on his table for two months.
At long last, he could lay Spero's memory to rest.
He could almost hear the response, see the crooked little smile on Spero's face.
Finally.
Regis looked up from the note. He folded it in half, creasing it once down the middle, and leaned forward to place it beside the violin.
"Wes," he said, "Would you please find a place to store these? Someday they will find use again. For now, let them be kept safe."