Chapter Text
Tiergan has been inside the Tribunal Hall before.
Perhaps never from this seat, no, but he’s certainly snuck into this building to steal classified documents and such before—and he vaguely recalls attending a public Tribunal with his mother, years ago, when she had dreamed of him sitting on one of the crystal thrones across from him.
Her mistake, really. Tiergan had never been convinced enough by the Lost Cities’ facade to even entertain the idea of becoming a Councillor. But there is still a part of him that feels rather guilty, having fallen so far from the expectations his family had set for him. Here, seated for a Tribunal after sacrificing himself to save his lover…well, it’s a far cry from his childhood dreams.
“Sir Tiergan,” Councillor Emery begins, and the room falls silent. It isn’t a public Tribunal; Tiergan assumes that the Council are far too afraid of letting their citizens know that these rebels exist to allow them to enter. So Tiergan easily finds Prentice’s dark eyes in the small crowd, looking back at him with a mixture of grief, anger, and—most dangerously—guilt.
I’m sorry , Tiergan transmits, though he knows the words are meaningless. But he can’t say anything more substantial, not with the possibility of Emery listening to every word.
Prentice says nothing, only turns away, breaking a part of Tiergan’s soul along with the eye contact.
Councillor Emery clears his throat once again. “Sir Tiergan,” he repeats, but Tiergan stays stubbornly silent. He knows this game. He hasn’t been asked to speak, and he won’t give them any more information than required. “Is your lawyer present?”
“I am,” a voice says from behind him, and Tiergan raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t requested any lawyer—partly because he had no desire to defend himself, and partly because he’d had hope, once, that this would be a quick process, that the world would be so kind as to allow him his Exile in peace. And yet, now Leto emerges from the shadows, and Tiergan’s eyes widen.
Leto? he transmits, to no response except for a slight falter in Leto’s stride.
The Council, too, seem surprised by his presence. The question of a lawyer is usually a mere formality—these Tribunals, rare as they are, are designed to be more of a show of the Council’s power than a genuine assessment of innocence. As such, Leto’s efforts are entirely fruitless—after all, from the moment that Quinlin and Alden had accused him, everyone had known that Tiergan was doomed to Exile. That’s how it always is with Tribunals: they’re simply a pretty show of power from the Council, a way to tell the accused that their lives are out of their control.
Tiergan meets Leto’s eyes and urges silently for him to leave, but Leto’s gaze instead snaps to a raised platform in front of the thrones, upon which two figures in full Emissary regalia are standing with sharp glares directed toward them.
Tiergan curses under his breath. The Cognates . He watches as Quinlin mutters something—a scathing comment, no doubt—in Alden’s ear, and Alden squeezes his colleague’s hand tightly.
Emery clears his throat once again, appearing to be entirely annoyed. “Lord Vacker, Lord Sonden. A pleasure to see you here.” Tiergan almost pities the man, somehow—he has some sympathy for anyone who has to deal with Quinlin and Alden’s ridiculousness.
Alden and Leto are busy locking themselves in a staring contest, so it’s Quinlin who replies, “A pleasure to be invited, Councillor.” His voice is carefully even, but years of knowing the man make the small wavers in his demeanour obvious to Tiergan. They don’t think they’re going to win , he realises with a jolt.
…Perhaps no-one really knows how this Tribunal is going to go.
He scans the crowd once more for Prentice, but his gaze instead lands on Livvy, quietly wiping away a tear in the corner. She’s the only other friend of his in attendance, though she, thankfully, seems far less angry about this whole situation than Prentice is.
Which can only mean that Prentice has yet to tell her about Tiergan’s sacrifice.
I’ll miss you , he transmits to her, and her gaze snaps up to his podium. He wants to say more, but it’s likely that Kenric or Emery are monitoring his transmissions, and he can’t afford to incriminate Livvy, too.
“I don’t see how any more evidence is necessary,” Alden says, and Tiergan realises that he’s been speaking. “Has he not already confessed to collaborating with rebel groups in a direct attempt to undermine the Council?”
The Council is silent for a moment—likely taking a moment to converse between themselves, Tiergan thinks—before Emery turns to him and asks, “Is this true, Sir Tiergan?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tiergan sees Leto shaking his head furiously, but he elects to ignore his lawyer’s advice. “Of course,” he replies, and lets a small smirk grow on his lips—the sole benefit of being inevitably sentenced to Exile is that he can say essentially whatever he wants, right now. And he’ll never miss an opportunity to get under Alden’s skin.
Predictably, Alden scowls, and has to be calmed by Quinlin holding his hand once again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tiergan wonders if Della is in the crowd—he hopes she and Livvy are able to laugh together about this later, rather than linger separately on the sorrow of his fate. The last thing he wants is for his friends to waste their time grieving—but he knows them well enough to know that they’ll each leave this room believing themselves to be alone.
As Quinlin and Alden lay out their extensive evidence in front of the Council, Tiergan finds himself once again searching for Prentice in the crowd, and is surprised to find his lover staring back at him. There’s something akin to anger, in his eyes—or perhaps grief, Tiergan isn’t quite sure.
You’re an idiot, Prentice's voice echoes through his mind.
I’m sorry , Tiergan repeats, though it’s just another one of the many lies he’s told today.
No, you’re not.
There are moments when Tiergan wishes that Prentice didn’t know him so well, that they weren’t the kind of devotion that leads to selfish sacrifices and rash mistakes, but here they are.
Promise me you’ll try to be happy, Tiergan says. If not for me, for Wylie and Cyrah. For the Moonlark .
Kenric’s head snaps up at that, and Tiergan curses silently as he remembers that his conversations are likely being monitored.
I don’t think I can be anything but angry right now, Prentice replies, quietly. You know I love you, darling, I do. But this? This isn’t rational, this is your own ridiculous, rash plan to protect me even when I told you I could handle myself!
Before Tiergan can answer, he’s cut off by Emery asking, “Sir Tiergan, your response to these claims?”
“I confess to all of it,” he says, before Leto can step in with some lie of a defense. He can feel his best friend’s glare boring into his head, but he avoids meeting Leto’s eyes—surely, he’ll understand eventually why Tiergan is doing this. This is for the good of the Black Swan, and the Moonlark, and, most importantly: Prentice, Cyrah, and Wylie.
“Then the matter is settled,” Emery says, after a moment. “Sir Tiergan Alenefar, you are hereby sentenced to a memory break and Exile. For life.”
A chatter rises within the crowd, and Tiergan rolls his eyes. This isn’t a surprise; he’s a rebel, and therefore a seed of a growing threat to the Council’s power. There was only ever one choice for the Council to make for him.
Two goblin guards move forward and grab Tiergan’s arms, forcing him to stand up from his seat, and Leto watches him leave with nothing less than pure shock.
I’m sorry , Tiergan tries to mouth, the millionth time that lie has been uttered, and Leto shakes his head.
It strikes Tiergan, then, that he’s never seen his best friend so utterly hopeless.
“Keep moving,” one of the guards huffs, and yanks him toward a doorway. “You get one hour before your memory break. Savour it.”
“Am I allowed visitors?” Tiergan asks, and it’s a pointless, desperate ask, the last request of a criminal walking to his doom.
The two guards share a look for a long moment, and then the one on his left says, “Fine. One visitor. But make it quick.”
They toss him into a cold, dark chamber, complete with dull stone and what looks like mold between the tiles. “Who do you want us to get?” the second guard asks, looming in the doorway.
It’s as simple an answer as any from today. “I want Prentice Endal.”