The Clan of Outcasts (Seasons 1 and 2)

Part 4: "Legends"

The Castle

He wasn't opposed to waiting. Being a Mage meant knowing what was going to happen much later, and finding contentment in letting the present pass until it did. This time should not have been any different.

Except he had not foreseen this particular event.

"Mage Korsan!"

His guards announced his name—part of it—as they dragged him into the court. The Royal Council in their silver-grey robes nearly blended into the marble furnishings. They kept their hoods over their faces, the illusion of an impartial, impassive governing body.

"You stand accused of blasphemy, of false prophecies to undermine the authority of this kingdom," said one of the councilors. "How do you plead?"

Korsan held his head high. They still feared him, feared the power he held if they had dared say his full name.

"I stand in support of the True King and his descendants!" He declared in a clear voice.

"The King is dead." The cold voice cut from the side of the room. "His family is scattered. The Royal Council rules the land."

"A serpent with two heads straining in opposing directions will risk devouring itself," Korsan replied. "How can a governing body lead as one, when they are so divided amongst each other?"

"Do not question our competence!" Screamed a portly cloaked shape on the other side.

Korsan kept his hands folded, fingering the talisman hanging from his belt. The cool blue gem kept him from losing his temper entirely. "If it pleases the court," he said slowly, "may I know of what I am being accused?"

A murmur rippled through the assembly.

"You have long dissented against the policies of civic order instituted by this Council," droned another grey-robed individual, "and your outrageous claims against the crown—not to mention your failed attempts at prophecy—have prompted an inquiry into the true extent of your patriotism."

The Mage raised an eyebrow. "And my effectiveness as a Mage, apparently."

The presiding Councillor sniffed. "Yes, well, the late King Balwyn—angels rest his soul—did engage in the propagation of questionable practices. His faith in you was clearly misplaced—"

Korsan snorted. "Clearly! Since the plague that swept the land did not harm those who took my advice and sought the King's Healer—"

"She poisoned the King and Queen!"

"No!" Korsan raised his hand and pointed, causing the councilors in the front row to shrink back and cry out in alarm. "Your own Mage did this!"

"YOU STAND ACCUSED OF TREASON AND YOU WOULD SPEAK THUS?" The Chief Councillor bounded to his feet, his hands clenched and purple at his sides, his body quivering.

Korsan felt the talisman surge in warning; it would not do to enrage the high-strung council. Perhaps he could eventually make them see reason. "Forgive me," he said, "it was not my place—"

The High Councillor made an impatient gesture with his hands. "Take him away!" He spat.

The guards surged forward and grabbed Korsan by the arms. Once outside the main courts, they shoved him roughly forward.

Korsan winced as the rough flagstones cut into his hands. Struggling to his feet, he trudged toward his quarters in the tower to contemplate this turn of events.