Free Seraphs by Faith Hunter Page A

When the brand was applied, he whipped his body hard. The hot iron dug into his flesh as he wrenched away, tearing the cheek in a gush of blood. I wanted to gag.
    I looked at Ciana. She had stopped struggling, her head buried in Lucas’ shoulder. Thank God. She shouldn’t see this—no one should—though the townsfolk were enjoying the show. I smelled moonshine, candy, and popcorn. My stomach rolled over again.
    A woman’s voice carried from the back of the room as the man was carted past, the words rapid-fire, without a space between for an answer. “Do you repent of the blasphemy? Do you have anything to say to our viewers? What does your family think about you joining the Earth Invasion Heretics?”
    As one, the entire crowd craned around. Romona Benson, the television reporter, held a microphone to the injured man. Like he could talk with his face ripped half away. Behind her, a cameraman walked backward, getting video of the prisoner and the TV journalist. I guess brandings might qualify as news, but I doubted the Federal Satellite Broadcast Administration would allow the footage to air. Blood seldom got airtime.
    And then it hit me. A licensed witchy-woman brought before the town fathers for an infraction would be news. I would be something they could air, something sensational and scandalous. My trial would be breaking news, interrupting every soap, cartoon, commercial, movie, or weather update. Seraph stones. I was going to be on TV. And so were the orthodox town citizens who wanted all mages dead. If I had to fight my way out of here, the entire world would know that a neomage had spilled human blood. Those who hated and feared mages would rise up.
    My trial had been orchestrated, placing me in position to polarize the human world against mages. It was a masterful move.
    I groaned under my breath and dropped my head. Audric, leaning in from the pew behind, caught my shoulder in his fist, keeping me upright as if he thought I would bury my face in my lap. “You will not hide, Thorn,” he said, for my ears only. “You will not.”
    I didn’t need the threat. I knew now what I was up against. I sat straight, pushing away the sick feeling, and concentrated on the men sitting at the judgment bench. Once, there had been a pulpit, choir seats, a baptismal pool. Now, serving as the judges’ bench, there was a long table with seats for seven town fathers behind it. To one side was a chair used as a witness stand, two rows of seats for the accused and witnesses, and places for the younger elders who acted as bailiffs and guards. All could be seen from any part of the old sanctuary, and were fully visible to the camera in the back.
    The town fathers—kirk elders and elected officials—sat in the judgment seat. I knew only a few of them by name, and of them one was a friend of sorts, and one was an enemy. I bought my bread from Shamus Waldroup. Elder Culpepper, sitting beside him on the dais, was newly elected to the judgment seat. His eyes were on me, glowing with malice and satisfaction. It was a pretty good bet he had assisted with planning today’s events. It was no secret that the elder and his son Derek hated all mages and were powerful men in Mineral City. The elder was orthodox; his son was reformed. Neither man liked me. I had spoiled a lucrative business deal when I melted the Trine’s ice cap and made it needless for the town to move. Most people hadn’t known I was responsible for that. Somehow, they had found out.
    I should have worn the dobok, I thought irrelevantly. My hands were sweating and my breath came too fast. I steadied myself with deep breaths, listening as business matters came before the court—property disputes that dated back to the Last War, disagreements over who actually owned land that had changed hands during the times of disruption after the three plagues. A delinquent payment on a loan was presented. All were tabled for further fact-gathering, the gavel strident. Behind me, the