By Kevina Clear
Doyle glanced around and nudged the fishmonger.
“Do you have the… goods?”
The fishmonger nodded. “Aye.” He slipped Doyle a parcel wrapped crudely in brown paper. “And, there’s a fine whiting,” he bellowed, pointing to a large, white fish lying on the table.
Did the man have to be so obvious?
“I’ll take it.” Doyle tapped his foot. “I was thinking of making fish stew tonight.”
The fishmonger nodded and wrapped it up. “Are you the one who sells food out of the castle kitchen?”
“That’s right.” Doyle hated upcharging starving people, but it was the only way to keep feeding the king.
All this ends today.
Doyle paid the man and hurried away, slipping the parcel into his pocket and carrying the wrapped whiting under his arm.
He entered the town square. The once bustling market was quiet—hard times brought on by the war. Decay and ruin were all that remained of a once glorious kingdom.
Doyle scoffed. Dubious glory. As if a kingdom that purged its “unnecessary” citizens could ever be glorious.
He could still see Leena as the soldiers dragged her away, her little face that loved to laugh contorted with fear, her tiny hands straining out toward him. The king will read about her now. And about the hundreds of other people he murdered.
His sister had been the light of his family. When they murdered her, the light died. That day, he vowed to avenge her.
Doyle had traveled the kingdom, searching for stories from other families of the purged, writing it all in The Testaments. Every account ended with the same words: Justice will be served.
Today, his years of planning would come to fruition.
Doyle pushed open the castle’s kitchen door. He never bothered locking it. This place had nothing worth stealing. The conquerors had stripped everything of value from the city, yet left the king alive, knowing he’d pose no threat. His own people hated him.
Doyle almost pitied him. Almost.
Then he remembered Leena. Justice must be served.
Doyle unwrapped his parcel on the table to reveal a vibrant red fillet of fish. It looked delicious, but one bite would render a man unable to move, speak, or breathe. Within minutes he would be dead.
It would pair nicely with asparagus.
That evening, Doyle pulled a pan out of the oven and examined the deadly fish braising in a pool of broth. Not quite done.
After stoking the fire, he stirred his stew, bubbling in a vat over the open fire. Aromas of onion, oregano, lavender, and rosemary wafted up to him. He dipped out a spoonful and brought it to his lips.
His mind transported him back to another time, another kitchen—the kitchen where he’d learned to cook.
Myrna stirred the pot and tasted the stew. “This is very good, Doyle. You’re improving.”
He tried it and nodded.
The evening light shone through her golden-brown hair curling out from under her cap, making a halo around her face. She smiled shyly at him. “What are you looking at?”
“You.”
It was moments like these when he wished he hadn’t dedicated his life to revenge. He’d intended to remain at her family’s inn just long enough to record her brother’s story. But he stayed. For her.
“Myrna,” he started. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Go on.”
“I haven’t told you why I’m collecting the testaments.”
“You don’t want anyone to forget. You want everyone to know their lives had value.”
“That’s not all. I’m going to take them to the king and make him read them.”
“Good. He needs to know more than anyone.”
“And then I’m going to kill him.”
She dropped the ladle. “What?”
“I’m going to kill the king.”
She turned away.
After a tense minute, Myrna glanced back. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right.”
“What do you mean? It’s justice.”
Her eyes, which were full of joy minutes before, now brimmed with tears. “Is it? Two wrongs don’t make a right. Will killing him make our siblings’ deaths any less senseless?”
“He deserves to die.”
“It’s not for you to decide.”
“You’re defending him now?”
“No! But… what was the worst thing he did?”
“What?”
“Answer me.”
“He told people their lives don’t matter just because they look or think or move differently. He decided whose life was worthless and who deserved to live.”
“Yes, he believed he knew who should live and who should die. No one on earth has that power. Don’t you see? You’re doing the same thing. If you kill him, you’re no better than him.”
Why that memory now when he was so close to achieving justice? Is it justice?
He couldn’t shake Myrna’s words from his mind.
Yates, the butler, strode into the room. “His Majesty is asking for you.”
Doyle set down the spoon and followed Yates to the king’s chamber. King Percival sat at his table, the testaments in front of him.
Good. He’s seen them. Doyle knocked on the doorframe.
The king stared at the books. “Carter?”
“Yes.”
“She was your sister, wasn’t she? Leena Carter.”
“That’s right.” Doyle struggled to breathe. The ache in his throat tightened.
The king faced Doyle. “I’m truly sorry.” A large tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek. “I… What can I say? Nothing can make it right. Nothing will bring them back.” He shook his head. “I’ve caused so much… I deserve to die.”
What would Myrna do? Forgive him. But Doyle couldn’t. He wasn’t that strong. It was easier to hold onto the loss, the pain, the hate. Twenty years he’d carried it. Nearly half his life.
Maybe it was time.
He thought of Leena. Her beautiful life. Her love.
And he knew what he had to do. “That’s what I thought once. But it’s not for me—or you—to decide.”
Myrna was right. Forgiveness was more powerful than justice.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Love the message! Such a beautiful tale of forgiveness and mercy!
Thank you, Beka!
I love this beautiful story of forgiveness!