Select Valia Wain,

I do not know what to think of the events of your trial. I think I would be angry that you were declared innocent, except that the judge noted that you should not be - that a law should exist which made your speech a crime, but that none had yet been written. The Queen passed such a law this afternoon. I worry that many will find the result confusing, and think it means that you did no wrong. But it seems to me that we were instead shown that though the speech was not of good, the law did not prohibit it. It should have. But should the Queen choose to kill all people who have done wrong, the country could not bear it, and certainly I could not, either.

I spent most of this week absolutely furious with you. When I first heard your speech, I felt afraid. I felt that I was being told to give up a title that I did not have, and to abandon my wife and minor children for the sake of my own safety. I felt betrayed, because I had supported the Church and sought out its advice, and did not know then that you did not speak for it. After the riots, I felt very stupid - for having believed the Queen’s amnesty might matter, or the Church’s approval might keep my family safe. Stupid, and angry with myself - for telling myself that following the rules would keep me safe, when I knew that something precious to me was in danger.

You have heard what the mob did; I will not torment you further with it. I should tell you that although I was very upset when I found my daughter and my nephew dead, the archmage Naima later raised them. Many other people were not raised, of course. But you should not imagine that I have been separated from them forever.

I will tell you that afterwards I had dinner with, among other people, Count Cansellarion, who urged those in attendance towards mercy for both you and for the men who had killed others in the streets. I protested that the Queen must put both you and them to death, and he responded that we were not Calistrians. I felt hurt and angry again, because it was not about wanting you to suffer. Perhaps I did want to hurt you, at first. But much more of me wanted to be safe, and more importantly, for my family to be safe. I did not see how that could ever be achieved, if men believed that calling for my death was neither evil nor a crime.

Many people told me, after, that the attack should not have happened. Many people assured me that others would be sympathetic. For the most part, I did not believe them. I did not think the truth would be much defense for someone who had been denounced by an Iomedan Select, and whose face was a constant reminder of hell. None of these people thought to defend me in public, or to attempt to undo the damage your speech did. None, of course, apart from you, in the middle of the trial to decide your own fate, at great personal risk. 

I do not think that what you said should be legal, and I am glad that it is not today. I think that it was dangerous, and irresponsible, and did get people killed, and part of me still thinks that perhaps you should have died for it. I do not think this because I want you to suffer; I think it because I do not want anyone else in Westcrown to die, or to be emboldened to discuss how others should be killed. But I think I now understand a little more of what Count Cansellarion meant to say, when he said that you should live.

I have killed many people in my life. Some of them I killed in self defense. Some of them were bandits and murderers who had to die, to keep the peasants of my county safe. Some of them I killed out of selfishness and evil, or out of duty to an unworthy monarch. And some of them I killed out of unfounded fear, mistaken about the danger that they posed to me. 

For many years, the killing that weighed most heavily on me was one I committed when I was a very young man, in an attempt to protect my wife. I had thought that another man meant to do her harm. Others had tried to harm her in the past, so I was defensive, and frightened, and angry, and I misread his actions. In a fit of what I thought was righteous anger, I killed him, without first determining what was true. Afterwards, my wife informed me that the man was an innocent friend, who had been good to her. She was rightly very angry with me, and for a while refused to speak to me. Then, too, I felt very stupid, and very angry with myself.

Perhaps this is not how you feel. Perhaps these situations are less similar than I imagine. But I do know what it is to kill a man I did not know was a friend, through culpable carelessness. I do know what it is to wrestle with the knowledge that the mistake can never be undone, and that all one can do is hope to make up for it after. It is an awful, ugly feeling. 

Perhaps a man deserves to die for such a mistake. Perhaps even if he does not, he does deserve to die for all the much worse things that I have done in my life. But it is not for you, or for the mobs of Westcrown, to decide my fate, or for me to decide yours. Our Queen bids that both of us live on. Our goddess bids that both of us do what we can with our second chance, even if we do not deserve it. 

Since your speech, no words have done more to undo its damage to me in particular than the ones you spoke during your trial. I do not know if they will be enough, but I want to thank you anyway. They were brave, and they were appreciated, and I believe they did more for my safety than your death could possibly have done.

We are, both of us, condemned to spend the rest of our lives in an attempt to make up for the unfixable mistakes of our youth. It is a daunting task, for our mistakes are very great. But if we are fools, Select, we are not cowards, and I think we have courage enough to try anyway.

Pray for me, Select, and I will pray for you. May the rest of our lives be worthy enough to earn us Heaven, in spite of everything.

Goddess go with you,

Llei Napaciza, Regent of the County of Ilnea