“You may,” he answered back.

“I am a miller. My home is by the grainfields of the east. Three years ago my hand was crushed in an accident at my own mill. This liar who calls himself the only Troubadour mocked my crushed deformity and left me screaming in the night.”

“Had you no pity, Singer, for this man?” the Grand Musician asked.

“He had pity enough for himself. I could have made him whole,” the Singer said.

“How can you call yourself Earthmaker’s Son and have no pity? Earthmaker is merciful and filled with love.” He paced the marble stones before the crowd. At length he spoke, “Because you had no pity your hand shall be like his.”

He thought once more and said, “And now I pass the sentence. We shall break his lyre, then we shall break his hand and set him free. On the flesh of his forehead we shall burn the word ‘Liar’ and he shall live beneath his sentence all his life. So shall the sentence be of anyone who claims to be Earthmaker’s Son and sings a song which desecrates the Shrine.

“Bring out the block and mallet.”

The guards obeyed. They placed the Singer’s hand upon the block and brought the crushing mallet down.

The Singer winced.

The Miller walked up to the Singer who gently held his injured hand.

“Would you like pity from me, Singer?” he said through his teeth. “Here, Singer, is the only kind of pity that you know.” He spit into the Singer’s face and laughed.

The Madman strained against the chains and was about to rip them free. His struggle ended in futility. He could not look upon the suffering of the only man who knew him sane. He cried to see the spit of hate coursing down the Singer’s face.

“Crush his other hand before you set him free,” cried someone in the crowd. “Teach him through great pain that Earthmaker pities injury.”

“It’s true he must learn how to care,” the Grand Musician cried. “Place his other hand upon the block.”

Once more the mallet fell and the splintering of tendons shot burning agony throughout the Singer’s soul.

They laid his lyre upon the block and smashed it with the mallet that had fallen twice before.

“Sing for us!” they cried in vengeance. “Play and sing!” they said.

The Grand Musician turned his head and sang an ancient hymn while they spit again upon the Singer and struck him with their fists.

“You were going to heal the Miller’s hand,” cried someone in the crowd. “Sing healing to your own.”

When the Grand Musician finished singing all the ancient hymn, he turned back to the Singer who gazed in agony upon his broken hands. “Bring the fire and irons and we shall etch the name upon his face.”

They seared the word across his forehead … L I A R.

The Madman held his shaggy face and cried into his hands. His sobbing went unnoticed in the action of the trial.