“Priest killer!” a lone voice shouted from the darkness. Ki saw several of the guards look around for the dissident, and a sense of unreality swept over him. These streets he’d ridden so freely suddenly felt like enemy territory.
Tobin and Korin rode at saddle attention, stiff as a pair of pokers, but Tobin was glancing around, alert to any threat. Ki wished he could see his friend’s face, read in those blue eyes what Tobin thought of all this, for suddenly he was more aware than he ever had been of the gulf that separated them—not of wealth, but of blood and history and position.
The crowds were thicker near the East Market. Many held up torches to light the king’s way and Ki scanned their faces: some looked sad, others smiled and waved. Here and there he saw people weeping.
Ki tensed, sweeping the crowd now for the glint of a blade or curve of a bow. He shivered with a mix of relief and dread as the gate finally come into sight ahead of them. He could already hear the sounds of a huge crowd.
This was the largest square in the city. Located halfway between the Palatine and the harbor, it was surrounded on three sides by tall buildings, including a theater the Companions had often patronized. The paved square sloped to the east and was bounded on that side by a low stone parapet overlooking a small wooded park and the harbor below.
Ki hardly recognized the place tonight. All the stalls had been cleared away and people stood shoulder to shoulder except for a processional way kept clear by Niryn’s grey-backs. Even the shrine of the Four was gone. That, even more than the sight of all those Harrier guards, gave him a strange sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
At the center of the square a broad, banner-draped platform rose like an island above the sea of faces. It was guarded on all sides by ranks of grey-backs armed with hand axes and swords. Eight white-robed wizards stood waiting there. Torches set at the four corners illuminated their silver-stitched robes, and the two large wooden frames looming just behind them.
They look like upended bedsteads, or doorways with no walls around them, thought Ki, already guessing their purpose from the stories he’d heard. Just behind them loomed a more familiar device: the stark frame of a gibbet. Ladders were propped ready against the crossbeam and Ki counted fifteen halters hanging ready.
A crowd of ministers and nobles sat their horses in the cleared space in front of the platform and Ki was glad to see Lord Hylus among them. No doubt Nikides was breathing a sigh of relief, too, though the old man looked to have aged ten years since the night before.
The crowd fell silent at the king’s approach. The only sounds were the drums and the sound of hooves on the cobblestones.
Korin and the Companions lined on the king’s right, as ordered. Taking his place just behind Tobin, Ki steadied Dragon and rested his hand on his sword hilt.
Niryn dismounted and followed the herald onto the platform. The drummers ceased their playing and for a moment Ki could hear the sea. The Harrier wizards bowed low to the king, then formed up in a semicircle behind their master.
“Witness, all you who have gathered here, the sacred justice of the king!” cried the herald. “By order of King Erius, Heir of Ghërilain, Holder of the Sword, and Protector of Skala, these enemies of Skala will be put to death before this gathering and the Four. Know that they are traitors against the throne and all lawful people.”
Some cheered this proclamation, but most only murmured among themselves in low voices. In the distance someone shouted angrily, but he was quickly drowned out by other voices.
The herald unrolled a scroll heavy with seals and read out the names of the condemned and the charges against them. The fourth was the young priest who’d thrown the cabbage. His name was Thelanor and he was charged with treason, sedition, and assault against the person of the Prince Royal. He’d already been branded across the mouth with the traitor’s T, the mark of a heretic priest. Guards on the far side of the platform hoisted the bound prisoners into the waiting arms of the hangmen.
The condemned wore long sleeveless tunics of coarse, unbleached muslin. There were a few women among them, but most were men and boys. Most bore the traitor’s brand on their foreheads and all were gagged. Only two others, an old man and woman with grey hair and thin, wrinkled faces, were branded on the mouth like Thelanor. They held their heads high as the guards pushed them to the ladders.
Ki had gone with his family to see thieves and brigands hanged in Colath. The crowds had roared for blood and pelted them with whatever came to hand. Ki and his brothers and sisters had thought it great fun, scavenging stones and rotten apples to throw. His father had given them a copper groat for each hit to spend later at the sweet seller’s booth.
Ki looked around with growing unease. Only a few people threw things and he didn’t see many children at all, except for those standing under the gibbet. One of the boys looked so much like his brother Amin that Ki almost called out to him in alarm before he heard the stranger’s name read.
The drummers beat out a quick tattoo. Soldiers braced the ladders against the gibbet beam and, one by one, the prisoners were forced up to the halters. A cheer went up from the other Companions as the first man was pushed off to jerk at the rope’s end.
Korin brandished his sword, shouting “Death to Skala’s enemies! Long live the king!”
The others were quick to do the same and none quicker than eager Orneus. Ki was sure he saw the boy look to see if Korin was watching him and despised him for it.
Tobin had drawn his sword with the rest, but didn’t wave it about or cheer. Ki couldn’t muster much enthusiasm, either.
The second man struggled and cried and had to be pried free of the ladder. This panicked some of the other prisoners and for a moment it looked as if the soldiers might have to force them all.
The crowd was warming up now, and a flurry of rotten vegetables rained down on the condemned and their guards.
A woman was the next hanged, and then it was young Thelanor’s turn. He tried to shout something through his gag, but no one could have heard him over the noise anyway. In the end he went to his death like a man, leaping off the ladder before the guards could push him.
A few of the remaining prisoners had to be forced up, but most of them must have been braver, or shamed by the priest’s example. One man made the warriors’ salute as best he could with his bound hands and flung himself off. The jeering of the crowd failed for an instant, then redoubled as the next man clung to the rungs, struggling and pissing himself as the guards beat him about the head. The young boys and women went more quietly.
The old priests’ turns came last. They didn’t hesitate, except to raise their bound hands to their hearts and brows before they climbed the ladders. This impressed even the lowest sort in the crowd and no one threw anything at them. Both tumbled off the ladders without struggle or protest.
The crowd was almost silent now. Ki thought he heard weeping. The old people had died quickly, their frail necks snapping like dry sticks. But the women and children were light and the warriors had necks like bulls; most struggled hard and long before Bilairy claimed them. Ki had to force himself to watch, not wanting to shame Tobin by turning away. Usually hangmen gave the strugglers a good yank on the legs to put them out of their misery, but no one helped them tonight.
When it was finally over the drumming resumed with a sharper, faster rhythm. A large, high-sided cart rumbled into the square, pulled by a pair of black oxen and surrounded by ranks of grey-backs with shields and upright swords. Six Harrier wizards stood in the back of the cart, facing inward with their arms linked.
No one dared throw anything at them, but an ugly muttering swelled to screams of anger and outrage. Ki shivered, feeling the sudden fury like a wave of nausea. But whether it was the Harrier wizards or their unseen prisoners who were jeered, he could not tell.
Tobin had never seen an execution before and it had taken all his willpower tonight not to kick Gosi into a gallop and flee. What little dinner he’d managed roiled and burned a
t the base of his throat and he swallowed convulsively, praying Korin and Porion would not see his weakness. None of the others seemed to be bothered by the spectacle; Korin was acting like this was the finest entertainment he’d ever seen, and shared whispered bets with some of the others on which of the hanged prisoners would last the longest.
As the cart reached the platform a sudden, irrational fear overwhelmed Tobin. What if it was Arkoniel they pulled out, or Iya? Gripping the reins so tight his fingers ached, he watched as two naked prisoners were dragged from the cart.
It’s not them! he thought, dizzy with relief. Both were men and neither was hairy like Arkoniel. There was no reason to think that it would have been him, he realized, but for an instant the possibility had seemed all too real.
Both men had elaborate patterns painted in red on their chests, and iron masks strapped over their faces. These were featureless except for slanting slits where the eyes and nose would be and gave the prisoners an evil, inhuman appearance. Metal shackles bound their wrists.
The guards forced them to their knees and Niryn stepped behind them, raising his hands above their heads. He’d always struck Tobin as rather bookish, but now he seemed to swell and grow taller, looming over the condemned.
“Behold the enemies of Skala!” he cried in a voice that carried to the farthest corners of the square. He waited until the renewed roar died away, then went on, “Behold these so-called wizards, who would overthrow the rightful ruler of Skala. Witches! Blighters of crops and flocks, preachers of sedition, these storm bringers call down lightning and fire on the innocent people of their villages. They defile the sacred name of Illior with perverse magics and threaten the very safety of our land!”
Tobin shuddered; these were charges of the most serious nature. Yet as he looked at the condemned wizards, it struck him how helpless and ordinary they looked. It was hard to imagine them hurting anyone.
Niryn pressed both hands to his brow and heart, then bowed low to the king. “King Erius, what is your will?”
Erius dismounted and climbed up to join him. Facing the crowd, he drew Ghërilain’s sword and planted the tip between his feet, hands folded over the hilt. “Cleanse the land, loyal wizards of Skala,” he cried. “Protect my people!”
No soldier stepped forward. Instead, Harrier wizards dragged the condemned to the upright frames. Three stood a little apart, chanting steadily as the prisoners were loosed from their shackles and quickly bound spread-eagle to the frames with silver ropes.
One of them seemed drugged or ill. His legs would not support him and he had to be held upright as he was lashed into place. The other one was not so passive. Just as the wizards reached to tie his hands, he suddenly twisted loose and staggered forward. Raising his hands to his face, he let out a muffled scream and the iron mask shattered in a cloud of smoke and sparks. Blood spattered the robes of the closest wizards. Tobin watched in horrified fascination, unable to look away. The man’s bloody face was horribly torn, and twisted with agony. Shattered teeth showed in a defiant snarl as he raised his fists at the crowd, screaming, “Fools! Blind cattle!”
The wizards grappled with him, but the man fought wildly, throwing them off. “Your reckoning will come!” he shouted, pointing at the king. “The True Queen is at hand. She is among us already—”
He jerked away as another wizard seized him and suddenly he was staring straight down at Tobin.
Tobin thought he saw a spark of sudden recognition in those crazed eyes. A strange tingling sensation spread over him as they stared at each other, locked eye to eye, for what felt like a long time.
He sees me! He sees my real face! Tobin thought numbly as something like joy came into the man’s eyes. Then the others were on him again, dragging him back.
Freed from that gaze, Tobin looked around in panic, wondering if the crowd would let him flee if Niryn denounced him. From the corner of his eye he saw the wizard and king standing apart from the scuffle, but didn’t dare look directly at them. Were they staring at him? Had they understood? When he finally chanced a look, however, both were watching the execution proceed.
The Harrier wizards hauled the struggling man back by his arms and hair, yanking his head down so that another could gag him.
“Lightbearer will not be mocked!” he managed as they forced a loop of the silver rope between his teeth. Even then he kept fighting. Transfixed, Tobin didn’t notice the king move until he’d plunged the Sword of Ghërilain into the man’s belly.
“No!” Tobin whispered, horrified to see that honorable blade stained with a prisoner’s blood. The captive thrashed once, then crumpled forward as Erius withdrew the blade.
The wizards held the man upright and Niryn pressed his hand to the man’s brow. Still alive, the prisoner spat at him, leaving another red stain on his white robes. Niryn ignored this insult and began to chant softly.
The prisoner’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and his legs gave way. After that it was a simple matter to bind him into place on the frame.
“Proceed,” Erius ordered, calmly wiping his blade clean.
With order restored, the wizards formed a circle around the frames and began a new chant. It grew louder and louder until white flames, brighter than anything Tobin had ever seen blossomed over the condemned men’s bodies. There was no smoke, and none of the stench that sometimes wafted into the city from the burning grounds outside the walls. The doomed wizards struggled for a few seconds, then were consumed as quickly and completely as a moth’s wing in a candle flame. Within a few seconds nothing remained of them but their charred hands and feet, still hanging in the silver bonds at the corners of the scorched wooden frame.
The searing brightness left dark spots before Tobin’s eyes. He tried in vain to blink them away as he stared at the frame on the left, remembering that look of recognition he’d glimpsed in the man’s pain-wracked face. Then the world was tilting crazily around him. The square, the jeering crowd, the pathetic, shriveled scraps on the frames, it all disappeared and Tobin was staring instead at a gleaming golden city set on a high cliff above the sea.
Only Ki was close enough to hear Tobin’s faint cry as he slumped slowly over Gosi’s neck, and he didn’t understood the single word Tobin gasped out, nor would Tobin remember it for a long time.
“Rhiminee!”
No one, not even Niryn, noticed a tiny charred pebble lying among the ashes of the wizards.
Twenty miles away, under that same yellow moon, Iya rested her head on a tavern tabletop, gasping as white fire filled her vision as it had that day in Ero. In it she made out another doomed face, twisted in agony. It was Kiriar. Kiriar of Meadford. She’d given him a talisman that night in the Wormhole.
The pain passed quickly, but left her badly shaken. “O Illior, not him!” she moaned. Had they tortured him, learned of the little band of wizards hidden away under their feet?
Slowly she became aware of the tavern noise around her.
“You’ve hurt yourself.” It was a drysian. Iya had noticed her earlier, healing village children outside the shrine. “Let me tend to you, old mother.”
Iya looked down. The clay wine cup she’d been drinking from had shattered in her hand. The shards had cut her palm, crosshatching the faded scar Brother had given her the night she’d brought Ki to the keep. A sliver still jutted from the swell of flesh just below her thumb. Too weak to reply, she let the drysian wash and dress her wounds.
When she’d finished, the woman laid her hand on Iya’s head, sending a cool soothing energy through her. Iya smelled fresh green shoots and new leaves. The sweet tang of springwater filled her dry mouth.
“You’re welcome to sleep under my roof tonight, Mistress.”
“Thank you, Mistress.” Better to sleep on Dalna’s hearth tonight, than here where too many curious idlers were still watching the crazy old woman to see what foolishness she’d do next. Better, too, to be with a healer if the awful pain returned. Who knew how many wizards Niryn might burn tonight?
<
br /> The drysian helped her down the muddy street to a small cottage at the edge of the village and settled her on a soft bed by the fire. Names were neither asked for nor given.
Lying there, Iya was glad of the thick bands of protective symbols carved in the beams and the hanging bags of charms. Sakor might be at war with the Lightbearer in Skala, but the Maker still watched over all equally.
Despite that, Iya found little comfort that night. Every time sleep claimed her she dreamed of the sybil in Afra. The girl looked up at her with shining white eyes and spoke with the Lightbearer’s voice.
This must stop.
In the vision, Iya fell on her face before her, weeping.
Chapter 25
Arkoniel had watched the Alestun road hopefully in the months since Iya’s visit. Spring had passed with no visitors. Summer burned the meadow brown, and still no one but tradesmen and Tobin’s messengers raised any dust above the trees.
It had been another blisteringly hot summer; even the valley around Alestun, spared the worst of the ongoing droughts for years, was struck. Crops withered in the fields and new calves and lambs died in the meadows. The river shrank to a gurgling stream between cracked, stinking expanses of mud and dead water plants. Arkoniel stripped to a linen kilt again and the women went about in their shifts.
Be was working in the kitchen garden late one afternoon in Lenthin, helping Cook dig the last of the yellowed leeks, when Nari shouted down to them from a second floor window. A man and a boy were coming up the road.
Arkoniel stood and brushed the dirt from his hands. “Do you know them?”
“No, it’s strangers. I’ll go.”
Watching from the gate, however, Arkoniel recognized the broad-set, grey-bearded man walking beside Nari, but not the little boy perched among the baggage on the sway-back horse the man led.
“Kaulin of Getni!” Arkoniel called, crossing the bridge to meet them. It had been ten years or more since he’d watched Iya give the man one of her pebble tokens. Kaulin had been solitary then. His little companion looked no older than eight or nine.