Round and round he went, caught in a circular loop from which there was no escape, and so it was with great relief that he stood up as Robbert opened his cell door. He was hoping it was the Fist, but his heart took wing when he saw who it was.
“Ravin.”
“Fen.” She ran across the cell and threw her arms around him, burying her face against his neck. Her tears flowed freely, and her body shook with sobs. Fen felt his own tears start in response. It was some time before her sobbing died off, and she pulled back to look up at him.
“Please don’t,” he said before she could speak.
She blinked through her tears. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t try to talk me into leading a rebellion or running away. I don’t think I can go through that again.”
“Would it do any good if I did?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but—”
She stopped him by putting her finger on his lips. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry for being who you are. Of course, I wish you would run. Even if I never saw you again, just to know that you’re still alive out there somewhere…” She trailed off and fought back fresh sobs. She was trembling. “But if you did that, you wouldn’t be the man I love.” She swallowed and tried to smile, tried to be brave. “I love you for who you are. I would never try and change you. I hope you know that.”
Her smile wavered and broke, and she threw her arms around him again. Fen didn’t know how long they stood there that time. Time lost all meaning. There was only the moment, each of them clinging to the other, knowing this was probably the last time.
Finally, the cell door opened again. Robbert cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, “but my shift is ending and…” He stepped back out into the corridor to give them a last minute alone.
“I won’t be there,” Ravin murmured brokenly. “Tomorrow, I mean. I can’t…I can’t watch when they…”
“Don’t give up hope,” Fen said. “He might still come. He might change his mind.”
“I’ll pray. I’ll stay up all night praying.” But he could see in her eyes that she didn’t believe there was a chance the Fist would show.
The cell door closed after her. He stood there listening as her footsteps receded down the corridor. He had never felt so utterly alone in his entire life. He came so close to calling after her, to tell her he’d changed his mind, he’d escape, and they’d run away together.
Then the next door closed, and she was gone completely. Fen sat down on his cot, put his head in his hands and wept. He didn’t weep for himself. He wept for the loss of the future they might have had together, the laughter, the tears, all the multitude of moments that comprised a life together.
╬ ╬ ╬
Fen sat there, staring at the darkness. He didn’t know what time it was, though he guessed midnight had long since passed. He’d spent the last few bells inside himself, flinging himself over and over at the icy barrier Ilsith had left there. It did no good.
Now, utterly spent, his hands and forearms covered with fresh frostbite blisters, he gave himself over to despair. He’d failed. He couldn’t deny that any longer. He’d sworn to protect the people of Samkara from their enemies, and he’d failed. He’d hesitated too long, not acting even when he knew what the Ankharans were and the threat they posed. Making things even worse was the fact that he’d had the power to do something. He’d had it all along. And yet still he’d done nothing.
Footsteps approached. The cell door opened. Fen looked up, wondering if it was morning already, and the jailer was coming to fetch him for his execution.
But it was not the jailer who entered the cell.
It was the Fist.
Fen jumped to his feet, then remembered himself and went to one knee, his head bowed.
“Why didn’t you take it?” the Fist asked, his voice thick with suppressed emotion.
Fen looked up, confused. “Sire?”
“The key. Why didn’t you take it?”
His words stunned Fen. It didn’t seem possible. “You knew about the key?”
“Of course, I did,” the Fist snarled. “Do you think me an idiot? I knew about your friend and your girl visiting here. I was the one who okayed it. I gave the order that put the key in Cowley’s hand.”
Fen was having trouble making sense of it all. “But…why?”
“Because I wanted you to run, that’s why. I thought they would be able to convince you to run.” The Fist glared down at him. He looked disheveled, his tunic untucked, his trousers with a rip in the knee. There was blood at the corner of his mouth and a manic look in his eyes. “I should have known better,” he rasped harshly. “I should have known you wouldn’t take it.”
“You wanted me to run?”
“You think I want to execute you? You’ve been like a…” He bit down on the words and didn’t finish the sentence. He pointed a thick finger at Fen. “I’m here to give you one last chance.”
Fen straightened. “I won’t run.”
“You think I don’t know that? I didn’t come here to change your mind. If the two of them can’t change it, what chance would I have? I’m talking about in the morning, when you stand before the executioner’s block. You’ll have a final chance to speak. Throw yourself on my mercy. Say you’ve seen your error. Apologize and beg my forgiveness. Do that and I’ll commute your sentence. You’ll never rejoin the army, but you’ll be alive.”
Fen wanted to take his offer. He didn’t want to die. As the moment of his death grew ever closer, he realized how badly he wanted to live. He and Ravin could go away. They could have a life somewhere.
But then he turned his attention outward, away from himself. He looked at the Fist, really looked, and what he saw hurt. The Fist’s eyes looked strange. There was an unnatural hunger there, something that could not be denied for much longer. Fen wondered how long it had been since he’d fed. How long until he would feed again?
And like that he knew what his answer would be.
“No. I won’t.”
“What?” the Fist thundered.
“I won’t.”
“Why not?” Both the man’s hands were clenched into fists. A vein throbbed in his forehead. Fen thought he might physically attack him.
“If I do, will you renounce the Ankharans and chase them from the city?” Fen saw the answer in the Fist’s eyes. No words were necessary. “They’re evil. How can you still not see that?”
“They delivered our enemies to us, and you call them evil?”
“Look at yourself, Barik,” Fen said. “Take a moment and look at yourself. Look at what you’ve become. You feed on living people. They made you this way. How is this not evil?”
The Fist fell back a half step. He opened his mouth, but at first no words came out. He waved Fen’s words aside with one hand. “It is a temporary thing. Only until we have the pieces of the key. Then it will no longer be necessary. In war there are times that—”
“That’s a lie.”
The Fist advanced on him. One powerful hand reached for Fen’s throat. “You dare speak to your Fist this way?”
Fen didn’t flinch away. He stared steadily at the man. “If by this way you mean the truth, then yes. You told me long ago to always speak the truth to you. My greatest sorrow is that I did not do so sooner and more forcefully. The Ankharans are lying to you. About everything. They’re using you, they’re using all of us, for their own ends. Getting the key has nothing to do with achieving the power of the gods. It’s about opening our world to the Devourers.”
“Again with the Devourers,” the Fist replied. “You sound like a child afraid of a fairy tale.”
Fen came to attention. “I am no child. I’m a man, a soldier. I vowed to protect you and my nation with my life. If that means being executed, then so be it. But I will not stand by, and let those sorcerers work their evil unopposed.”
The Fist’s eyes narrowed. “You go too far.”
“No. The problem is I was always af
raid to go far enough. I should have stood up sooner.”
The Fist stared at him for a moment longer, then something seemed to crack inside him. Sudden loss and fear showed in his eyes before he turned his face away. “You’ll die. Your head will roll, and nothing will change.” His words were much softer than before.
“Then I’ll die. I hope only that my death is what it finally takes.”
“Takes for what?” The Fist was practically whispering.
“For you to see the truth.”
The Fist took a step back. He raised one hand as if about to speak, then lowered it. He went through the door and started to close it. “You made your choice.” Fen stood unmoving, staring at him. The Fist glowered at him and slammed the door shut.
Chapter Ten
Fen sat on his cot, awake, the rest of the night. When his cell door opened again, he stood up and walked over to the door. Robbert looked like he’d hardly slept. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he’d missed one of the buttons on his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he said miserably.
“Don’t be,” Fen replied. “I made my choice. I’m at peace with it.” And he was. The despair he’d felt earlier was gone. In its place was a sort of fatalistic certainty. He didn’t want to die. At that moment even his cell seemed a beautiful place. Life was precious, and he’d never been more aware of that fact.
But at the same time, he knew he was doing the right thing. He didn’t know what would come of his death, but that was no longer his problem. He could go to his death knowing he’d not betrayed his guiding principles. And in this world, what more could a person do? It was likely that even if he could go back in time and do everything differently, that he still wouldn’t be able to stop the Ankharans. Maybe the best a person could do was stay true to himself. Maybe that was the only thing he could really control. It was possible he was still making a mistake, but his error wouldn’t come because he’d betrayed what he stood for. It might not seem like much to others, but to Fen right then it meant everything.
“It’s okay,” Fen told Robbert. “Really.”
Robbert gave him a look that was half incredulity and half awe. “Don’t mean I have to like it,” he said as he clamped manacles on Fen’s wrists. “And if I thought it’d make a difference, I’d…”
“I know that.” Fen put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hold onto that feeling. The cusp is coming. Soon the people of this city will have to decide where they stand. I know when it happens you will make the right choice.”
Robbert wiped at his eyes and stepped back. “How can you be so calm?” he said in a hoarse voice.
Fen considered this. “I’ve made my decision and it’s the right one for me. Funny, I often wondered if I had the courage. If, when the key moment came, I would act in line with my beliefs or if I’d run. Now I know the answer.”
He left the cell for the last time, Robbert following. They walked out of the prison. It was just after dawn. There were a few clouds, and the wind was brisk. Birds wheeled in the sky. The path from the prison to the front gates was lined with jailers. On some faces Fen saw eager contempt. Wats grinned darkly at him and made a throat-slitting gesture. But on many faces he saw something else. Was it hope? Resolve? Determination? Or perhaps a mix of all three?
The gates swung open as Fen approached. On the other side was a thick wall of soldiers and city watch, hundreds of them with weapons in hand, holding back the crowd. When Fen appeared in the open gates a peculiar sound arose from the crowd, a sort of animal mix of need and fear and uncertainty. The emotions swirled in the air, so thick Fen could almost taste them.
To the right was the raised executioner’s platform. Ranks of soldiers stood before it, weapons drawn, eyes fixed nervously on the crowd which tightly packed the plaza. Fen climbed the stairs, feeling the eyes of the crowd on his every step. They seemed to need something from him, and he wondered what it was. Would his death provide it to them?
Near the front of the platform was the executioner’s block, beside it the executioner in his black hood. Only his eyes were visible. His torso was bare except for studded leather straps that crisscrossed his chest. Over his shoulder was a single-bitted axe. The half-moon blade gleamed in the morning sunlight.
A handful of jailers and functionaries stood in a knot on the far side of the platform. At their head was the Fist. Flanking him were the two Ankharan sorcerers still remaining in the city. They looked at Fen with cold, dead eyes. Fen saw something move under the sleeve of one. When the man shifted, Fen saw the faintest hint of purple energy crackling on the back of his hand.
The Fist looked worse than he had just a few hours before. Fen could see that it had been days since he’d shaved. Stubble covered his cheeks and neck. His eyes were red and hollow his skin gray. He fixed his eyes on Fen, a question in his gaze. Fen shook his head. The Fist’s shoulders slumped.
Fen walked up to the executioner’s block and looked out over the crowd. There was smoke rising in the distance from two different points, evidence of the riots that Cowley had spoken of. The people in the crowd stared up at him as if transfixed. No one moved. They seemed to barely be breathing.
Prompted by something he didn’t understand or try to resist, Fen spoke.
“I regret only that I do not have more to give for my people and my king.”
Something that might have been a sigh was expelled from thousands of lungs as he spoke. As if the crowd was a single organism, it shifted forward, forcing back the men tasked with keeping them from the platform.
“Do it,” the Fist said, his voice harsh with suppressed emotion.
Jailers moved forward, but before they could lay hands on Fen, he knelt before the block and rested his neck on its concave surface. The wood was cool against his skin. From the corner of his eye he saw the executioner move into position, the flash as the blade was raised. It occurred to him that now would be a time to offer up a prayer, but he couldn’t think of any, and he no longer knew what, if anything, any of Samkara’s multitude of gods stood for, or even if they existed. Instead he settled on the first words that came to mind.
“I love you, Ravin,” he whispered.
He closed his eyes.
He heard the whistle of steel through the air.
There was a feeling of impact, but it was distant, barely registered. A moment later there was a loud thump that reverberated through the platform. Fen opened his eyes and turned his head to the side.
The executioner was sprawled on his back a few feet away. By his outstretched hand was the axe. The head of the weapon was no longer recognizable. A large chunk of it seemed to have simply melted away. The executioner rolled onto his side and tried to stand, holding his right arm with his left hand, as if the arm no longer worked.
Fen stood.
A low moan came from the crowd. Then, with a single voice, thousands of people cried out.
“FEN!”
The name became a chant, repeated over and over, torn from thousands of throats. Others in the crowd shouted as well, but theirs were shouts of rage and unfulfilled violence. Before Fen’s eyes the crowd morphed nearly instantly into a howling mob. Sudden violence erupted in dozens of places at once. The mob surged forward.
Hands closed on Fen, and he was dragged back, away from the edge. The Fist was there, his eyes wild.
“Take him back to the prison! Lock him as deep as you can!”
Fen was carried off the platform. He did not resist. He was still in a state of shock. He’d been completely, utterly prepared for his own death. That he was still alive seemed impossible to him. It all might be nothing but a dream. He might still be in his cell, dozing fitfully as he waited for the end of his life. Or he might actually be dead, blood dripping from the stump of his neck.
The mob flung itself against the walls of the prison. The soldiers and city watch tasked with holding them at bay were shoved backwards like driftwood before the surge of a stormy sea. There was only a narrow corridor still remaining
open, and it was clear it would not hold long.
The jailers carrying Fen ran pell-mell for the safety of the prison gates.
The corridor narrowed still further as the wave surged forward again. A man broke through the line of defenders suddenly, eyes maddened, screaming Fen’s name, though whether in support or opposition there was no way to tell.
Fen went to his knees as one of the jailers carrying him fell before the man’s charge. Almost as soon as Fen hit the ground he was plucked up, and the headlong charge continued. He had a brief glimpse of soldiers hacking madly at the crowd with their swords, of blood spraying and body parts flying, then he was through the gates. Jailers swarmed the gates, fighting to shut them against the press of the mob and dropping the heavy bars into place low and high.
Chapter Eleven
For a moment the jailers stood there, looking nervously at the gates of the prison. The noise of the crowd was a steady roar, punctuated by screams of pain and rage. The gates shifted and bulged inward slightly. The jailers took a step back.
“Think they’ll storm the prison?” one of the men asked no one in particular.
“Let’s get him into the deep cells before they can,” said Wats. He glared at Fen. “They won’t find you there.”
“What happened out there?” another of the jailers asked Fen. “Why aren’t you dead?”
“We’re not here to stand around and yap,” Wats snapped. “We’re here to lock this man up.” He pointed at two of the jailers. “You and you, bring him and follow me.”
Fen was taken back into the prison. Once in the outer office, they went through a different door than the one he’d been through before. On the other side was a storeroom filled with crates and boxes. Wats moved a stack of crates, revealing a narrow door. They went through that into a narrow hallway which led to an iron door, which Wats unlocked. Stairs led steeply downward on the other side. The stairs were narrow, and the footing was difficult. As they went deeper, moisture appeared on the niter-encrusted walls, seeping down and running across the steps. One of the jailers flanking Fen slipped and fell down a few steps, getting tangled up with Wats before he stopped his fall. Wats swore and shoved him away.
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