by Cayla Kluver
“You wanted to speak with me?” He was calm, collected, betraying none of his feelings.
“I knew it was only a matter of time before those men organized. I should not have let you persuade me from executing them at the start.”
She rested one of her hands on the hilt of the sword at her hip, her vibrantly green eyes hard and dangerous. Her flaming hair was drawn back, and she was dressed in the typical black garb of the Cokyrians.
“No harm was done, however,” she continued. “Tell me, who was captured?”
“Halias, among those you know.”
“Anyone else of import?”
“No.”
“Have those incarcerated put to death.”
“I expected to do so.”
I bit my lip, tears stinging my eyes. If I had just let Narian drink the wine…but then he might be dead, along with countless others, for any battle was a breeding ground for casualties. For the thousandth time, my mind raged against the prison of circumstance. There had been no course open to me that would not have left a trail of bodies.
“And London—was he not part of this?”
“He was.”
“Then he will return to Cokyri with me, and this time he will remain there. I won’t have him getting in the way again.”
Now Narian imparted news I had not heard.
“London is gone. I’ve had troops scouring the city and countryside for him. He won’t be found.”
The High Priestess let out an exasperated laugh. “I should have known. But the others—they are all accounted for?”
“The others?” Narian sounded confused, and I knew he was playing at being naive.
“The boy King, his father, the rest from the cave.” There was a testiness to the Cokyrian leader’s tone that revealed she was aware of his pretense.
“Yes,” Narian replied after a moment, hesitant about something.
The High Priestess noticed and looked at him with what was very near to sympathy.
“Whether or not they participated in the attack, Narian, you know they all had a hand in the plot. I want them executed. Once they’re gone, the Hytanicans will have no leaders to inspire them.”
“The deaths of these men will inspire the province to riot. Considering all aspects, I don’t think killing them when their crimes are unproven would be wise.”
I suddenly understood why Narian had tried to placate me with regard to the deaths of Halias and his men—he had known what the High Priestess would want, and what was within his ability to negotiate. I put my hand across my mouth to stifle any sound, for I wanted to cry out. Instead, I prayed Narian would be successful.
“I have decided,” the High Priestess pronounced, her tone unassailable. “It is your duty to see my commands carried out. Send your soldiers to arrest Cannan, Steldor, Galen, King Adrik, that boy Princess Miranna married and anyone else you believe to have been involved. Have them executed before noon tomorrow—make an example of it for the people.”
She swiveled on her heel to stride out the door, but Narian stopped her, his tone sharp.
“Alera will never forgive you. She is on our side for now, but if you do this, you will lose her.”
The High Priestess turned around to face him, her eyes flashing, and I pulled back farther within Narian’s bedroom, worried she would catch me.
“I do not need Alera,” she snapped. “You mean that Alera will never forgive you.”
“I mean that it would be in our best interests not to enrage our only solid connection to the Hytanican people. As liaison, it is my duty to speak for both sides and keep the peace.”
“Enough games, Narian!” The Cokyrian ruler was angry. “Rava is not blind, nor is she without purpose in her position.”
“So she’s spying on me?”
“Even you have not been sure of your loyalties.”
“I grow more uncertain by the moment.”
Both the High Priestess and I recognized the veiled threat. She frowned and stepped closer to him, meeting his eyes and letting go of some of her pride in an effort to be fair instead.
“If our plans for the province succeed, you won’t have to choose. I apologize—you know the state of affairs here better than I do, and I should trust your judgment.”
“Thank you,” Narian said, suspicion lacing his words. “Then you will only execute those men who were captured on the night of the rebellion?”
The High Priestess nodded once. “As you recommend.”
She laid a hand on his shoulder, her thumb momentarily tracing his jaw. He turned his face slightly away, closing his eyes, but not in enjoyment of the contact.
“From now on, jurisdiction is yours in this province, Narian,” she said, not deterred by his response to her touch. “I will no longer second-guess you. I don’t want you to lose faith in our goals. Tell me now if you have.”
He shook his head, his manner unusually subdued. “I haven’t.”
“Then I will see you in the morning. Sleep well.”
The High Priestess departed, but I waited to be certain she was truly gone. Narian faced me as I stepped back into the parlor, and his eyes found mine, an apology within them, for he knew people I loved would still be dying. Without a word, I walked to him and put my arms around his waist, leaning into him. He held me, understanding both my gratitude and incredible sorrow.
At my request, Narian took Miranna and me to see Halias, who had been my sister’s bodyguard for the better part of eighteen years. Temerson came along with the three of us to offer comfort—saying goodbye would not be easy.
Temerson clasped Miranna’s hand as Narian led us down the dungeon stairwell, so small and dark it was near suffocating. The main area below had doors on every wall, each leading to a corridor lined with cells. Narian took us through the eastern door, dismissing the Cokyrian guards within the inner passageway so that we could have privacy from their ears and stares, and showed us to a cell midway down, behind the bars of which Halias and three others lay on cots. The rest of the cells incarcerated about thirty more men, all of whom would meet their deaths in the morning.
Halias looked up at our approach and rose to kneel at the bars, hooking his fingers through them. Miranna mirrored his position, grasping his hand, her upper lip trembling.
“Don’t be sad,” he murmured to her, brushing back her curly locks with his free hand. “It’s all right.”
“How can you say that?” she whispered, tears flowing freely. “You’re going to die and there’s nothing right about it.” Miranna closed her eyes, pressing her delicate face against his large palm. “How can I bear losing you?”
“Listen to me,” Halias said gently. “When the Overlord came, I escaped death. Now I’m going where I belong, with Destari and the rest of those men.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t belong in a grave. Those other men were murdered—they deserved life. You deserve life.”
“I’m sorry. But it is a noble death, Miranna. I’m not afraid. I’m doing this for you, and for all of Hytanica. How can that be a cause for sadness?”
“Because…” Miranna gave a small gasp in an attempt to control her weeping. “Because I love you.”
“It is because I love you that I can face tomorrow without regret.”
They sat together for what seemed like hours, until Miranna fell asleep, exhausted from sadness and tears. Temerson lifted her, cradling her against his chest.
“Thank you,
” Halias said softly to me and to Narian. “If you hadn’t brought her, I don’t know how much strength I would have.”
Narian nodded, and I whispered my own “I’m sorry.” There were no other words that could convey what I was feeling. Bravery like his was rare, and somehow made it that much harder to meet his gaze.
Temerson had carried Miranna toward the door, and stepped through it when he saw Narian and I walking toward him. Bars rattled and men shouted as we passed the other cells.
“Cokyrian! Boy! Bring us our loved ones, our families! Or would it be too much to learn our names? Cokyrian!”
Narian walked with his eyes straight ahead, his face inscrutable, but I could not ignore the pleas of the other prisoners. I stopped at the end of the corridor and turned to face them.
“I will get a list of your names and send for your families. You will all be given a chance to say goodbye.”
Murmured thanks greeted my words, and Narian held the door behind me open, inviting my exit.
“That is not the Cokyrian way,” he said as I stepped past him. “Condemned men are not given privileges.”
“We are not in Cokyri,” I reminded him. “And this is the Hytanican way.”
Narian escorted me across the main room of the dungeon and up the stairs, but did not continue with me into the Hearing Hall.
“I will see to the matter of the prisoners’ families,” he said, then to my surprise, he bowed. “On your behalf.”
* * *
When the sun rose, I went as Grand Provost to the training field at the military base to show respect for those who were about to die, though I did not know how I could stand to be a witness. Cannan accompanied me to where we would watch from the hillside, along with Narian and the High Priestess, both composed and emotionless.
The Cokyrian leader had, of course, brought her shield maidens—six in total, counting Rava. All were armed and dressed in black, formidable and fierce, almost eager for the executions to begin. I had not heard from or seen my sister and Temerson, but knew the young man would be keeping her from watching this horror.
Gallows had been erected before us, around which a closed circle of Cokyrians held the ends of their sheathed swords in either hand to create a barrier against the countless protesting citizens of Hytanica, and a ring of Cokyrian archers stood to the north, ready to rain arrows down upon them if things got out of hand. My people screamed and swore revenge, and I was not sure which sickened me more—seeing their anger and pain, or the gratefulness I felt that their noise would drown out the sounds of death that were to come.
The condemned men were walked up the stairs four at a time, hoods were placed over their heads, and nooses were put around their necks. Most were frightened; a few cried or pleaded or prayed. Halias refused the hood, staring stoically off in the direction of the Bastion—the palace—with the forest rising beyond, as though he wanted to be viewing the land of the kingdom he loved until the very last second. I closed my eyes whenever the trap doors dropped, aware only of the outcry of my people and the wailing of new widows and fatherless children, sounds that faded once it was finally done.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
ON THE STREETS
SHASELLE
I spent a miserable night on the south side of the city, dozing in the ruins of an assembly hall—likely at one time a church—that had just enough walls remaining to block the wind. Cold and miserable, I continually debated whether I should give up and go home, but stayed put in the end, frightened of the city at night and believing it would be safer to remain where I was.
I rose with the sun, having slept little, and gathered my hair into a single plait down my back. It already felt coarse and dirty, and I longed for a place where I could wash. Knowing the ruins wouldn’t provide such luxury, I went out into the streets, where I easily learned details of the rebellion my mother had tried to hide from us—it was all anyone talked about. That and the upcoming executions.
A distant hum emanated from the northwestern side of the city, protesters at the military base. Any stragglers who had been avoiding the scene now answered its morbid call, myself included, though my pace slowed as I reached the Market District. The occasional Hytanican—never a Cokyrian—darted up or down the street, but for the most part, the area was deserted. The entire kingdom had gone to the training field, but I could not.
Not after having watched my father die.
The Overlord stretched out his hand, ready to kill yet another nameless, faceless Hytanican officer, only to pause.
“Surely not the captain?” he said mockingly.
“No,” the boy-invader corrected. “This is not him.”
“Yet—” the Overlord sneered “—the resemblance is unmistakable.”
Turning toward the terrified crowd, the warlord called, “Perhaps, if the captain is here, he will come forward to save the life—well, the dignity—of his…cousin? Nephew?”
“His brother.”
When the Overlord came about in feigned surprise, Papa defiantly met his gaze.
“I hope your brother is out there, in the crowd, to hear you scream and watch you cry, pup.”
The hand stretched out once more—
I closed my eyes and pressed my palms against my temples in an effort to crush the memory within my skull. No, I would not relive that. Moving to the side of the road, I sat and wrapped my arms around my knees, shaking from the cool morning air and from the past.
I had no concept of how long I remained there, except that eventually, I could not ignore the rumbling of my stomach. This forced me to acknowledge another problem I had created for myself—I hadn’t brought any money.
I looked around, realizing that even if I’d had money, no shops were open; I doubted they would open at all today, in honor of those who were dying. Weighing my options, I got to my feet. My family would not be at the execution field, so if I went home, I would have to answer to them. I would have to explain my stupidity, my impulsiveness and worst of all, how I couldn’t stand to be in that house anymore. And then Cannan would come, and more suitors, until I was married off, a housewife. With a sigh, I pulled up the hood of my cloak, hunger overpowering my conscience.
Fresh Fruit and Wine was painted across the front of the stand I chose. I wouldn’t take much, just enough to fill my belly—no one would miss a few apples.
I went around the back, knowing I would find a door for the owner’s use, and also that the rear entry would decrease my likelihood of being caught. It was locked, but with a few good kicks, I managed to take the handle off, and the door swung inward.
Glancing about, I slipped inside. I felt my way around the small, dimly lit space, and found stacked crates along one wall, along with a pry bar for opening them. Inside were bottles of the advertised wine. Thinking it couldn’t hurt, I snatched one, settling it in the bottom of my canvas bag.
Toward the front of the store were open boxes of fruit, and I tossed several apples inside my sack, adding some dates, finally stuffing a handful of berries into my mouth. Swallowing my guilt along with the fruit, I departed, although my conscience twinged at my inability to close the door behind me—with no handle, it swung and creaked in the wind. I hadn’t taken much, but the open door might attract a real thief.
I stepped into the street, breathing more easily and feeling strangely capable. I hadn’t been caught. Intending to wander back to the ruins where I had slept, I took a couple of bites of an app
le, then stopped outside the butcher’s shop. If I could start a fire, I could have meat.
My first attempt at stealing had gone smoothly, and I really hadn’t done any harm. I could take just a little venison, maybe pork—no one would even notice its absence.
The butcher’s shop was not a stand like the fruit vendor’s, but a solid, stone building, which presented a greater challenge. Nonetheless, I opted to try my original method of kicking at the back door. It didn’t open quickly like the last one had, but I was tenacious, kicking it again and again, smack on the handle. I quit, panting, having had no success.
“Good lock,” I muttered, frustrated but almost enjoying the challenge.
A prickling sensation ran up my neck, telling me to take what I had and go, but I ignored it like a bothersome insect, walking to the side of the building instead, where I spotted a window just large enough to accommodate me. It was higher than I could reach, but had no pane—just cloth hanging over the opening.
I tried jumping for the sill, and managed to grab on with my fingers. My boots scraped vainly against the stone of the wall and I fell, landing uncomfortably on my rear. Scanning the area, I saw a good-size stone and dragged it under the window, hoping even a few inches might make the difference.
I wiped dirt from my hands onto my breeches, stepped onto the stone and tried the leap again, this time gaining enough of a hold that I could hoist myself up. But with nothing to stop my momentum, I tumbled gracelessly through the window, knocking against some shelves stacked with boxes. Miraculously, nothing toppled along with me, although I did make more noise than I would have liked. I cringed and inched forward, praying no one would look through the window to investigate.
It was when I reached the main area that I realized the only people who had neglected to attend the execution were me—and the butcher. He was not a friendly man, at least not to people breaking into his store.