Morgravian law required that the victim be burned wearing the samarra which would trap the evil humours. Lymbert realised this would be the first occasion for its use and grumbled at the price he calculated he would need to replace it. He stalked away from the upstart ‘General’ and awaited his man.
‘Myrren,’ Wyl called gently, trotting now alongside the cart, knowing he had but moments. ‘Myrren!’
Her eyes opened to slits. He watched her sore lips mouth his name. She tried to say something but he could not hear. He smiled, trying to convey his care, not knowing what to say. There were no words of comfort which could begin to touch what she had endured or would still endure before she met her god.
Wyl reached to her hand and touched it gently, casting a silent prayer to Shar to send his Gatherers for her soul and make her end quick. Then her minders pushed him aside as they arrived on the hillock. There was nothing remarkable about this location. A single post had been buried into the ground, rising up to stand taller than the tallest of men. Around it were placed bushels. It was a sharply bright afternoon with few clouds. A breeze ruffled everyone’s hair and the more wily onlookers took the hint and moved upwind of the promised smoke.
‘General, if you please?’ Lymbert said with a forced politeness that was all underlying insult. ‘We have a witch to burn.’ He hurled the highly decorated samarra at her.
She could not support herself, and so Lymbert’s men, with no care for her suffering, pulled the cloak over her naked body before taking her by her stretched and broken limbs and throwing her towards the Witch Post.
‘No point in tying her, Confessor, she ain’t going anywhere,’ one commented.
The people near the front of the crowd dared a nervous laugh. Lymbert smiled indulgently and nodded as a priest might to his flock. He stood on a hay bale and began reciting the list of terrible acts which Myrren was supposedly responsible for.
Gueryn grunted and muttered. ‘I see they make it no easier for her.’
‘What do you mean?’ Wyl asked.
‘The bushels are damp to ensure a slow burn.’
Wyl did not reply but his expression darkened further. He was glad of the sack he carried with him. He glanced around, hoping no one could smell its contents.
The accusations done, Lymbert had nothing further to say other than to acknowledge that the accused woman had not confessed to being a witch.
‘However, you can all view her eyes — as ill-matched a pair as you’ll ever see.’ He made a gesture and one of his men pulled open the lids of Myrren’s eyes to reveal the disturbing facts. Those closest peered obediently and made warding signs. ‘Might I add,’ Lymbert continued, ‘the mere fact she has survived four drops of the strappado proves conclusively that she wields evil power,’ he bellowed to the agitated gathering. The city’s bells tolled their dour clangour again — a new series of peals which announced the burning was about to commence. Myrren had not moved since they threw her amongst the kindling. This was not what Lymbert wanted for his spectacle. The people had waited a long time for a burning and this wretch was determined to ruin the event. He noticed not a single noble was present, barring the lippy redhead and his hangers-on. Not even Lord Rokan was in attendance. It irritated Lymbert that he was performing for commoners; he ignored the small voice in his head which whispered that it was only they who might take him or the claim seriously enough to be impressed.
He called to his henchmen. ‘I suspect our fancy cloak need not burn with the witch,’ he said and chuckled, inviting all the onlookers to join him. Like sheep, they followed, unconcerned that in the absence of the samarra they might be infected by evil humours. Unlike their ancestors, who truly believed in the power of witchcraft, the majority of onlookers viewed the burning with curiosity. A few older members of the crowd made a warding gesture, but their mutterings were ignored.
The samarra which had covered the girl was wrenched away leaving her naked once again.
That should spice things up a little, Lymbert thought to himself, pleased with the effect her broken but still strangely desirable body had on the menfolk. He was especially glad that the red-headed youth had not protested at the cloak being removed, although it surprised him. It seemed the young man’s attention was diverted to a sack he was holding. Lymbert cared not. ‘Burn her!’ he commanded.
And then there it was again, that damnable voice.
‘Wait!’ Wyl yelled, surprising Gueryn and Alyd who flanked him. He stepped away from them. ‘Myrren of Baelup has not confessed to being a witch. She remains only accused and convicted. She will die by the flames, yes, but she will die with the dignity she has shown throughout her ordeal.’
Wyl lifted out a shirt from the sack he carried. It looked damp but no one seemed to pay attention; they had all turned back to Lymbert.
Lymbert heard a sound and glanced behind him. ‘As you will, General Thirsk,’ the Confessor responded through gritted teeth. At least his expensive cloak was spared.
Wyl knew the Confessor had acquiesced because no fuss had been made about the removal of the cloak. However, he had expected a small war of words, but then he noticed a group of the King’s private soldiers moving briskly towards them on horseback. Amongst them he saw the unmistakable figures of Magnus and Celimus. So that was why Lymbert conceded so fast. Men immediately bowed low and the womenfolk curtsied, taken by surprise that their sovereign was present. Magnus said nothing but his face was grim, his jaw clenched.
If you don’t like it, stop it, my King! Wyl begged inwardly. But Magnus only nodded once as he and his men continued on, passing by within twenty feet of the crowd. Celimus’s expression was dark with his own anger but he managed a smirk at Wyl. It was Wyl’s only consolation in this disturbing day that Celimus was clearly not going to be permitted to witness the burning. Perhaps his father had forbidden it. One could only hope. How these people could watch something like this — and cheer over it — eluded him.
It made him think of how, as a realm, they poked fun at the Mountain Dwellers, accusing them of being nothing more than barbarians. His father had cautioned him once at levelling that tag.
‘You’ll be surprised, my boy, at just how wrong we are in that jibe,’ he had said but never expounded further.
We are the barbarians, Wyl thought, to still be persecuting helpless women in this way. Peasants! Just like Adana had claimed. He looked around at the folk of Pearlis, out for some excitement. There were no nobles present, he was glad to note. Many of the crowd were youngsters, who had never seen a witch-burning before, and so he found it within himself to forgive them their gawking.
The King’s arrival had broken the spell. People looked suddenly uncomfortable and Lymbert felt himself lose control of his special event. He grimaced as Wyl, rising from his obeisance to his sovereign, walked over to the girl and placed the damp shirt across her body.
Wyl whispered something again to her and she heard him, raising her face towards the one person who had shown her tenderness.
‘My dog, Knave. Promise me you will keep him,’ she croaked.
‘I swear it to you,’ Wyl said, bewildered at her concern for a beast when her own life was about to be obliterated.
At his response she smiled and her torn, twisted body seemed to relax.
‘Farewell, Wyl. Use my gift to you wisely.’
Wyl nodded once, wondering how he might use a dog with any wisdom. He returned to stand alongside his companions, feeling that he had done all that he could for this woman.
Gueryn muttered under his breath, ‘I see you’re well ahead of the Confessor, boy.’
‘She’s suffered enough,’ Wyl murmured back.
‘What are you both talking about?’ Alyd whispered, helplessly mesmerised by the torches being lit.
‘You’ll see,’ Gueryn replied. ‘Good work, Wyl.’
The torches touched the dry kindling. Immediately the twigs began to burn but Lymbert smiled, safe in the knowledge that the bushels would be a long time in th
e burning. Her throat would scorch and her insides would dry from inhaling the smoke long before her body would be consumed by the flame.
He reached out to take the comforting cup of wine which one of his assistants had poured from a clay flagon. Such thirsty work, this burning, he thought, satisfied he had wrested back control and eternally glad that the King’s party had not lingered. He was just tipping back his head to take a gulp of the wine when his attention was grabbed by the sudden whoosh of flames around Myrren.
A spark had landed on the shirt Wyl had placed over her to protect her modesty and the tiny flame had caused the linen to ignite. Myrren, her body aflame now, struggled to sit up. Predictably, she failed. Lymbert searched out the cursed boy, realising now that Wyl had doused the shirt with lamp oil or some other inflammable liquid. He saw him amongst the crowd, the glow of the flames brightening the orange hair atop his smug face, and realised the young General was indeed as well read as he had claimed to be.
Wyl’s eyes were only for Myrren now. Her lovely hair caught alight, shrivelling about her as flames reached out to lick at her pretty face and through it all Wyl noticed her eyes … those arresting oddly matched eyes which found his gaze and locked onto it. She began to tremble as her flesh burned freely now, the oil clinging to her body and helping the flames do their work. Her face was charred, her teeth bared in a grimace of agony but still her eyes held his in a final embrace of death.
Wyl heard her words again in his mind. Use my gift wisely.
Now Myrren did finally vent her anger and despair. At last Lymbert heard her voice and he revelled in her agony.
And at the sound of her final, chilling scream, Wyl Thirsk, General of the Legion, felt a strange sensation overcome him. It was neither painful nor pleasant but it was keen and pressing. It devoured him. Then it changed into a sharp, splintering agony and Wyl felt as though he was losing his breath — his ability to breathe in fact. It slashed horribly through every fibre. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth against it, unaware of anyone around him, only the piercing sound of her scream. When her voice ended abruptly Wyl lost his wits, collapsing into an all-encompassing darkness. A few people watched him fall to the ground including Lymbert.
‘Some General,’ he commented, eager to get a final and powerful thorn driven into Wyl’s image. ‘Imagine him in battle.’
A butcher nearby agreed. ‘No stomach for death, that one. He should come and work in the slaughterhouse with me. We’ll toughen him up.’
Gueryn and Alyd pulled Wyl’s limp body away from the grim scene and the smoke. A shocked Gueryn ordered Alyd to find water immediately. His stunned companion wasted not a second.
‘Wyl, my boy. Wyl! Come on now, lad.’ The older soldier pulled back Wyl’s lids and was mortified to see the pupils dilated so large that there was no colour in his eyes at all. Black and dead they looked.
Gueryn looked up anxiously for Alyd. His glance landed on that of a painfully thin boy, scrawny and grubby. The smell alone emanating from him was powerful enough to make the hardiest person gasp but in his outstretched hand was a bladder of water.
‘It’s fresh, sir,’ the boy said. ‘And clean. I fetched it just an hour ago from the well.’
Gueryn cast aside his doubts and took the water. He threw some of it over Wyl’s face and hair before trying to pry open his mouth and get some of it into Wyl’s throat.
‘He will be all right, won’t he, sir?’ the boy asked, his face a mask of worry.
The soldier did not answer, his attention distracted by the muffled groan of Wyl coming back to consciousness.
‘Ah, lad, you scared me.’
Wyl’s eyelids fluttered open and Gueryn, horrified by what he saw, sat down hard on the ground in a new wave of shock.
‘Wyl! Your eyes!’
Wyl shook his head to clear the blur. ‘What?’
‘Look at me, boy,’ Gueryn said, his voice filled with dread.
Alas, the feverish gaze before him was still burning brightly from a pair of eyes which were bewitching indeed — one a penetrating grey, the other an arresting green, with flecks of warm brown.
Wyl closed his ill-matched eyes as Alyd hurried to his side, pushing away the small boy whose water had helped revive his friend.
‘Help me get him out of here,’ Gueryn ordered, too shaken by what he had witnessed to give further explanation.
FIVE
ALYD DONAL COULD NOT keep the smile from his face. It had been his companion since sixteen-year-old Ylena Thirsk had accepted his proposal of marriage. He had been patient; six years of absence from his beloved family in Felrawthy had been made less painful because of his fiercely loyal friendship with Wyl Thirsk but mainly because there was Ylena to love. There had never been anyone else for him since the day his red-headed companion had introduced him to his exquisite sister. The strong urge Alyd felt to protect this beautiful creature had surprised him, not that he was such a champion. Ylena had her seemingly fearless brother and the ultimate protection of a powerful King; she had no need of his sword and yet even as a bashful twelve year old, confirming the promise of the handsome woman she would become, Ylena had sought out his company. It seemed, even at that age, there was no one else for her either. Still, her shy nod and gentle tears prompted by his question of marriage had sparked such surprise and intense joy for him that he could not imagine life could ever get any happier than now. Ylena would make the prettiest of all brides. Not wanting to wait a moment longer than they had to, they had set a date which allowed barely enough time to make all the necessary formal announcements, let alone preparations for a nobles’ wedding.
General Wyl Thirsk, as head of his family, had not hesitated to give his permission; in truth, he’d wondered why they had taken so long to ask. Out of courtesy Alyd had spoken with Gueryn who was equally delighted. Finally, Alyd’s family messenger from Felrawthy had brought the news granting immediate blessing. The duke and duchess were delighted to hear that their youngest son’s bride had a strong connection to the royals and came from such loyal Morgravian blood.
Now, with Wyl at his side, Alyd sought an audience with the King. It was fitting that the sovereign give his formal agreement to this marriage as Ylena’s father had entrusted Magnus with the task of making her a good match. The Donals of Felrawthy were an old family with a proud history and loyal to the throne. There would be no question that the King would give his blessing to the union between his closest friend’s only daughter and the son of one of his most supportive dukes.
Magnus, now feeling the weight of his years, welcomed two of his favourites, smiling indulgently at Alyd’s excitement as the young man stammered out his request, not as used to meetings with the sovereign as his red-headed friend.
Over wine and wafers the trio chatted in the King’s private garden. For an old warrior and a man who in younger years had revelled in hard, outdoor pursuits, Magnus showed a particular tenderness for his prized blooms. In these past years of peace, which meant his constant presence in Pearlis, this garden had flourished under his careful touch. It was to be part of his legacy. He left the rest of Stoneheart’s formidable grounds to his team of gardeners but this walled square of colour was all his and the two young soldiers indulged the old King as he spoke fondly of his latest prize.
‘Can you credit it!’ he said with amazement. ‘A blue nifella, normally only found in the northern climes of the realm.’
The soldiers grinned. It meant little to them but how the King had encouraged it to grow in the milder climate of Morgravia had everyone with a green thumb baffled.
He smiled over his cup. ‘You youngsters make me feel envious.’
‘Sire?’ Alyd queried.
‘Look at you both. Fine specimens of Morgravians,’ he said, reserving a special glance for Wyl, knowing how his young General had suffered such insecurity over his looks and stature. ‘I envy you your energy and youth,’ he added.
Wyl grinned and as he did so Magnus saw that the boy had disappeared. Al
l the round softness had been absorbed and hardened. Before the King sat a man and one who reminded him achingly so of his old friend. Muscles fairly bulged on Wyl’s stocky frame and the carrot-coloured hair was now his signature rather than his curse. His soldiers jested that they would never have need of a standard for their General — they would just scan the battlefield for the head of flame. His freckles had withered beneath the sun’s glare, the toughening of the skin and the stubble of manhood. He had not grown especially tall but then neither had Fergys Thirsk, Magnus silently acknowledged, yet both were formidable soldiers and leaders of men. Apart from his own son, he could not imagine a single individual at Stoneheart who could hold a candle to the fighting prowess of Wyl Thirsk.
He had proven himself a doughty soldier and deserving owner of the title of General of the Legion. Honest, forthright and without question courageous, Wyl Thirsk had over the last few years won his army’s respect. He was still painfully young, of course, but then so was most of the army these days, Magnus realised. He knew they followed in the steps of the young Thirsk avidly.
It was just such a pity that the acrimony between Thirsk and Celimus still stood. For all Thirsk’s polite posturing and his obvious determination to keep his promise to his sovereign, Magnus saw through the veil. There was no love lost between the two. And no one could appreciate such a sentiment more keenly than the King. But, so long as Wyl Thirsk protected the heir faithfully, that would have to be enough. Magnus understood Wyl’s feverish loyalty and would not have to question whether the younger man would put his understandable doubts over Celimus before Morgravia.
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