by DAVID B. COE
Vidor and Bertin. Along with Chago of Bistari, who, rumor had it, died at the hands of Solkaran assassins, these two had been Carden’s most stubborn opponents; no doubt they would have given the kingdom’s new regent much trouble, had they lived. Numar had accomplished so much in that one night, perhaps even more than he knew.
“I can’t tell if you’re pleased or disappointed.”
“I’m neither,” Grigor said. “I’ve told you: I didn’t poison anyone, so I have no stake in who lived and who died.”
The Qirsi smiled thinly. “An assassin couldn’t have said it any better. You tell me that you didn’t poison them, yet you care nothing for the lives lost, nor do you take any satisfaction in knowing that we saved a good number.”
Maybe he should have argued. There might have been some small chance that a sign of compassion now could still save him from execution. But he was beyond caring. The Fool had won, the queen and dukes had long seen him as ruthless and cruel; Numar had merely given them further reason to see him as such. Like any good swordsman, his brother had taken Grigor’s greatest strength-his fearsome reputation-and turned it to his own advantage.
“You’re right, Minister. I don’t care about the lives lost or saved. I’m to be killed myself in the morning. I asked out of curiosity, nothing more.” He turned his face away. Had he been free to turn his back on the door, he would have done so. “Now leave me. I grow tired of your company and your judgment.”
He expected the Qirsi to say something more, to level one last verbal blow at his heart. All he heard, however, was the scrape of the man’s boot as he turned to go and the slow retreat of his footsteps as he descended the tower stairs.
The yellow-haired guard entered the chamber and placed a small plate of food and a cup of water on the floor at Grigor’s feet. Grigor didn’t look at him, nor did he stoop to eat. He would have liked to ask the man to return and allow him a moment at one of the windows. He cared nothing for the cold anymore, but he would dearly have liked to see the sky and clouds, to feel the cool, clean touch of a snow-laden wind. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak, and he had no confidence that the soldier would do as he asked.
He merely stood there, held by his chains, staring at the stone floor, his eyes wandering the seams between the stones. He didn’t actually think about dying, though the fact of his impending death was never far from his thoughts. Rather, he thought of his father and mother, of his childhood spent chasing after Carden and the older boy’s friends, of being bullied by them until he cried, only to find himself visiting the same cruelties on Henthas and Numar a short time later. He thought of his wife and his many mistresses, and he thought of his sons, who fought among themselves just as he and his brothers once had. He had sent word to Renbrere that they were not to come here, not even to see him die. But, he now realized, a part of him had hoped they would come anyway, just so that he could see them one last time. Others wouldn’t believe in his innocence, but perhaps they would have.
Mostly though, he thought of nothing at all. He just listened to the sounds of the castle. The sharp crack of wooden swords as soldiers trained in the ward below the prison tower; the whistle of the wind as it swept through the ramparts above his chamber; the distant echo of the bells tolling in the city, marking the slow, inexorable march of time toward his hanging.
Even hearing the bells, he had no idea of the time when the sound of boots on the tower steps reached him once more. He heard voices as well, and so knew who had come before his brothers’ faces appeared in the door grate.
“Do you want me to let them in?” the guard asked.
Grigor nodded. “Would you take the food away, as well?”
The soldier didn’t answer, but after letting Henthas and Numar into the chamber, he removed the plate, though he left Grigor’s water.
His brothers removed their swords and daggers, handing them to the guard as he left the chamber.
“Go to the base of the tower,” Numar said, as the man stepped back into the corridor. “We wish to speak with our brother in private one last time.”
“No, don’t,” Grigor called to him. “Stay where you are. Anything we have to say to each other we can say in front of you.”
Grigor saw the guard falter, and for an instant he thought that the man might actually stay.
Numar must have seen this as well. He gestured at Henthas. “This man is your duke now, and I am to be regent to the new queen. You take your orders from us, not from the traitor. Do you understand?”
“Of course, my lord.” The guard cast a quick look at Grigor before closing the chamber door and scurrying to the stairs like a frightened boy. It might have been a trick of the light, the bright sun from the narrow windows mingling with the glow of the torches burning in the corridor, but it seemed to Grigor that there had been an apology in the man’s eyes.
“You didn’t actually think I’d let him overhear my confession, did you?” Numar asked, when they could no longer hear the guard on the stairs.
Grigor looked quickly at Henthas, gauging his reaction.
“He knows, brother,” Numar said with a grin.
Henthas leered at him, looking every bit the jackal.
“He was horrified at first, but when I offered him the dukedom, he recovered quite quickly.” The younger man glanced at Henthas, his eyes dancing. “I think he plans to make an attempt on my life at some point, hoping to take the regency as well. At which point I’ll have to kill him. But for now, we’re both content to watch you hang.”
“You’d really let him do this?” Grigor asked, ignoring Numar for the moment.
Henthas shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I? The regency was never going to be mine. At least with you gone, I can claim Solkara as my own.”
“Only as long as he lets you. If he’s willing to do this to me, what’s to stop him from having you killed so that he can take the dukedom?”
“You forget, brother,” Numar broke in, “Henthas is doing this to you as much as I am. He may not have conceived the plan, but he’s certainly embraced it as if it were his own.”
“I don’t think you and Carden ever grasped just how much I’ve hated you both,” Henthas said. “Perhaps now you do.”
Grigor stared at one of them, then the other, not knowing what to say. Henthas, with his fine features and dark blue eyes, looked very much like their father. So had Carden, and so, he had long been told, did Grigor himself. But though Numar favored their mother-lean and tall, his hair the color of wheat, his eyes a warm, rich brown-he was most like Tomaz in temper and intellect. While the older boys had toyed with swords, playing at being warriors, Numar sat on their father’s knee and learned what it meant to be a noble, to command armies, and to survive in the courts. In the world of children, where strength of body was everything, he had been the weakest. But over the years, he had honed his mind into a weapon that none of them could match. Grigor, standing with his arms and legs in chains, felt as if he were seeing his youngest brother for the first time.
“Look at him, Henthas,” Numar said, the grin still on his youthful face. “He has no answer for you. You’ve managed what I could not. You’ve silenced the Jackal.”
Still Grigor stared at him, until Numar’s smile faded, leaving an expression of vague discomfort.
“What is it you’re looking at?” he asked, his voice tight.
“A man I thought I knew, but didn’t. A brother who has managed to become more than I ever was. But mostly, I expect I’m looking at Aneira’s next king.”
At that, the smile returned. “Yes,” Numar said. “I believe you are.”
The door to the prison tower of Castle Solkara opened just as the dawn bells began to ring in the city. Two guards emerged from the arched stone doorway, followed by the traitor, and then a second pair of soldiers. Chofya stood just in front of the doorway with her daughter, the future queen, beside her. The traitor’s brothers stood behind her, and Brail and the rest of the dukes with their ministers stood in a line beh
ind them. More than a thousand soldiers, most from Solkara, but many from Aneira’s other dukedoms were also there, blades drawn, their young faces grave. It was a cold, still morning. The sky was the color of dull armor and a few small flakes of snow fell softly upon the castle and its wards.
Grigor wore a soldier’s garb-a dun shirt, matching trousers, boots, and an empty scabbard on his belt. He held himself straight, his head raised, defiance in his eyes. Stopping before the queen, with soldiers on either side of him, he appeared to tower over her, as if he were an inquisitor, and she the prisoner. For her part, Chofya looked to have recovered sufficiently from the attempt upon her life. Her face remained as colorless as a Qirsi’s, and she appeared thin almost to the point of frailty. But she stood without aid and when she spoke it was in a voice both clear and strong.
“Grigor, duke of Solkara, marquess of Renbrere, you are hereby accused of murder by poison, treason against the queen of Aneira, and violence against the Council of Dukes. Do you wish to be heard before sentence is passed?”
“Only to repeat what I have already said. I am innocent in this matter, made to appear a murderer by those who have the most to gain from my execution. I speak of my brothers, though it grieves me to say so. I’m as much their victim as you are, Your Highness. Indeed more so, since you will survive this day, and I will not.”
An angry murmur swept through the formation of soldiers.
“Hang him now!” one man cried.
Several of the others cheered.
Chofya allowed herself a grim smile. “As you can hear, your denials carry little weight with the men of Aneira. You are not fit to be king, nor even to walk among the living of this great kingdom. Thus, with the consent of the Council of Dukes and the support of my people, and in the sight of Ean and his servants here in the living world, I decree that you shall be hanged as a traitor, then drawn and quartered as all are who betray the crown and the land. May Bian show you mercy.”
Grigor’s expression did not change, but his face blanched, and his knees appeared to buckle, so that the guards standing on either side of him had to keep him from falling.
Chofya nodded once, then turned, and taking her daughter’s hand, started walking toward the castle’s city gate. Numar and Henthas followed, as did the guards escorting Grigor, the dukes and ministers, and finally the soldiers.
“Have you ever witnessed an execution, First Minister?” Brail asked Fetnalla, who was walking next to him.
“No, my lord.”
“I find them… disturbing. Even in a circumstance like this one, I believe there’s little satisfaction to be found in them.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The procession slowed as the dukes began to file through the gate.
“I couldn’t help overhearing you, Brail,” Tebeo said from behind them. “Do you mean to say that you don’t think Grigor should be put to death?”
The duke shook his head, though he didn’t look back at Dantrielle. “I don’t mean that at all. I just don’t believe there’s anything to be gained from making his hanging into a public event. It’s an execution, not a festival.”
Tebeo nodded, falling silent. In another few moments they passed through the gate and into the city of Solkara. Even here, on the steep incline nearest the castle, people lined the street, shouting obscenities at Grigor and cheering the queen, her daughter, and the dukes.
Brail couldn’t help but frown, even as city folk waved to him or reached out to touch him, as if he were some sort of hero. He could understand the importance of punishing a traitor, particularly one as dangerous as Grigor. But he found the fevered behavior of the throng unsettling.
“You’ve seen many executions, my lord?” Fetnalla asked.
“I’ve seen a few. I wouldn’t say many.”
“Do the condemned always maintain their innocence to the very end?”
He glanced at her. She was watching him, looking surprisingly young.
“Some do, most really. Not all. Why?”
The woman shrugged, facing forward again. “The duke seems determined to accuse his brothers, though he has nothing to gain from this anymore.”
“You think him innocent?”
“I haven’t before today. I just expected him to relent. Faced with… with this, I thought he would confess and make peace with the gods.”
“You can’t expect this man to behave as you or I would, Minister. He’s a murderer and a traitor. Perhaps you heard that an Eibitharian spy was found in Solkara a few days ago.”
“Yes, my lord, I had heard.”
“All along we’ve wondered if there might have been more to what happened in the queen’s chamber than we realized. I think it’s clear now that there was, though not as we thought at first. Grigor wasn’t working with the Qirsi conspiracy, but rather with our enemies to the north.”
“Has Grigor admitted this?”
Brail turned once more. Tebeo’s first minister was watching him with widened eyes.
“No,” the duke told her. “He hasn’t.”
“Have the soldiers found the… the spies yet?” she asked.
Again, Brail shook his head. “Not yet. But I’m confident that they will.”
Evanthya nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
It seemed to the duke that Tebeo’s Qirsi was disappointed, that she wanted Grigor to be in league with the conspiracy rather than the Eibitharlans, as if one were any better than the other. He couldn’t imagine why she might feel this way, but he no longer pretended to understand any of the white-hairs, even his own. In recent days he had come to believe once again that Fetnalla was loyal to him, though he remained wary. Beyond that, as far as he was concerned, they were unfathomable, an unfortunate necessity in a land whose courts had come to rely too heavily on magic and dubious visions of the future.
“The point is, Fetnalla,” he said, turning his attention back to his minister, “we can’t hope to understand a man like Grigor. It may be that he still holds out hope of redemption. Perhaps he believes, by some perverse logic, that his acts are justified and that the gods will reward him for his defiance. Whatever his reasoning, I’m certain that the land will be safer after he’s dead.”
“Yes, my lord.”
They continued toward the marketplace in silence. Well before they reached the first of the peddler’s carts, Brail saw the gallows standing on a broad wooden platform and towering over the crowded lanes and stalls. It looked solid, if crudely fashioned, the warm tones of the fresh wood a stark contrast to the cold grey sky. Hordes awaited them there, chanting for the traitor’s death and cheering loudly at their first glimpse of the queen and her child.
Soldiers rushed forward to clear a path though the throng for Chofya, Kalyi, and the dukes. They were also forced to beat back the city folk, who, catching sight of Grigor, attempted to drag the man away from his escort.
It took some time, but at last, Pronjed, the castle prelate, and the four guards led Grigor up a long flight of wooden steps to the gallows. Amid screams from the people below, the prelate offered the traitor a final opportunity to confess. When he refused, tight-lipped and ashen, the crowd jeered him lustily and shouted for his death.
The executioner, a tall, burly man in a brown hooded robe, climbed slowly to the platform, and as he did the soldiers tied Grigor’s hands behind his back and slipped the noose around his neck. The cheers grew louder.
Fetnalla turned away.
“An execution can be difficult to watch,” Brail told her, “particularly the first one. But none of the people here is likely to forget this. Other traitors will think twice before taking on the royal house, and those who seek vengeance for what was done to their queen and the Council of Dukes will leave here satisfied that justice was done.”
The Qirsi offered no response.
At the base of the gallows, the executioner grabbed hold of the rope and, with a quick glance toward Pronjed, who nodded once, gave a mighty pull. Grigor was lifted off the platform, to the roared
approval of the crowd. The traitor kicked his feet several times, his body swinging back and forth, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth bared. The executioner left him up there for some time, until his features started to slacken. Only then, when the man was broken, but not yet dead, did the executioner lower him again, removing the noose and cutting the bonds that held his hands. They laid him down on the bare wood platform, and brought forth the knives.
Even Brail had to look away after that, though from the shouting, and the cries of some, he knew that they were disemboweling him. At last he heard the executioner call out the ritual words, “See in my hand, the heart of a traitor.” It was nearly over.
In another few moments, the guards descended the steps again, each one of them bearing part of the man’s body. The executioner followed, carrying Grigor’s head on a pike. The horsemen who were to bear the traitor’s body to the four corners of the kingdom waited just beyond the mass of people, and already some were leaving the marketplace for the castle, so that they might see the man’s head mounted there.
“Justice,” it was said, “is both patient and swift, curative and cruel, equitable and absolute.”
Never had Brail thought the words more apt that they were this day.
With the execution ended, Brail and Fetnalla followed Chofya back to the castle. There, just after midday, in the queen’s presence chamber, the Council of Dukes met for the first time since the poisoning.
Chofya was there, of course, as were her daughter and Grigor’s two surviving brothers. Henthas, Brail was disturbed to see, wore the red, black, and gold of Solkara and took a seat at the table with the rest of the dukes. Numar stood at the head of the table with the queen, Pronjed, and Kalyi.
When all the dukes and their ministers had arrived and were seated, Chofya stood. “After the darkness of the past several days,” she began, “I am pleased to have tidings of a different sort. Numar, marquess of Renbrere, youngest brother of my husband the king, has agreed to serve as regent to my daughter Kalyi when she is invested as queen of Aneira.”
Brail glanced at Tebeo, who was already looking his way, relief written plainly on his round face.