by R.K. Ryals
Chapter 3
The first day through the forest was spent listening to Mareth switch between talk of the festivities at court and threats of my possible demise. It was a grim way to travel even with consistent stops to eat and relieve ourselves. Aigneis barely spoke.
It was a nice reprieve when Mareth finally nodded off to sleep, her head bobbing at an odd angle, her mouth hanging open. Her snores were nothing compared to her conversation. Snoring I could handle.
“They want me dead,” I said, my voice low.
Aigneis looked up at me then, her eyes glancing occasionally at Mareth.
“No, they want you married. It is against the law to harbor a scribe or a mage in any household. Taran will not have her dreams of power skewered.”
I looked down at my hands. “And if I fail to marry? If I slip up?”
Aigneis' face fell. “Then they will feed you to the wolves. Even if it means blaming your father to protect themselves.”
It was a heavy blow.
“Drastona—” Aigneis began.
She was interrupted by a jolt. The carriage rocked as it halted, and I grabbed onto my seat.
“Whoa there!” a voice shouted.
I glanced at Aigneis, my eyes wide. Mareth sat up across from us, rubbing the back of her hand against her mouth.
“What's this about?” she asked groggily.
Aigneis gripped the curtain over our window, moving it aside just enough to peer out of the opening, her eyes sharp. Mareth leaned forward, her breath ragged.
“It's not rebels, is it?”
After a moment, Aigneis sagged in relief.
“No,” she breathed. “Something in the road I think.”
Mareth scowled. “Damned nuisance.”
“Maybe,” Aigneis conceded. “But it's also a chance to stretch.”
She rapped on the door, and it was opened quickly by Jarvis.
“May we alight?” Aigneis asked.
The boy inclined his head, moving aside to offer his hand for support. We nodded at him as we stepped from the carriage. Mareth refused to move. Instead, she placed her legs on the seat we vacated, lounging unlady-like in the privacy of our coach.
“What's amiss?” I asked.
The ground under my slippers was spongy and damp. It had drizzled off and on since we left Forticry. It was getting dark now, filling the forest with eerie shadows. Mist lifted from the warm ground, swirling around the bases of dark, thick trees. Crickets and frogs heralded the night, and there was the distinct smell of rotted vegetation. Bloodthirsty insects landed quickly on bare skin, sucked greedily, and then flew away. I scratched irritably at a spot on my arm and another on my neck.
“Are we stuck?” Aigneis asked.
Jarvis would not meet our gaze. It was then I noticed the silence, the way the soldiers were standing at attention along the carriages. I didn't recognize any of their faces. My father's men were forced against the conveyances, their expressions hard, their eyes downcast. Aigneis gripped my arm.
“I should have known,” she hissed before looking down at me, her eyes desperate and hard. “Get back in the carriage, Stone.”
An older man stepped forward. He had black hair streaked with white, and he wore chain mail with a red, belted surcoat. Emblazoned along the front was an image of a howling black wolf and two crossed swords. The king's soldiers.
A carriage door stood open behind the man. My stepmother rested against the space, a lantern held high, her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted into a cruel smile. My father was behind her, his face grey in the shadows thrown off by the lamp. His mouth was gagged, his hands tied behind his back.
I cried out as Aigneis pushed me backward. The soggy ground was unforgiving, and I slipped, one hand sinking into the dirt as I caught myself.
“Aigneis Friel Gaffney,” the king's man said loudly. “You wear the mark of the mage. In the land of Medeisia, sorcery has been outlawed. You have been accused of using your magic after succumbing to the mark. Do you confess this to be truth?”
Silent tears were leaving tracks on my cheeks as my grip tightened on Aigneis' hand. I cowered behind her, but Aigneis stood tall, her head held high. Our carriage door had opened, and Mareth peered beyond it, her face pale.
“I confess nothing,” Aigneis answered.
Confession mattered naught. Any accusation meant death. She knew it. I knew it.
Soldiers began moving in on us, and I pulled on Aigneis desperately. We could run. Surely we could run!
“No!”
My wail was lost in the sound of stomping men, shouted orders, and rippling chain mail as Aigneis gently pried my fingers away from her hand.
“Let me go, dear heart,” she said, her voice calm. Only her eyes expressed any fear.
“No,” I mouthed, the sound weak, desperate, shocked.
“Listen to the forest,” she whispered.
Her hand moved to my face, and she swept her fingers over my damp cheeks as the soldiers seized her roughly. I tried grabbing for her as they dragged her backward, but I was shoved toward the ground, my fingers gripping soggy soil. The rotting scent from before was cloying now. It stank of death.
“Light a mage-fire!” the red coated man ordered.
I was screaming now, the sound shrill. The other men looked at their captain with wide eyes.
“And risk the trees?” a young soldier asked.
The older man's gaze moved to the private, and the boy shifted uncomfortably.
“The trees will not burn. Light a fire.”
The captain's voice was low and commanding with a threatening undercurrent no one seemed willing to test.
A hand was over my mouth now, and I looked up wildly only to find myself peering into Jarvis' youthful face.
“Quiet, miss. They'll only burn you as well,” the boy whispered against my ear. Even at thirteen, the boy was the same height as me, and he was strong. I fought him desperately, but he didn't loosen his hold.
“You've always been nice to me, miss. Please,” he begged.
Aigneis didn't struggle as they tied her to a hastily constructed pyre of wood. I screamed against Jarvis' hand, my head throbbing furiously. They couldn't do this! They couldn't!
“By order of King Raemon, this woman has been accused of sorcery. The punishment is death. All present bear witness. Light the fire,” the captain announced.
Another red coated soldier lifted a torch, saluting Igneet, God of Fire, before throwing it onto the pyre. Wood crackled as it lit, some of it sputtering, and I was suddenly hopeful. I pulled on Jarvis's hand.
“The wood is too wet! It's too wet!” I whispered furiously, but Jarvis simply re-covered my mouth before angling his head at the red-breasted captain. It was then I noticed the way the man's hands glowed as he held them toward the pyre. The man was a mage. The king's captain was a mage. I screamed again, and Jarvis held me.
I kicked furiously, finally breaking free as the flames took hold, the wood near Aigneis' feet beginning to smolder and pop.
Two soldiers caught me before I neared the fire, holding me back when I tried to throw myself at Aigneis. Their fingers dug cruelly into the skin on my upper arms, but I barely noticed the pain. I wasn't even sure I was breathing. Each breath was a sob. My lungs burned.
The edge of Aigneis' dress caught fire, and I struggled against the men's hold. I wanted to shut my eyes but couldn't. There was banging from a carriage behind me, and I twisted just long enough to see my father kicking at the walls of the coach where he was bound. I tried to move toward him, but the soldiers' grips were too strong, too unyielding.
It was then Aigneis screamed. For the rest of my life, I would remember that scream; the pain, the despair, the fury in her voice. The same emotions roiled through my veins. My screams met hers in the night, in the forest where a mage-fire was being controlled by a sorcerer.
Screams . . . the smell of burning flesh.
Those screams would haunt me forever.
Those screams ripped through my heart.
Those screams tore at my soul.
Screaming . . . and then silence. Nothing left except the putrid smell of death, and the popping sound of flames. Someone sobbed. Someone yelled threats. Someone even scratched the faces of the soldiers.
In the end, I'm pretty sure that someone was me.