Very few were found innocent. It was unusual enough that the cases were all recorded in history books, and Rudol could count their number on his fingers. The outcome was usually decided well in advance; chastors were appointed to judge based on obedience, not piety. Without a time constraint or any particular guide for what constituted a sign, judges needed only to wait for the inevitable.
Perhaps it had once been a fair and holy rite of judgement, but those days were long past. Now, only three types of people ever stood the cliff: those who demanded it, to prove some point; criminals whose judgement had to be public and sanctified; and swamplings, just for the theatre of it, on the rare occasion that they were captured alive. Of those, only the first were allowed to step away and live with the shame—criminals and swamplings stood until they fell or retreated into a waiting sword.
But fairness wasn’t what troubled Rudol, at least not in this case. He had personally witnessed the truth of Cadill’s crime—the man’s death was just, trial or no. This was simply an execution in disguise, meant to show that treason would not be tolerated by crown or god. No, what troubled Rudol was that he could have as easily had the man put to death behind the walls of the Keep, where nothing could go wrong. Here, surrounded by hundreds of men and women whose loyalty he couldn’t depend upon, anything could happen. It had sounded so reasonable when Duke Castar explained it, but when Rudol repeated the same arguments to himself, they didn’t sound half as convincing. Too late to question it now. He’ll fall soon, and it will be over.
Four hours later, he regretted not killing the man when they’d first met.
There was no denying that Cadill had stamina. He’d lasted at the cliff’s edge longer than most. The wind grew stronger at the big man’s back as the sun dipped low in the sky, but he kept his feet. He must know I’m not going to pardon him. Why bother? A show of defiance? Does he hope to win sympathy for his cause?
If so, it was working a great deal better than Rudol was comfortable with. Murmurs had started running through the crowd after the first hour, and they’d only grown louder since. Cries of “Mercy!” and “The Sky God forgives!” and other such things grew more and more frequent, and the occasional “Just go over already!” didn’t make Rudol feel any better. Even if they don’t support his treason, they’re getting restless.
“I should have beheaded him at the Keep,” Rudol muttered, and plucked at his tunic where it was plastered to his chest with sweat. When he let go, the fabric immediately clung to his skin again.
“This was the right decision, Highness.” There was no doubt in Ren Mulley’s gentle voice. “You must show the people that you deal in the Sky God’s justice.”
“They’ll respect you for it when it’s done, dear,” said Carissa, laying a hand on Rudol’s arm. “He won’t be the first criminal to stand this long. In the end, all anyone remembers is that they fell.”
Rudol grunted, but didn’t answer. He leaned forward in his chair and watched Cadill sway on his feet. He’s tiring. A bit longer in this wind and he’ll go. He didn’t have an aviator’s wind-chart at hand, but he didn’t need one to know the early Berian winds in the Plateaus; at this height, the northbound gusts would only grow stronger as evening fell.
He was right about the time, at least. At the leading edge of twilight, the wind intensified, and not gently.
Cadill was already swaying forward, and the sudden gust from behind overbalanced him. His heels lifted off the ground so that his boots only touched solid ground in a narrow strip at the cliff’s edge, just below the balls of his feet. Leaning far over the precipice, he thrust his hands out behind him to try to correct his equilibrium. Carissa gasped and gripped Rudol’s hand tight. They held their breath—and so did the crowd, falling silent for the first time in hours—as the big man teetered there, poised over the steep drop down to the mist.
And at that moment, the wind flagged. Hardly at all, and as far as Rudol was concerned, not nearly enough to make any kind of difference before it picked up again as strong as before. But in that brief window, Cadill caught his balance, and landed heavily back onto his feet.
Everyone watching let out their breath at once; Rudol heard the mass exhalation quite clearly even from the pavilion. The silence was quickly filled by excited murmuring at Cadill’s recovery. “The wind! The wind spared him!” a man’s voice shouted somewhere in the crowd, and then from a woman, “There’s your sign, right there!” Soon a hundred more voices were rising in support.
“Damn him to the Deep,” Carissa cursed quietly. “How does a man that size balance so well?”
Rudol said nothing; he barely heard his wife speak. His attention was on Cadill. The man looked over his shoulder, right at Rudol, and there was a determined glint in his eyes, like he’d made a decision.
He’s going to run. After a near thing like that, it wasn’t uncommon; some lost their sense and decided to test their luck against the Swords rather than risk the cliff a moment longer. A fall would be better, but at least it will be done.
Instead, Cadill threw his head back and laughed. It started out choked, clearly forced, but it did what it was meant to do—it got the crowd’s attention.
“He will not spare me!” Cadill shouted at the sky, as if his voice might reach into the Above. “No sign will be enough! This man betrayed his own brother to take his crown; he will not heed your will now, my Lord!” The wind muffled the sound, carried it in the wrong direction, but Rudol could still make out Cadill’s words. And that meant the first rows of the crowd could too. “If I must die here, let it be for the true king of the Nine Peaks!”
He’s going to turn them against you, little brother. Or were they ever with you at all?
Rudol had been in enough fights to recognize the signs when a man was about to act; the tension in Cadill’s stance told him all he needed to know. Without realizing it, he stood from his chair. I have to stop this. “Wait!” he shouted. “It’s over! Stop—”
He was too late.
Cadill was already moving. The big man threw himself forward, and as his feet left the ground, he screamed, “Josen lives!” His leap carried him up and out into the open air, and for a moment he looked as if he was flying.
And then he fell.
In an instant, he was beyond Rudol’s sight, plummeting over the cliff’s edge and down toward the mist. But even when he was gone, his words remained. “Josen lives!” rang in Rudol’s ears. A phantom echo at first, but it quickly became real. “Josen lives!” a man shouted from among the crowd. Another picked up the cry. “Josen lives!” Soon dozens of them were shouting Josen’s name. And then hundreds.
It’s happening again. He wasn’t even surprised, really; some part of him had known this was coming.
“We have to go.” Rudol grabbed Carissa by the arm and pulled her from her seat. “On your feet, Mulley. Move.” He dragged Carissa to the stairs that led down from the dais, and the little chastor hurried behind.
People were already grabbing the high iron bars of the fence, pushing against it, still screaming Josen’s name. The Swords maintained a small perimeter around the outer enclosure’s double gate, and something of an aisle down the street, but they were outnumbered ten to one. Counts and countesses were already fleeing toward their carriages and coaches, but the Swords weren’t allowing any of the vehicles to move yet—their primary purpose was to see Rudol to safety, and that meant keeping the way clear. Several guardsmen ushered Rudol toward his carriage, standing as shields between him and the crowd.
One of the Swords had already opened the door of the carriage, and Rudol lifted his wife inside before climbing in himself. Just behind them, Mulley gripped the doorframe and struggled to jump up, his short legs flailing behind him; Rudol grabbed his wrist and yanked him in with one hand. When they were all seated, Rudol thumped on the wall with one fist. “Go! Go!”
He heard iron scrape as the Swords opened the outer gate, and the vehicle lurched forward. A stone struck the window right beside Carissa�
��s head, and she let out a startled yelp, clutching at Rudol’s side. Mulley huddled in his seat with his neck craned up between hunched shoulders and two fingers pressed against the eagle’s eye at the center of his circlet. Through the fractured glass, Rudol could see men and women hurling more stones and insults, advancing on the Swords who guarded the carriage’s passage.
The Swords drew their weapons and held their ground.
One man, bellowing at the top of his lungs, charged the line; a guard’s blade severed his arm at the shoulder. A crimson streak spattered against the cracked window, and Carissa began to scream, over and over. Only when Rudol put a hand behind her neck and buried her head in his shoulder did the noise recede into muffled sobs.
“Faster! Get us out of here!” Rudol bellowed, hammering his fist against the wall. I don’t want to do this again. Wind of Grace, let us get clear of them.
And whether it was in answer to his prayer or just sheer luck, the sight of blood seemed to cow the fury of the mob. They weren’t as organized or as brave as Cadill’s men; they’d come to witness an execution, not to die for a cause. The man who’d charged the carriage fell in a puddle of his own blood, clutching the stump of his arm, and all around him men and women scrambled to put distance between themselves and the blades of the guardsmen. Like a receding tide, the crowd around the wagon drew back until the Swords were able to clear a path, and soon the carriage broke through onto an open road.
“We’ve made it!” Mulley gasped as the driver whipped the ponies into a canter. “Praise the Above!”
Carissa let out a high-pitched hiccuping sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, and clutched Rudol tighter.
As much as he wanted to, Rudol couldn’t share their relief. Not while he could still hear voices from behind, screaming his brother’s name. And underneath those, another voice, for his ears alone.
Well, little brother, Josen whispered in his ear, I think the people have made their choice.
31. Moving Pieces
Shona
Shona knelt in her garden as evening set in, humming to herself while she picked and pruned.
The manor’s staff had kept her plants watered, but they’d gone no further—just as she liked it. She’d been away too long this time; after more than a full wind-cycle, her cloudblooms were badly in need of pruning, her grapevines were strangling everything around them, and the soil was littered with over-ripe vegetables and berries that had gone unpicked too long. She didn’t mind. There was a great deal of work to do, but she liked doing it. It was soothing. And she needed that, given everything else that was on her mind. The work helped to distract her from the waiting.
It had been three days since she’d come up with her plan to see the swampling woman, and she was still waiting for Eian to send word when the time was right. Waiting, and worrying over every potential disaster that could arise. The recent news from the Plateaus certainly hadn’t helped—apparently there was widespread rioting in Josen’s name, demonstrations outside the walls of the Aryllian Keep day and night. King Gerod might pass away any day, and she didn’t know what Rudol would do when that day came—giving up his birthright to Lenoden Castar wasn’t out of the question, under the circumstances. He trusted the duke, and tended to act rashly when Josen’s name was invoked. If she didn’t find her damning evidence very soon, she worried it would come too late.
Tonight, she reminded herself, but it was little comfort. She shook her head to banish the thought, and bent down to trim a particularly overgrown cloudbloom bush. There was nothing more she could do until the time came, and just then she was trying to calm her nerves, not aggravate them.
She was lost in her work, snipping back the long cloudbloom stems that intruded on her neighboring plants and carefully avoiding the fluffy white flowers, when she heard her mother’s voice behind her.
“You have a lot of work to do, don’t you?”
“Don’t I always?” Shona looked over her shoulder, and was surprised to see her father gripping her mother’s arm. She dropped her shears and hurried over to help. “Shouldn’t he be resting?” He hadn’t yet recovered from what Castar had put him through; he’d spent much of the last three days sleeping, and was rarely lucid when he was awake.
“A man needs to feel the wind on his face now and again,” her father said, smiling weakly. “I wanted to see you… back where you belong.”
Shona helped guide her father to a bench at the garden’s edge and crouched before him. “I’m glad you came. It’s good to see you out of your bed.”
He placed shaking hands against her ears and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “My dear Shona. I am supposed to worry for you, not the other way around. This war…” His face fell. “It will take you away again. I… I fear it has already. I was supposed to protect you, but I…”
Shona took his hands in hers. “Father, I’m right here.”
“No, no.” He shook his head; there was an old sadness in his eyes. “I saw you after. They… they sent Gerod the head, you know. Your eyes were closed, like you were sleeping. But still… still so lovely.” He stroked his finger along her cheekbone, and it sent a shiver down Shona’s spine. He’s imagining a dead woman’s face. “We both wept for you. He and I. I remember. This must be a dream.” He looked at her hopefully. “Or was that the dream, and this real? I… I’m sorry. I have trouble telling, sometimes.”
Shona glanced up at her mother, who just shook her head sadly. They had both seen these symptoms before, but this was as bad as they had ever been, and they seemed to worsen each day. Old memories and new ran together in her father’s head like spilled paint, impossible to separate once the colors mingled. The rebellion was at the same time long over and still tearing the Peaks apart; she was both his daughter and the sister he’d lost. But what broke Shona’s heart most were the moments when he clearly knew something was wrong. When he apologized for it, as if it was his fault. It would almost be better if he could just forget entirely.
“That was the dream, Father,” she said, squeezing his hands. “This is real. I’m safe.”
A tear rolled down her father’s cheek. “I very much want to believe that. Are you… are you sure?”
“I—” Shona choked back her own tears. “I’m sure, Father. I’m not going to leave you.” Don’t cry. Don’t let him see you like that. She lifted his hands to her lips and forced a smile for him.
Before Shona completely lost her composure, her mother laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Why don’t you rest here while I help Shona in the garden, my love?”
He smiled and absently wiped his eyes. “Yes, yes. Of course, Bevyn. I do like to watch my ladies at work.” Shona winced at that—Bevyn had been his first wife’s name—but her mother showed no sign that it bothered her. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it.
Shona led her mother back to the cloudbloom she’d been working on, and retrieved her shears. “He’s not… I hoped he’d improve more, with rest.” She spoke in a near-whisper, so her father couldn’t hear. “God Above, I wish I hadn’t gotten him involved in this.”
Her mother took her hand. “Oh, Shona. You mustn’t blame yourself. If you want to hold someone responsible, let it be Lenoden Castar.”
“Castar would never have laid a hand on either of you if I hadn’t provoked him.” Shona shook her head. “I should have seen you safely away before I started poking into things. It was stupid.”
“How many times have you complained about that man’s ambition over the years? His eye has always been set on Greenwall. Sooner or later, he would have come.”
“But he wouldn’t have held us in Goldstone, or taken us through the Swamp. If father had just been allowed to stay here—”
“Your father has been ill for a long while, Shona. He was always going to get worse instead of better. Are you going to blame yourself for failing to stop time from passing, now?”
Shona sighed. “You’re right. I just wish there was something I could do.” She glanced
back at her father; he sat slumped on his bench, his head nodding down toward his chest. He looks so old. “Do you… do you ever regret any of this? He is so much older, and you’ve taken care of him for so long…” It felt like a betrayal to ask. She loved her father, but seeing him like this, she couldn’t help but think of her own future—the path most women in the Nine Peaks walked. Her mother had spent so much of her life caring for a man decades older than she was, a man she hadn’t ever chosen. Would that be better or worse than being forced to marry Castar?
“How could I regret it?” Vera brushed a hand through Shona’s hair. “He gave you to me. I didn’t pick him, but I will always love him for that. It has… not always been easy, but he is a truly good man, and he has given me a wonderful life. Marriages like ours are not always a tragedy.”
“I know. I shouldn’t worry so much about it, but…”
“But you don’t want that for yourself. And I want something better for you, too, my dear. You are far too clever and talented to be happy living the life I’ve lived. You are going to do so much more.” She took a deep, trembling breath, as if bracing herself, and then said, “I know you’re planning something. Tell me that you won’t waste time worrying about me or your father. If you can get away from Castar, I want you to go. We both do.”
“How do you do that?” Shona had tried so hard not to worry her parents—she’d mentioned nothing of her plans. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
“Of course not. You’re my daughter. Promise me, Shona.”
“I can’t,” said Shona. “I already told Father that I wouldn’t leave him. If I’m not here, I don’t know what Castar will do to him, or to you. And what about Greenwall? Our people will suffer if I go.”
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 53