Ward moved as quickly as he could without running. This mission was over.
Bench tried to summon his strength. He had to think through what he must do; he had to command his troops. But he couldn’t. He was weak, and sick, and the chills had returned. He had depleted all his remaining strength. Now he staggered back into the chamber that led to the passageway. It was cool in here. He would feel better in here, in just a moment. He leaned against the wall. And then he lowered himself slowly to the ground. He would have to rest. He looked up. His men were gathered around him. They looked worried.
“What?” he asked them, and his eyes closed of their own accord.
CHAPTER 24
The Hangman
From where she stood in the crowd beside Father Mooring, not fifteen feet from the platform, Panna could see everything. She had seen everything. She had watched Packer climb the stairs to die. She had paid little attention to Mather, not until this very moment. Until the prince paused, and looked at her, she could see only Packer.
But she couldn’t see Packer clearly. She saw him partly in life, partly in memory, and partly in a dream. The life, the memory, and the dream were nearly identical, and now they were so intertwined she had trouble separating one from the other. In life, she saw him standing on a gallows. In memory, he stood on a dais on the deck of a ship. In the dream, he was at the edge of a cliff. In one a king stood beside him, in the other two a prince. In the dream, Packer was pushed from the cliff; in memory he was pushed out to sea, lauded to the heavens. And in life…which? What? Would he fall through that trapdoor? Would he sail off again, leaving her behind? Or would he be cast off the cliff, trailing a rope that Panna could not catch in her hands, that would burn her forever and yet not save Packer? Or, would he somehow walk back down those stairs and embrace her again?
Panna closed her eyes and prayed, prayed, prayed that God would stop this, that He would step in, that He would change this reality, awaken her from the dream, free her from the memory. She prayed, prayed, and prayed that He would glorify His own name for all the Drammune to see, for all the Vast to see, and show Himself to be God.
She prayed that He would somehow, in so doing, save Packer. She prayed that she was not praying selfishly, that it was not the pain of losing her father, that she wasn’t demanding or sulking, but asking for others, for Packer, for posterity, for all who would know and repeat the story. She prayed as her father prayed, understanding now why he prayed, honoring him in her heart, feeling in her spirit his spirit, his yielded humility, knowing now that nothing and no one could change outcomes such as this, that no one could alter the inevitable, no one but God alone.
If He would but grant her this one request now, here, and at this moment. If He would…
Then she opened her eyes, and that was the moment Mather saw her. But what he saw was far more than a helpless woman in a poor disguise, powerless against the machinery of death that ground away at her, that had been sent to her from the cold, hard center of the world to kill her father and then her husband. He saw instead something shockingly earnest and innocent, painfully vulnerable, but undeniably, unquenchably powerful. In her was something strong enough to stand against all the kingdoms of earth, against any Abbaka Mux and every Hezzan and every state and fate and all the tides of time and history. She would never cease striving. The power within her would never crumble. And what was it? A simple, aching desire for goodness, for rightness, for love. Because God was there within it. Here was the power of weakness that could overcome the world.
“Taa!” Mux demanded of the Prince. Speak!
Mather opened his mouth. But only one thought entered his mind, just one solitary thought. It careened through him like waters roaring through the cataracts of a mountain river. It cleared out all the debris before it, washed away all his plans and schemes and desires and fears, all his wickedness and pride and foolishness. And then suddenly he reached the bottom of the chasm.
He was in the center of a glassy lake. His mind was perfectly focused, clear in a way he had never known clarity, as though a cacophony of voices had been silenced, voices that had roared and chattered and accused within him, unnoticed until they were gone. And the idea, the still and silent idea that was left, was one he knew had been given to him here, now, for a reason. It had been set down within him, and it seemed to him right, even perfect. All he needed to do was give in to it.
And giving in was the one skill he was confident he had mastered.
He nodded, acquiescing not to Mux, not to Panna, but to something else. He now understood the message he had been given.
You may choose the manner.
Mather knew his path now. He almost laughed. This was easy, and far better than any plan he had ever made or could have ever made. And to act on it, he needed only to let it happen. He felt almost giddy. Perhaps, he thought, he had just lost his mind. Perhaps he was lost again in the flowers, asleep and dreaming amid the daisies. But if so, what a relief it was to finally give in to it.
Mather spoke, and when he did, he strayed quite far from his appointed script. He wandered off the page entirely. His voice boomed, too, a voice that had been a thin sheet of tin whining in a strong wind was suddenly a cannon from an approaching warship. This surprised Mux, the people, Packer, even himself.
And after he spoke, the crowd joined him on the crystal lake. They went utterly still, pondering what he said. He felt as though the finger of God had let peace fall onto him, a single drop of cool, clear water, and that peace had then rippled outward, riding on these words, calming the people, too.
The translator droned. As the meaning was conveyed in a ragged whisper, Mux’s eyes widened.
But Mather did not see Mux. He saw Panna, saw her shining eyes aglow, saw her mouth drop open as if to sing, and stay there, as if she held a long, single, pure note. He saw his people stare in wonder, amazed. And in those words, his words, given to him, flowing from him, he now knew for the first time what power really felt like. True power, from above. All his failures had turned in a moment into something that would never fail.
His words were these:
“By the authority of the Rahk-Taa, and as a full citizen of Drammun, I hereby claim the Second Law of Transfer. I claim the right to die in place of a Worthy One, one far more Worthy than I: Packer Throme.”
He took a deep breath. Yes, he would take up a simple cross that was given to him by God Himself, carry it but a very short distance, two short steps to the hangman’s noose, and then he would lay it down. This death, dying like this, would be freedom. Mux couldn’t touch him. Failure could no longer reach him. Fear couldn’t rule him. Absolute freedom.
Mather spoke again, just as the translator finished, repeating in Drammune and in a tone that relayed his own amazement: “Meht ema Kar Ixthano, anochter Packer Throme!”
Now all the Drammune guards reacted at once, reflexively, defensively, raising muskets and pikes as if to ward off the words. And as they did, the crowd came alive. What did this mean? Did the prince really mean to die for Packer? Why would he do that? Wasn’t he Drammune now? Had the Prince just surprised them? Would that be allowed? Would Packer live after all?
At the first sign of Mux’s anger, a Drammune guard grabbed the prince from behind and put the edge of his dagger against Mather’s throat. He looked to his supreme commander for a sign, the slightest sign, that he might bleed the royal salamander to death here before all the eyes of Nearing Vast.
But Mux did not give the sign. Instead, he raged at the prince. “No! You cannot claim the Ixthano!”
The crowd’s questioning grew into an amazed glee as the great conqueror bellowed out his rage. Look how it angered him! And to the crowd, the superiority of Nearing Vast over Drammun was proven instantly, shown in the sacrifice that a prince of their land would make to save a hero.
The prince spoke carefully, attempting not to move his throat into the razor that was the guard’s blade. But his voice was serene. He was in the eye of the hurrica
ne now—let the storm winds whip around him. He had nothing left to lose, and this fact gave him power. He reveled in the peace he felt, in the sudden energy that had gripped his people. The idea that he had just done, was now doing, something heroic did not cross his mind. But it did revitalize his soul.
He spoke with complete assurance. “I am a Drammune citizen, my lord. You yourself have declared me such. And as such, I have this right. Do I not?”
The supreme commander’s anger was a furnace door flung open. The conniving prince had planned this all along, had feigned a conversion, just to make a mockery of this proceeding!
This would not stand.
The Drammune guards who ringed the lip of the amphitheater and who stood upon the Rampart walls all looked to one another, questioning. Abbaka Mux was a Zealot, and thereby honor-bound to honor Mather’s request. But Mux was also a warrior. He would massacre the entire lot of these miserable people without a second thought if he thought it right. They hoped he thought it right. The guards did not like what they now saw growing in this rabble.
Mux still focused only on Mather. “Admit that your conversion was false-hearted!”
“It was not,” Mather said, more in confession than argument. “I freely offered you my allegiance.”
Mux pointed at Packer. “He is a Pawn, an Unworthy! You are Drammune! You are a Worthy One! There can be no question!”
But Mather looked at Mux steadily. Then he spoke words that he knew, even as he said them, would seal the decision. These were words the conqueror could not evade, and Mather was thankful to have been given them. “Do you have the authority to decide that I am the Worthier man?”
“Silence!” Mux bared his teeth. The prince indeed had him. As the Supreme Commander of the Glorious Drammune Military, he could kill one or both or neither. As a Zealot, however, he had but two choices: He could allow a citizen to define his own Ixthano, or he could get a ruling from the Quarto. And the Quarto’s decision would be weeks, perhaps months away.
And then Packer spoke. “Please. Let me die.”
“Silence!” Mux raged, not understanding the words.
“No, Packer,” the prince warned, aghast at the thought. “Don’t.”
Mux’s eyes lit up as the translator spoke into his ear. “Yes, tell the yellow-hair he may deny the Ixthano! Tell him to speak freely!”
But as the translator spoke these words to Packer, a voice rose from the crowd before them.
“Oh, Packer!”
It was the same voice, saying the same words that had broken his will once before, when he stood beside her above the bunting that ringed the deck of the Chase. But this time he didn’t hear the rushing sigh of a broken heart. He heard instead the heart’s protest of the woman with whom he had become one flesh. His wife.
Packer’s knees betrayed him. Still blindfolded, he felt disoriented. He lost his bearings. The guard beside him caught him by the elbow, stood him roughly back upright.
Panna. She was here, right in front of him, an eyewitness to everything.
“Do you reject the Ixthano?” Mux demanded of Packer. “Speak now, or your prince’s blood will be on your hands!”
What in heaven’s name was Packer thinking? This was the best he could manage after all his heroic deeds, all his slaying of Achawuk and Drammune and Firefish?
“Let me die”?
Panna had been praying fervently. And then, miraculously, the prince had said this amazing thing; he’d made this outlandish, unexpected, inconceivable demand, that he die in Packer’s place. And it was, of course, a miracle. It was of God, and from God. Such an exchange made all the sense in the world to her, proving God’s presence here, answering prayers not just for Packer but for the prince. Mather had, in the very end, listened to the word from above. He had triumphed. Tears stung her eyes. All would be well.
But then suddenly Packer, counter to all that God was doing, in opposition to all that was good and right, rebelling against the obvious intervention of God here in this place, against all wisdom and all justice—Packer himself spoke up to stop it! He wanted to die! The world, and the heavens above the world, crashed down like a hammer through a stained-glass window.
Fen Abbaka Mux scanned the crowd, looking for the woman who dared speak up now, to stop the yellow-hair from his appointed fate. At first he saw no likely candidates…his mother? No, a mother’s cry would be more plaintive. It had to be his wife. Such interference from wives was not tolerated in Drammun. At least, not in public. But here, anything was possible. And then his eyes lit on the young woman in the priest’s robes, her eyes still red from tears. This was she, surely.
Packer knew for a fact that somehow again, the doors of heaven were closing. He stood outside the Garden, his head hung down. Once again, and once more for Panna’s sake, he would stay on this side of the veil. But it did not escape him that the prince had done something unselfish, and remarkably so. Here beside him was a man who had only and always taken whatever he wanted, whether it was money from the Drammune, or power from the king, or Panna from him, but who now laid it all down, gave it all up. Packer nodded slowly and spoke softly, unwilling to counter the apparent will of God. Or the quite obvious will of his wife.
“I will accept.”
Mux shook his head in disgust. Here was Nearing Vast in all its degenerate glory, wrapped up in this moment. A man of the royal family, prince of the realm, deals falsely in matters of honor. A young woman, disguised as a man, and as a priest no less, speaks out in public uninvited, muddling a situation in which men needed to think clearly and act reasonably. A warrior who is a coward and is thus, of course, held in highest esteem by his countrymen, swoons like a schoolgirl, and is then persuaded against his better judgment by the meddling of his wife. Yes, here was the very best of Nearing Vast, on full display.
They were all dishonorable. They were all beneath contempt.
But Fen Abbaka Mux was not one to let the failures of others lower his own standards. The Vast might debase themselves, but this would only strengthen his conviction to abide by his own higher principles. Great strength could be found in all things Drammune. Strength of character. Integrity. Power to rule, to die with honor, and to make worthy decisions. No, Fen Abbaka Mux would not abandon the teachings of the Rahk-Taa the first time they were tested on Vast soil by shallow deceivers.
Besides, hanging a prince was not such a bad alternative. And with this thought, Mux now embraced the choice. With one decision he would obey his Hezzan, submit to the Quarto, and hang the prince. Not bad. Packer Throme could die some other day. Feeling better, Mux removed Packer’s blindfold himself.
Packer, sweat now running down into his eyes, searched the crowd, blinking against the brutally bright sun. There she was. Wearing a priest’s robe, eyes locked on his with some incalculable mixture of gratefulness and relief and pride, and a lingering trace of fear. He smiled. And Panna smiled back.
The prince watched the exchange between Packer and Panna, the exchange he had just engineered. He almost smiled. Theirs was a love that ran deep, but now he saw it would also run through the usual dry stretches and rocky patches and thorny underbrush of any marriage. The sharp blade of jealousy did not slice him within. That familiar, raging, ragged pain was gone. He felt instead a sense of pleasure at being the facilitator of such a moment. He was pleased to give them, if not endless bliss, then at least peace, and the opportunity for a normal life. This unselfishness was new to him. He found he liked the feeling very much.
He looked up at the sky, and breathed the air. It was warm and humid, and the sky was blue. It surprised him just how blue. Had it always been this way, and had he simply never noticed? What a shame, if that were so. But it was wonderful to see now. Just then the wind kicked up, and he felt the cool of a thunderstorm coming in from behind him, from the south. He glanced back at the dark clouds. Even they were glorious. It was a memorable day.
Then he looked back at the crowd, across this sea of faces, all waiting, watching. The
re was respect here. Hope. There was concern as well. He felt a lump in his throat. He had let them all down, in almost every way. He hoped they would forgive him.
Mather took a breath and stepped in front of Packer onto the trapdoor, gingerly, but without hesitating. Why was it, he thought, that only now, only as he gave up all his rights and titles, as he gave up his nobility, that he now felt noble? And he did feel noble, for the first time in his life.
Mather looked up at the noose above his head. The supreme commander reached up and pulled it down, its coils falling free from the crossbar where they had rested. Mux put the loop around Mather’s neck, positioned the knot behind his head, then pulled the coarse hemp tight against his throat. “Die, then,” he said in Drammune.
“May I first speak the Ixthano?” the prince asked, also in Drammune.
Mux nodded and grumbled, “Taa.” Speak.
When the prince turned toward him, Packer felt like he had never seen this face before. The bruises faded into insignificance, the makeup was an artifact of some distant reality. It was as though the mask that had hid Mather Sennett, Crown Prince of Nearing Vast, had been taken off and cast away. Whoever this was now spoke without polish and without airs. He spoke in a strong voice, easily audible, but he spoke to Packer and didn’t care whether anyone else heard, or what they thought.
“My crimes are great, Packer Throme. I am sorry for them all.” His eyes trailed downward, as he recalled his actions. “Only if God is absurdly merciful do I have any hope.”
“He is,” Packer said immediately.
The prince looked up quickly. Packer truly believed this. Perhaps it was true. Yes, of course. Mather had been given this idea and those words because of God’s mercy. It wasn’t just for Packer or Panna or even Nearing Vast, but a gift from God to Mather. And then a genuine affection for Packer shone through him.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 82