“So here we are. Alone at last,” he said, at length. “I knew you would come. Though, I must say, I’m disappointed. I was told your power was strong. I thought that you would be a fly most difficult to catch. But you buzzed more loudly than you realised.” He pushed back his sleeve, absently running a finger over the Water stone in its gold setting. “Your magic blares out as if you have no control over it. It woke me. It led me right to you. Your undisciplined power has proved your downfall.”
Guilt weighed down on her. Her father had only been caught again because he had been with her. If she had gone off with Tam to try to steal the Water stone when he had suggested, perhaps her father would have got away with Donnan.
“I wonder if it was luck or fate that brought your father here,” Svelrik continued. “Macomrag told me about you and your strange Fire magic, which I’m sure he exaggerated. Still, I suspected he was referring to the same person who attacked my men with fire last year.” He came close to her now, looking deep into her eyes. “I know it was you,” he whispered. “But I need hardly have been concerned. Look at you – a small, weak, powerless bastard. I’m right aren’t I? You’re Morwena Trylenn’s bastard. I always remember a face and yours looks remarkably like hers. You forget, I knew her.”
“I know you knew my mother. I know you killed her in cold blood.”
There was a slight twitch beneath one of his eyes as if this knowledge of hers surprised him. Then a smile curled a corner of his mouth.
“You tortured my father,” she continued. “You murdered hundreds of innocent people on those ships. You make magic a crime and have healers executed whilst you wield your own magic to terrorise and kill.”
Svelrik stared at her, neither confessing nor denying.
“And you murdered your own father, the king.”
His face hardened. “I have always served Dalrath first.”
She snorted.
“I did what needed to be done. Do you honestly think that the earls and thanes would have had Rhona as their leader – a woman who would be a mere puppet of her Shamlakahn husband?”
“The earls you killed would have. And she wouldn’t have been a puppet.”
“A woman on the throne would mean weak government. Rhona’s Tyrrosian cousin would have tried to seize the throne for himself. There would have been war and whatever the outcome, Dalrath would be ruled by a foreign land. Power came to me for a reason. I’m the only one who can give this country stability.”
“I think you mean tyranny.” Pain burst across her face, her head flung to the side as he struck her with the back of his hand. Her skin stung and a trickle of blood worked its way down her cheek where his ring had cut her and she tasted its metallic tang as it reached her lips. Smiling, she looked up at him. “You’re afraid.”
He glared darkly at her, red-faced, nostrils flared.
“You’re afraid,” she repeated. “Just as you were afraid of every single person whose blood is on your hands. You were afraid of my mother. Even now, you’re afraid of Rhona and how she might take back Dalrath. And you’re afraid of me.”
“I do not fear the dead,” he said, raising his hand.
His expression was the same as when he’d been about to kill her mother. Kaetha shivered as his magic swirled around her like a blizzard. Cold bit her fingers and toes which prickled and went numb. It felt like she was being buried in snow. Stabbing pain shot through her limbs and her head hung heavy and tired as her heartbeat slowed. Perhaps his magic works easily for him because he’s not touched by an iron fetter . How else . . . Her thoughts slowed but she knew what he was doing. As with King Alran and her mother, he was freezing her blood. Soon her heart would be still and cold as ice.
She drew a ragged breath. “You might convince yourself that it was all for Dalrath,” she said, only managing a whisper, her words jagged as icicles, “but I know what you felt. I saw you and I know. There was nothing kingly in your face when you killed your father. It was your bitterness, the sick, callous greed for power, the rank, rotting soul of a common murderer that I saw in your eyes. Whatever you wear upon your head, that is all you really are, all you will ever—”
“Enough.”
“You were right to see me as a threat,” she said through chattering teeth. “You were right to fear me.” She paused, taking in gasps of air as cold crushed her chest like an iron band. “You hoped I would die as a result of your laws against magic. You wanted to have me captured. You tried to have me killed first in Neul Carraig then at Longmachlag.”
She searched for the Fire magic within her. It was weak, like a pitiful, cowering creature. But confronted with death, she gave that creature inside her what strength she could and, with teeth and claws bared, it faced the icy threat of Svelrik’s power and began to push through the resistance of the iron. She smiled as warmth pulsed through her with each heartbeat.
Her voice steadied. “You feared that my magic would be a threat to your own. But even if you kill me, you should still fear me. I will not be the last to stand against you. I’ll be the spark that will light an inferno and death will be your only escape.”
With a great effort, she let her Fire magic blaze within her until there was no trace of Svelrik’s Ice. He staggered backwards, knocking against the iron bars of the cell, alarm contorting his face.
He straightened up in an attempt to regain his composure. “Your words mean nothing,” he said as he left the cell and locked it. “You want an inferno? That is what you will get. Tomorrow morning, Kaetha, you will burn at the stake for treason.”
Her stomach squirmed and she tried to pull herself to the corner of the cell. She didn’t get far. It hurt too much to move and swiftly came the clamminess, the trembling, her body arched forwards and she was sick. Hours passed in which she lay curled up, shaking and exhausted, the darkness around her filled with the echo of Svelrik’s words – you will burn.
She didn’t eat. She couldn’t. Neither could she sleep. With slow, pained movements, she shuffled across the floor to the cup and drank, though she couldn’t quench her thirst. Time must have passed but whether minutes or hours went by, she could not tell.
Thinking once again of her promise to Mairi not to come here, the promise she had broken, a lump rose up her throat and her body was gripped by sobs. She couldn’t stop the flow of tears but she tried to keep still to prevent the pain of her wounds from worsening. She thought of Mairi and the losses she will be about to face. She remembered the feelings of resentment she used to feel towards her. She’d been so against Mairi becoming like a mother to her, yet she was kind and caring, a good person whom her father loved dearly. Despite this, she had felt anger towards her. Now she questioned why. It was as if she had locked the answer in a dark corner of her mind where she wouldn’t be able to see it but then, like a cloud passing and unveiling the sun, the truth emerged in her mind.
It was not Mairi I was angry with, she thought. I was angry at my mother. She may have loved me but she did not claim me as her own. She rejected me because I brought her shame. Pain welled up inside her, making her cry again, but it was a pain that brought her closer to herself and closer to Mairi. I buried this pain and it came out as anger towards Mairi. But Mairi accepted me, despite her fear of magic, she’s been a mother to me. She released a long breath, feeling as though chains that had bound her were now broken.
Night was ever present in the shadows that clung to the walls so she had no way to know if dawn had arrived until, eventually, two guards came to take her.
Would the king call it Kaetha’s old cell now, instead of Darrow’s? she wondered as the guards released her from her cell and marched her through the dungeons. Her body ached with every step.
“Where is he?” she asked when they reached her father’s cell. She looked around feverishly. “Where’s my father?”
The guards said nothing.
She squinted in the pale morning light, dim as it was, as they hauled her up the steps and out past the barracks. The place w
as eerily quiet. The few servants, soldiers and guards who were there stood still and silent, watching her. She shivered.
“Don’t worry, lass,” said one of the guards beside her, “you’ll soon warm up.”
It wasn’t just the biting air that made her muscles tense. She also felt like someone behind was watching her. Gaoth? She felt the flutter of his presence but heard nothing of his thoughts. As she looked for him over her shoulder, the only eyes she met were dead ones. Her stomach reeled. The heads of three men had been put on spikes above the ramparts of the inner gatehouse, their skin grey, their hair lifting in the wind. Each forehead bore the silver band signifying their status as earls. All seven of Dalrath’s earls had sworn fealty to Rhona as Alran’s heir yet, as far as she knew, only these three had tried to keep their oaths.
And I will die as a traitor too, she thought, though I failed to keep my oath. Yet she was dying for her loyalty. She tried to feel the nobility of that. But she didn’t. Tremors ran down her legs and arms and a wave of nausea swelled within her.
The doors of the outer gatehouse ahead were open for them and she was shoved marched through it and across the drawbridge. She searched desperately for a flicker of her Fire but every time she came close to harnessing it, fear choked her and she became helpless. The chattering of the densely packed crowd filled the air before she even saw it. A flurry of whispers rose and died away as all eyes turned to her. In this steep swathe of hillside, between the southern and western crescents of defended walls, people from city and citadel had gathered to witness the king’s justice.
She wasn’t long for this world, she knew that. This fact was clear but it didn’t feel real. She seemed to be outside of herself, watching all of this happen, seeing her hopes unravel, her life approach its end. As the crowd parted, she no longer saw the people. Her eyes were fixed on the pyre that was waiting for her, her heart stopping as time stood still.
The great pile of wood was pale and dry, ready to be eaten by flames. A log tumbled out of place and she flinched at the sound. Instinctively, her muscles tensed and she struggled in the grasp of the guards, their hands tightening around her arms. All at once, she was acutely aware of her own body, the cutting pain from her torture, the fabric of her kirtle whipping against her gooseflesh skin, the cold air scratching at the inside of her parched throat, her chest tight as she breathed shallow breaths. She felt dampness against her thighs before realising that she had pissed herself. The embarrassment of this shocked her and she stopped struggling, determined for her body to respond to her mind. She couldn’t escape this fate and she wanted to meet it with what dignity she had left.
As the guards walked her towards the roughly made wooden steps leading up to the stake, she walked straight and tall, holding her head high. And then she saw him. She lunged towards her father, catching at his hand but she was dragged away from him again. He was restrained by guards too, his wrists bound together by thick rope. She hated Svelrik more than ever for making him come out to watch. She kept her eyes fixed on her father’s as a guard led her up to the stake. Her father seemed unable to move, his face stricken with pain, but as he found his voice, Kaetha strained to catch all his words above the mutterings of the crowd.
“I’m so proud – to have had the chance to be your father. I love you, Kit.”
Her throat threatened to close up, stopping her from speaking but she nodded. “Please . . . don’t watch,” she managed. She closed her eyes and tears rolled down her cheeks. The guard tied her to the stake, rope clawing tightly at the soft skin of her wrists, pulling her hard against the stake as he wrapped it around her waist. She leant her head back against the wood and closed her eyes. She thought of climbing trees with Archie long ago. Now I’ve climbed one I cannot climb down from, she thought.
Svelrik walked through the crowd, his guards making way for him. She knew he meant for her to see his face as she died. His slender, Shamlakahn queen stood beside him, looking away from Kaetha and the pyre. Meraud stood behind the king, looking over his shoulder, her features unreadable. Murdo was there too, dressed in fine clothes, a silver band on his forehead catching the light of the pale sun. So his efforts had been successful, the king had granted him his earldom. Yet he didn’t look smug as she’d expected. He chewed at his thumbnail, his brows knit together, looking distinctly uncomfortable. That seemed strange. Raghnall was there too, yelling insults as loudly as the best of them.
Then someone standing behind the king caught her eye and she recognised him as a man she had seen at Neul Carraig. She shot him a venomous look, realising that he worked for Svelrik all that time and therefore must have been instrumental in the attack and in driving the survivors of it to their deaths at Longmachlag Bay. Seeing him there in his black and green livery, she realised why back at Neul Carraig he had seemed familiar. He was one of the guards who had been looking for Rhona the night she escaped. His expression seemed oddly blank and, for some reason, she longed to know what he was thinking.
Her thoughts were broken by the sudden silence of the crowd. Not yet, she thought. Not yet. Sir Jarl approached and handed the king a flaming brand.
Svelrik walked up to the pyre. “Today we bring to justice a witch and a traitor to the crown.” He tossed the brand amongst the wood. Guards surrounding her placed their brands in the pyre too and the fire spread in a ring around her. Her heart thundered in her chest and she panted for breath. Her panic rose and she felt sick as the crowd cheered.
She glared at Svelrik and tried to control her breathing.
“I’m no traitor to the crown,” she cried in an attempt at defiance, though terror coursed through her trembling body, “unlike the son of a whore who wears it. Long live Queen Rhona!”
Sweat gathered on her face, drips tracing the surface of her skin. She saw Archie in the crowd then, his face deathly white but for the dark bruises upon it.
“Rhona, our rightful Queen!” Her words were answered with a shocked hush and, for some time, all she heard was the crackling of the flames licking the wood as they rose.
THIRTY SEVEN
Firesong
The fire had not yet reached her, though tendrils of smoke bloomed into engulfing clouds. Her eyes stung and the crowd became a blur. She breathed in gulps of smoke, each wheezy breath followed by a hacking cough which left her throat raw and dry. Her surging panic made her breathe faster, only to take in more smoke whilst her body screamed for air.
In her flailing desperation, she clutched onto the thought of her magic. But without the stones, how can I—? Her eyes watered as she coughed, smoke gritty in her lungs. Fear crumbled her thoughts – stole her focus. Have to be calmer. The soles of her feet grew hot as the fire crept closer and she stood on tiptoes, closing her eyes against a great cloud of smoke which billowed up from the crackling wood.
She hung her head, her thoughts fluttering hesitantly with broken wings. It was all she could do to quell her terror enough to stop herself from screaming. As her mind drunkenly slipped into a nightmarish fog, a strain of melody came to her mind. She heard her mother’s voice singing a snatch of a half-forgotten lullaby from when she’d had bad dreams as a child.
. . . Through misty woods all veiled in night
I found them dancing by moonlight.
I gave them back the changeling fae
And took my own child far away . . .
Why those words came to her, she didn’t know but she held onto that half-remembered moment of comfort.
Blow the dream away, child, Morwena would say. Blow the dream away. It is nothing but air.
As she thought of Morwena, her Air magic gathered strength. She filled her lungs, resisting the urge to cough, then softly, slowly, blew out again. A wave of air followed the direction of her breath and smoke wafted away from her. She took a breath of clean air then blew again.
She was now surrounded by clean air, smoke being diverted away from her. However, flames bit at her toes and she realised that the fire was flaring, being fanned by the c
urrent of air created by her magic. She harnessed her Fire, drawing energy from the flames beneath her but, as they subsided, a cloud of smoke formed around her again.
So that’s my choice. To burn to death or to suffocate from the smoke before the fire takes me, she thought. Gaoth? She feared her thought-voice was too faint, surrounded by a cacophony of other minds, but surely he was here watching her. Gaoth, help!
I am here.
She couldn’t see him. Draw away the smoke, Gaoth.
But if I do that, the flames will grow.
Leave the flames to me.
She didn’t care that this would prove to the crowd that she was a witch. With Gaoth dispersing the smoke, letting it coil through the coughing crowd, she focussed on her Fire, pulling more and more of its energy. The flames sank back down through the wood, smouldering and subdued. The energy she had taken began to restore her strength but she had drawn more energy than she could consume and it was pushing to be released in some form or another.
She thought again of her mother’s song. Sing. Sing out your power, she thought, directing the Fire energy, and then the air was filled with the voices of the flames, a choir singing without words. Melodies wove into one another, mournful, bright and clear. The sound filled her, reaching into her soul, and she felt tears fall down her cheeks.
She couldn’t escape death, she knew, but at least she had the satisfaction of seeing Svelrik’s shock, his pale face, the panic in his eyes.
“Bring on your arrows,” she said, glaring at him, “bring on your swords and axes – but you will never burn me. I am Kaetha Baird, Chosen by Fire.”
As she scanned the stunned faces of the crowd, expecting the king to signal for archers to end his humiliation and kill her quickly, she found a familiar face. Mairi stood at the back of the crowd, a cloak draped over her, covering her hair. It was Morwena’s cloak and, for a moment, she thought she ought to feel angry that Mairi was wearing it. But she didn’t.
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