A Hand Weaving Chaos (Book 2 of The Fallen Gods Trilogy)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

She had long ago lost sight of Becca.

Somewhere ahead of her, the woman wove around a cluster of people and simply vanished in the sheer chaos. It hadn't been intentional, but it did leave Jill on her own. In the distance were the gallows, but it was difficult to see them from where she stood. Her disguise as a Vistrian tickle was no longer effective; people paid no attention now that a more impressive spectacle loomed ahead.

Hesitantly, Jill picked her way through the mob. It was easy to slide around the people, now that all eyes were focused elsewhere. But where to go? Which direction made most sense? And how in the world am I supposed to pull this whole stupid thing off?

The crowd began to surge forward. Helpless to fight it, Jill let herself be carried with the spill of people, propelled forward in the crush. The crowd had grown reckless and vulgar in its catcalls and taunts. All ties that bound polite society seemed torn loose or ripped away entirely. She punched, kicked, screamed, did everything she could do to free herself from its grasp.

Over it all, hovering like a circus tent, hung the ge'tan. It grew palpable and Jill felt her wards buckle as it crackled to life. Its power felt tremendous, coiled like a wild animal ready to pounce. And when it pounced? The signs were easy to read: the crowd would go insane. A frenzy would tear through them, destroying everything—the people, the city itself, everything—in its wake.

An eerie silence suddenly took the crowd. With it came an end to the chaos as all grew still and watchful. Shoving stopped. Heads turned. All moved as if with one mind. To Jill's horror, she found herself directly before the gallows. This close, the pillars of wood formed an enormous monstrosity. Several people stood on the platform but the only the hooded man held her attention. His bulk was pure muscle and with capable aim he easily tossed a rope over the single wooden beam raised above the rest. An executioner or an actor, he performed with ease as he secured the rope's other end and pulled it tautly. No one could tear their eyes away from his drama, until...

Until the carriages arrived.

There were two of them. Both were violet with elaborate gilt trimming. On the doors was a coat of arms: two crossed swords with four golden stars arranged overhead all set on a field of violet. A team of six midnight black horses drew each carriage and a dozen footmen waited in attendance.

From the first emerged Tamas, Callista, and King Treyosh. Tamas gracefully extended an arm to Callista. She took it, but her expression seemed bland, her eyes unfocused, and her skin far too pale. She looked like death, and Jill prayed that Gunnar was not there in the crowd somewhere to see her like this.

Behind them came the King. Treyosh smiled benignly to everyone, nodding and waving, oblivious to his surroundings. Two attendants guided him up the stairs to the second platform built in the market square. From there, they would have an unobstructed view. Ringside seats. Jill shuddered.

Rydorel and Rayna climbed from the second carriage. Jill gasped. She hadn't expected Rayna. Hadn't she left her a helpless, drooling idiot? Jill watched closely as they ascended the platform together. Rayna's arms wound around Rydorel. She stumbled. Rydorel caught her and held her against him. She appeared clearly terrified, looking to him for reassurance. He squeezed her shoulders, kissed her forehead, then extricated himself from her grip once they stood beside the other three.

A third carriage arrived. No, not a carriage, a wagon. Drawn by two dull brown horses, the wagon was open-backed and aside from its driver, carried one person. A girl. A girl with long reddish-brown hair that fell loosely around her shoulders. A reddish-brown that some might generously call mahogany.