Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 43: As I am, As you Are

Val the Bard:

Our execution passed dull as buying eggs. No somber ceremony of chanting priest, no solemn drum tattoo nor headsman capering to a crowd screaming for blood and justice. Just a march down tower steps, hands bound before us, preceded by Alexandra in armor, sword drawn. Followed by a guard with a pike who sweated nervous. A few folk of the castle spied us, said nothing.

Why did the guard sweat? Did he think this ended with honest blood? More likely he knew it for fraud, and feared being caught in Alexandra's scheme. I longed to turn, kick his feet out from under him, grab the pike and fight my way out. I did not, of course.

We walked to an empty courtyard where pigeons chatted, fountains splashed, a great pomegranate tree presided over morning's glow. A place for morning tea, not execution.

Granted, in St. Martia we drag the condemned onto the practice fields to serve as targets for arrows and spear-thrusts. We are a practical folk, and put execution to practical purpose. But from Demetians one expects drama, theatre and poetry.

So we stood in morning sunshine beside a palanquin where waited two dirty bed sheets. Innocent sight that yet made me shiver. Again I considered overcoming the guard and making my farewell.

"Don't," whispered Alexandra.

Well, she knew me. I grinned to say 'might'. We both turned to Jewel. The witch trembled. Timor Mortis? Else the fear she'd fail in the prayer. I judged her for the kind that feared failure near much as death. A compliment, by St. Martia's measure.

"Get to it," Alexandra commanded, waving sword. In the back of my head whispered the worry that if Jewel failed the oration, Alexandra would run us through. What choice would she have? If she tried I'd take the sword away and run her through. What choice would I have?

Jewel took breath, facing her own choices with a nod of head. Cupping a necklace in her bound hands. Where she'd gotten that? Must have hidden it in gaol. Now she whispered to it, eyes closed.

At first I felt nothing, and I doubted. Then I shivered. I watched the sunlight fade to chill shadow, for all the cloudless sky. A whispering wind set the tree branches rustling. Within my chest my heart raced, then slowed, a clock weary of its winding. With a last faint beat, it stopped.

Alexandra lifted sword, thrust to my chest. By reflex I moved to fend; faltering to see the livid skin of my hands. Pale and purpled. The sword did not reach me, yet blood already darkened my jerkin. Not fresh; this seemed the flow of a wound hours old.

I turned eyes to Jewel, who still stood cupping her relic. She'd become unpleasant to see. Standing as a dead thing, long hair hanging for a veil. Face pale, lips near white, eyes turned to shadowed bruises.

Alexandra poked her sword tip into Jewel's meager chest. Jewel flinched, gazing down at her own blood-drenched dress.

"Fall down, idiots," Alexandra whispered. Her voice came distant and muffled, as though I lay already shrouded.

Jewel looked at me, then quick away. No doubt disturbed by the sight of seeming death. I felt... detached, no longer worried, unconcerned with escape or struggle. I let myself fall to the ground; watching Jewel settle herself to the earth with less surrender.

And there I lay, staring up at the morning sky, become the gray of autumn. The branches of the pomegranate tree wavered, whispering sad lament. The stones beneath me were cold and hard, yet comforting as no bed ever felt. I settled against the surface of the earth naturally as I must have once rested upon my mother's breast. Was this how real death passed? Not so terrible as one hears, as one fears.