Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

22

The sun burned high, its bright light glittering on the rooftops and shining on the golden dome of the Temple. Mhera stood near her family on the steps that swept up to the entrance of the palace. Beneath her veil, she sweltered in the heat.

In the Sovereign Square, ahead and to the left of where she stood, a platform had been erected. A crowd was assembling in front of it. There were some in rich clothes, clearly of noble blood, and others who had paused in their work to attend, still wearing their aprons. A smaller group could be glimpsed on the other side of this audience, these in poorer clothing still. Mhera could not see them well from so far away, but they surely wore the marke.

It seemed they had been waiting for an hour; Mhera was already tired from the heat and the murmur of the crowd. Not far from her, Prince Koren was the opposite. He was alive with restless energy and kept pacing up or down a few steps on the white stairway. He had already engaged the captain of the guard in quiet conversation three or four times, apparently impatient for the proceedings to begin. Emperor Korvan, on the other side, was calm, his gaze sweeping the crowds with a look Mhera thought was distaste. At his side, Kaori looked almost as sleepy as Mhera felt.

There seemed to be more guards than ever, Mhera had noticed. Their presence in the palace was double what she recalled; in the day she had been back in her childhood home, it felt like she'd seen a hundred unknown faces. Now, a score of guards in maille and tabards stood before the platform in the square. Men carrying tall spears were interspersed with swordsmen. Their faces were wary as they surveyed the crowd, alert for any sign of mischief. On the platform itself stood a man in black, a hood over his face and a sword at his belt.

Slicing through the murmured conversation from the crowd, the sound of a brassy trumpet sent a shock through Mhera. She woke from her heat-induced stupor and turned to see Councilor Yorek approaching the platform. He carried a scroll stamped with the emperor's seal. The guards parted to permit him passage, and he mounted the steps. Yorek, not a statuesque man, nonetheless had an air of authority as he ceremoniously raised the scroll, broke the royal seal, and unfurled the document.

"Good people of Karelin: attend the decree of His Most Exalted Imperial Majesty, Korvan, Emperor of Penrua. The traitor Rhodana, called Rhodana u Rhea, and also disgracefully called the 'rebel queen,' is sentenced to die.

"This woman has been found guilty of the willful, calculated torture and murder of His Grace's beloved youngest son, Prince Koreti; may Zanara grant rest to his noble soul. For this most heinous crime committed against the empire and against the heart of the emperor's own family, she has shown no remorse. In addition, she has been found guilty of treason, provocation and command of rebellion against the Crown, theft, deceit, and innumerable other nefarious crimes.

"In accordance with Emperor Korvan's most wise and righteous wishes, erase this traitor's name from your histories and her face from your hearts. Let us remember well that this is the fate of murderers, traitors, rebels and all who raise a fist against Zanara's most blessed empire.

"The emperor, in his gracious mercy, has deigned to let this woman die quickly by the sword. Bring out the prisoner!"

While those assembled before the platform had stood in rapt attention as Yorek read out Rhodana's crimes and her sentence, the murmured conversation began again at once at this command. Faces turned, straining for the first glimpse of the legendary rebel queen.

It took time for her to come. Yorek's command was relayed to some place beyond the courtyard, back near the outbuildings and out of sight. Although executions were not uncommon in the Holy City, this was the first Mhera had attended. She was unsure what to expect and began to worry that something had gone wrong as she waited, her stomach churning.

At length, another group of guards emerged. They formed an armored wall much as they had for Mhera when they escorted her on her long walk from the shore to the palace; in contrast, however, two of the men were supporting a slumped figure between them. Absurdly, the fearsome rebel queen seemed unable to walk of her own accord.

Silence fell again. Mhera followed the group's progress with her eyes as it moved across the courtyard, the crowd parting before it. Folk leaned this way and that, crouching or standing on their toes in attempts to see the prisoner as she walked—or was dragged—to meet her death. As they reached the foot of the steps to the executioner's platform, the small force of guards divided; two dragged the prisoner up while the remainder stood behind, flanking the steps.

It was not her fear that had forced the guards to drag Rhodana onward. As they set her on her feet, her legs buckled beneath her. She slumped down to her knees, grabbing instinctively at the tabard of the guard closest to her, but he shook her off so that she fell sprawling on the fresh-hewn wooden planks.

This, then, was the legend, the bloodthirsty witch of vale and valley who carried a jagged sword wet with the blood of innocents. Impassively, Mhera observed her from afar. She saw a woman of forty or so summers, lithe in body but with the look of a hungry, feral cat. Her hair, a faded ginger color, had been haphazardly shorn on one side of her head. The rest of her mane, unkempt and matted, had been gathered into a knot at the nape of her neck. She wore breeches, which was uncommon for a woman, and her tunic was so ragged that one of her shoulders was left exposed. Her face and her silhouette were unsettlingly familiar to Mhera. She'd seen this woman in her vision of the mill.

Mhera could not make out the details of the woman's face from afar, but she watched without pity as Rhodana dragged herself back up to kneel on the planks and had the sense that she was unafraid.

Koreti had been afraid when he died. Mhera's heart grew cold with disgust. She wished Rhodana could feel the fear her cousin had felt as he suffered.

Councilor Yorek gestured, and the two guards on the platform moved back. He addressed Rhodana in ringing tones: "Have you any last confession to make?"

Rhodana turned her head in a loose, exhausted motion to look at Yorek. Her head and shoulders suddenly jerked forward, and a gasp of horror rose from the crowd: she had spat upon Yorek's shoes.

The councilor stepped back, revolted, but quickly regained his composure. "Very well. It is clear to us all that you go to your unhallowed grave without remorse." He turned to address the emperor. "Your Grace." Yorek bowed, then moved to descend the steps from the platform; the guards flanking the path snapped to attention as he passed.

The executioner unsheathed his sword. Sunlight glimmered wickedly from the blade as he raised it in a salute to the emperor. Mhera turned her head. Emperor Korvan stood straight-backed and calm, his hands at his sides. Slowly, he raised his right hand in a gesture of assent.

Mhera's gaze flicked back to the executioner. At his feet, Rhodana knelt unsteadily, staring out over the crowd assembled there to witness her death. Her shoulders rose and fell as she drew one ... two ... three deep breaths. Then, she lowered her head. With her hair knotted out of the way, this left her neck bare.

The executioner raised the sword.

A voice, hoarse and cracking, rang out over the crowd: "After me comes the King!"

The executioner was spurred into action to silence the belated last words of the condemned woman. The sword arced down. Mhera, her heart hammering in her breast, steeled herself for the blow. She must watch. She must watch it and know that it was done.

But at the last moment, she closed her eyes and turned her face away. She could not witness it, but she heard the brutal sound of the blade coming down—the sound of cold steel slicing through a warm, living neck.

Cheers rose from the crowd in a torrent of violent emotion. It was victory for the empire that day.