Kastali Dun

Reyr did not move, not even to shift his feet. He stood as still as stone, hands clasped behind his back. If he appeared at ease, he was anything but. His fellow Shields stood upon the platform beside him, and before them, King Talon. Everything was ready: the high block, the axe, the executioner, and the crowd. All that remained was the spectacle.

He turned his gaze to the threatening sky before bringing it down upon the gathered audience. Men, women, and children stood in wait. The rich and the poor were assembled. Many had come. He disapproved of the fairer sex witnessing the event. And children? They were far too young to see such things—too young to understand. The excited buzz of voices told them something worthwhile was about to happen, so they displayed the same eagerness.

He heard cries from the peddlers, “Buns for sale! Three steelies each! Cheap ale, too!” This was good for business—for the peddlers. People craved entertainment.

He was glad of Claire’s confinement. As a safe measure, he had locked her door. She was stubborn enough to find herself disguised within the crowd. The possibility forced his regard upon the sea of faces. He picked through them, looking for a flash of green eyes, or a hint of golden hair. But that was impractical. He’d used more than a key to ensure her door would not open. She did not need to witness the deaths of men whose names she had given.

Gemma would have approved of his caution. Gods! Why did he think of her so often? Why now? Hundreds of years allowed her name to sink into the depths of his soul. Claire’s sudden appearance had unburied what should have stayed down. She was too much like Gemma, and in ways that were unfair to his heart.

“Make way!” A powerful voice lifted above the rest. Captain Jonah appeared. The captain was an older fellow, but his age in no way hindered him. Well seasoned, having lived through the Gobelin Wars, he commanded the keep’s guard with honor.

“In the name of the king—I say—make way!” He led his soldiers forward through the crowd as if in battle, and in a sense, it was. Their shields and spears pressed and pushed, vying for space. At last the onlookers fell back. An aisle formed. Through that passage came the traitors, surrounded by soldiers. These weren’t the first traitors Captain Jonah led to the chopping block, but they were certainly the worst.

Traitors deserved no recognition. Allowing them their identity was a form of praise. Their faces were covered with black cloth sacks. Their bodies however, were left uncovered. This nakedness illustrated their shame.

He clenched his jaw. The true shame was, Euen Doyle and Stefan Rosen could not appreciate the gravity of the situation, for they were too incoherent. They would not despair. They would not weep during their last moments. They would not pay a fair price for their deceit. There wasn’t enough of them left.

As they passed through the crowd with their guards, the gathered masses screamed gleefully. They pointed. They laughed. They snarled and called. Little good it did. The traitors were too senseless to understand. The audience was impatient, and even eager, but not he. He took no joy in death, no matter how well deserved. He would be glad when this ended.

Guards filed onto the platform. The noise elevated to new heights; the naked, faceless men were presented to the crowd. Still he did not move. Talon stepped forward, lifting his hands. A hush fell upon them. “Citizens of the crown,” he said, his voice echoing. The city’s square—where all public executions took place—was surrounded by buildings on all sides. “There are traitors in our midst!”

Disgusted cries came from the crowd. “Traitor!” someone screeched. “Traitor!” others repeated.

“The two men before you have betrayed us. In so doing, they have betrayed the gods. What is the just punishment for their crimes?”

“Death!” a loud voice cried in answering. “Death!” repeated the onlookers, chanting, “Death!”

King Talon let them continue, turning instead to the executioner. He gave Sir Boris Patrice a nod. The gnarled man stepped forward, positioning himself beside the high block. He’d seen enough fighting for a lifetime, earning his position fairly. Reasonable men turned down the opportunity to kill. Not Boris. He enjoyed killing. Perhaps the king liked him more for it, and for the eyepatch disguising the empty socket where his left eye once was, and for his missing left ear, and for his missing forefinger.

With a simple flick of King Talon’s hand, Euen Doyle was brought forward. The guards positioned him before the block. “Kneel,” came the command. Euen Doyle did not respond. Perhaps he was too senseless to do even the simplest task. “I said, kneel.” The guard did not wait for a response this time. He put his boot into Doyle’s knee, forcing the man down. Thereafter, he positioned Doyle with his head forward over the block.

“A traitor deserves no last words,” King Talon said.

The chant of the crowd continued. “Death!” it said.

The king looked at Boris, affording him a brief nod. Boris reached forward and removed the sack upon Doyle’s head. Then he heaved his axe high in the air, disguising its weight with effortless movement. With a single sweeping stroke, the axe came down hard upon its victim. The thud of Doyle’s head went unheard as it fell upon the wooden planks. The crowd was too loud. Reyr watched it roll forward once, and then twice, before coming to a stop. The unseeing eyes held no shock. And so ended the life of the first traitor.

As quickly as before, Stefan Rosen was brought forth. “Kneel,” said the guard. Perhaps Rosen was more coherent, for he followed the order. The guard pushed his body forward so that his neck was firmly in place upon the block. Boris took his position once more. A hush fell over the crowd for a second time. Even the pigeons in the square ceased their flight.

“Mercy!” An anguished cry drew the attention of many. “Mercy, my king. Mercy!” He gazed out over the crowd, his brow furrowed. The voice was one he recognized. Whispers of confusion spread through the spectators. “Mercy!” The crowd stepped aside. A woman staggered forward, pushing her way through. Lady Caterina had come to petition her father.

“Mercy, Your Majesty.” With each petition, she gazed upon the king, her face anguished. She reached the steps of the platform and stumbled up them like a drunkard, tripping upon her gown. Her face was tear-streaked. King Talon did not move at first. He was too shocked.

Lady Caterina’s audacity had taken on new heights.

“Please!” Caterina threw herself down before King Talon. She sobbed into his boot, clutching at him. “Please, Your Majesty. Spare him. Give him mercy!”

The king’s face hardened. He turned and nodded at the guards. Two rushed forward, dragging Caterina to her feet. She continued to weep. King Talon then addressed her. “Do you not see, Lady Caterina? What I offer your father is mercy.”

“No!” she said, crying still. She would have collapsed had the guards not held her in place. “Please, Your Majesty, have you no room in your heart to hear my plea? Have you no affection for me whatsoever? I beg of you, mercy!”

Reyr snorted under his breath.

“Affection, Lady Caterina? Hardly. Now, stand down.” With a second nod, the guards dragged her back, holding her up. She was forced to watch.

“Father!” She cried out desperately. Stefan Rosen recognized her voice somehow, despite his lost mind. He straightened, lifting his chest to look around, unseeing.

“Get back down, you!” Rosen’s guard pushed his chest back into place. The king gave the order. Boris pulled the sack away then lifted his massive axe high in the air. He brought it down hard. Caterina’s piercing shriek was hardly audible. The screams of the crowd weighed more. The moment her father’s head struck the wooden platform, the guards released her. She fell into a heap of fabric upon the planks of the platform, her gown fluffed around her. There she sobbed, ignored by all…her lowest moment yet.

He frowned. A daughter should never see her father’s death, no matter the reason, no matter how well deserved. His heart did not break for her, but his honor did. Those around him began to dispense. He went to her, helping her to her feet. Then he looked up. “You there,” he said, motioning for two guards to assist him. “Take this lady back to her chambers. See that she has what she needs.”

When he turned, he noticed Verath’s intent gaze upon him. His fellow Shield stood scowling. Curiosity arose within him. Did Verath disapprove? “Was I wrong to take pity upon her?”

Verath was quiet a moment. “Your pity is earned all too easily. I do not think Caterina is honest. I do not think she can be trusted.” Without another word, Verath turned away and descended the platform. He was left to puzzle out the meaning. Verath knew something—something he did not. He quickly caught up, accompanying Verath back to the keep.

“What have you learned, then?”

Verath shrugged. “Something that disturbs me. I will bring it to the king’s attention.”

“And must I wait until you do?”

“Aye. I would like to do a little digging of my own first.” Verath strode off.

He was left to ponder the issue. If Caterina’s father was a traitor and Verath distrusted her, then perhaps the apple did not fall far from the tree. He’d never liked the woman. Still he had hoped there were redeemable traits within her. One of his shortcomings was that he always wished the best in others. That was the true reason he stayed his hand when Jovari and Koldis insisted Claire was guilty and demanded she be killed. And that had turned out all right, did it not?

When he returned to the keep, he went straight to the cookery. “Tess, where might I find Desaree?”

“My Lord Reyr, do I look like a homing pigeon to you?”

He smirked. “Hardly, my dear Tess. You are far too beautiful.”

Tess crossed her arms, pretended to be mad for only a moment, and then smiled her famous radiant smile. “Oh, very well. She is assigned to the north wing. You will find her there.”

“Excellent. I hope you do not mind if I borrow her for the afternoon. Also, might I get a tray of food?” The cookery kept food on hand for hungry mouths—usually stew or bread and cheese. “I think Claire might be hungry.”

Tess glared at him. “You are full of requests today, my Lord Reyr.” She looked as though she might protest. Tess might as well have been a noblewoman, for she received the same respect. Everyone within the keep knew not to cross her.

At last, the turned and assembled a generous portion of cold pork, buns, cheese, and honey. “There now. Off with you.”

“You are too good to me, Tess.” As he took the tray, he kissed each of her cheeks affectionately, then departed.

He found Desaree and informed her of his intentions. Together, they departed for Claire’s apartments. “She has been begging to see you,” he explained. “I disallowed it yesterday, but I believe she would be glad to have your company today.”

“Indeed, I had hoped to see her, Lord Reyr, but I knew not where to find her.” There was hope in Desaree’s gaze. “You know, I found her room empty yesterday evening, emptied of all its belongings. Lord Verath said she would be fine, but I still worried she was taken away. Taken…”

“Lord Verath came to see you, did he?” His question left her skin a deep shade of red. “Come now, you need not fret. And yes, Claire is fine. A little shaken up, I imagine. But I will let her tell you what happened.” After that, they both fell silent.

He stopped before Claire’s door and offered the tray to Desaree. After muttering words of magic, he lifted its guard. Then he procured a key from his pocket and unlocked the knob. “We had better knock first,” he said, offering a sidelong glance to Desaree before lifting his fist. Then he took back the tray.

Claire greeted them moments later. Her eyes fell upon him first, and then Desaree. She rushed into the hall and gave the serving woman a long hug. “Oh Des! I was so worried!”

Affording them space, he went to her dining table and deposited the tray. Then he collected the one from that morning. Claire was just entering with Desaree, pulling her into the room. “I have so much to tell you,” she said. Desaree’s eyes were wide as her gaze circled Claire’s new accommodations.

He cleared his throat, not minding in the slightest that they ignored him. “I have brought you your midday meal. I will leave the two of you alone. Remember, Claire, do not leave this room until the king has removed the restriction.”

“You’re not going to stay and eat with us?”

“No, not today. This afternoon’s court begins shortly.”

“Can’t you skip today?” she asked. It was a half-hearted request. Clearly she wanted Desaree’s company to herself.

“Not today.” He turned and left, closing the door behind him. The sounds of their giggles followed him down the hall. He couldn’t have stayed even had he wanted to. This afternoon was important, for an announcement was to be made to the public. Claire’s circumstances were about to formally change, and the king would need all the support his voice could offer.