“I conspired to break the blood swap. Along with Wantran and Yinra, I infiltrated Feriline and killed the son of our councilor. I killed him in a bloody fashion, leaving his remains—only his head intact for identification—in the great fountain, gracing the market square of Feriline. The water ran red, sweetling, and that liquid was a precursor of what was to come.
“Oagon made war on Feriline. Amorum frowned and disapproved, but the people were on my side. The side of violence. The side of killing. With my pasnes alna, with the remainder of the weapons of war from Aquine, we easily took Feriline.
“And, from the prisoners, I had an entire new crop to draw from. My gluttony would nearly be sated, for a time.
“Sweetling, I have regrets. With your goodness flowing through me, these regrets are more… pronounced than usual. I feel the need to explain that I no longer draw maenen simply to draw maenen, simply to experience the power. Rather, I must for many reasons. Since what people call my Ascension, my own maen has been draining, slowly, leaking from my nerring. I have no explanation for this. Perhaps I have drawn too much in my time, damaging myself beyond repair. But, my nerring appears to be whole. Or perhaps I have simply lived too long in this world. Though I appear as a beautiful woman to you, sweetling, I am older than you can imagine.
“Were I to stop drawing from my donors, such as you, my sweetling, my nerring would dry up. I would turn Feral, as they call it.
“And, eventually, I would die.
“I fear death, sweetling. I experience such terror when contemplating the subject, the thoughts of emptiness and simply… not being. I cannot allow that to happen. Oh, the Taneos’ views on the afterlife, living in paradise with me? All fabricated to give hope to the masses. I know not what happens after this life, and I refuse to find out.
“I feel as if I still have a place on this earth. That I am needed. And, even if I am not… I will not die.
“I do not know whether I am a goddess, as they preach. But… I am close enough that the difference matters not.”
Chapter 28
The stiff odor of mold was evident as she brought the wedge of cheese to her lips. Its texture was slimy, as if the block of whitish yellow was perspiring at the thought of being consumed. But, as Morgyn’s teeth sank into the soggy, old bit of cheese, she couldn’t recall having ever tasted something so wonderful.
“Hey, shit-stealer! Get away from there!” shouted a voice—an angry guardian of old, rotting food. Morgyn darted away, licking her fingers and shouting “pig-fucker!” She’d never understand why people were so protective of their trash. It was being thrown away, for Ultner’s sake! It would be buried somewhere west of town, eventually to be covered in literal shit, and then the area would be repurposed as a farm. Rostane was fed on trash.
It had been weeks since the Patriarch had sent her back into the wild. Morgyn had resumed her life of scrounging and parasitism without missing a beat. She hadn’t sought out any of her acquaintances or friends. There was only one person she trusted, and she couldn’t find him without potentially revealing herself to others. And she didn’t want to take that risk, lest The House catch her. That certainly wouldn’t end well.
So, she slept in filth, ate refuse, and sheared her hair short again to combat the lice. She kept her face coated in muck so that no one would recognize her, and she even went barefoot like the truest of street urchins. Perhaps her time with Escamilla had not made her soft, after all.
But even her desire to remain anonymous could not keep her from the first public execution in Rostane in eighty years.
She emerged from her alley and was immediately caught in the roaring flow of a human river. Well, not entirely human, as she was firmly wedged in front of two huge, well-muscled Wasmer. Probably porters, but no less intimidating for the simplicity of their occupation.
Most of the city had turned out for this—the death of a traitor to the duchy, to the country. Maybe people had a stronger sense of nationalism than Morgyn would have thought, wanting to see the treasonous bastard pay. Certainly, judging from the laughing group of Taneos nearby, some had turned out with a sense of religious and moral righteousness, hoping to see a sinner pay for his crimes, seeking the validation of their Yetranian concept of universal balance.
Maybe, like Morgyn, some were also going out of a sense of morbid curiosity.
Or, maybe they were just bored.
The veins of the city began to clot as the people converged on their goal—the great Amorum Square at the foot of the ramp leading to the Plateau. That was where the Spike had stood for years and years, largely ignored and sometimes even decorated for the Ascension Festival.
The scene was much like that of a festival. Wherever people gather, so do merchants and salespeople, much like flies attracted to compost. Every few feet, food or drink vendors had set up shop, hawking their various meats and pastries with deep voices accustomed to being heard over a crowd. Of course, there were entertainers—torch-jugglers, sword-swallowers, exotic dancers—all of them trying to capitalize on a free audience. She even saw one man selling miniature carvings of the Spike as souvenirs to mark this joyous day.
It wasn’t all carousing and celebration, though. Not far from her chosen path, a well-dressed bald man perched atop some stacked crates, shouting and gesticulating with passion. His audience responded with angry hisses and shouts. Morgyn couldn’t hear the words, but she knew this must be a group of objectors who opposed the civil war. She had almost been caught up in a riot a week ago, near the docks, and that ruckus had been ignited by the same hairless bastard. She’d lost a perfectly good hiding place in the resulting fires. Now, she skirted these anti-war fanatics.
Morgyn’s size played to her advantage in the crowd as she squeezed between bodies and even crawled between legs to get closer to the scene that would soon play out. She managed to get to the square proper, and then made a brief climb to sit on a window ledge of one of the many stone-faced storefronts ringing the square. It afforded a great view over the heads of the gathered thousands while offering her an easy escape route if she got caught. One does not survive long in Rostane without the ability to quickly scale the often rough-faced stones of Rostanian buildings, and this storefront was rough enough that Morgyn could easily make it to the wooden awning and henceforth escape across the rooftops. Thus feeling as secure as possible, Morgyn examined the square.
In the center of the massed people was the Spike, ringed by fully-armored Knights of the Wolf, with crankbowmen right behind them. The thin, silver spire seemed to glow in the reflection of the sun; it had been freshly polished for this occasion. Near the bottom of the fifty-foot-tall device, it was only as thick as her thigh, getting narrower closer to the top.
Bleachers had been constructed on one side of the Spike, well-guarded from the common population by the personal forces of the dozens of gathered nobles from around the duchy. Adorned in colorful silks and likely nibbling on delicacies and drinking fine wine, the nobles were set quite apart from the rest of the Rostanians. Morgyn had faint hopes that the bleachers would collapse under their ample weight.
Surrounding the tip of the Spike in a u-shape was scaffolding, with a platform built specially for this occasion. Most of the Rostanian Council was there, flanked by six Wolf Knights. Morgyn recognized a couple of the councilmen, primarily from her work with The House. There was, of course, Lord Faris, the advisor to the late duke. His silvery-black hair blew in the wind, and he seemed among the least perturbed to be standing atop the world, about to dole out justice. Similarly unbothered was Darian de Trenton, his weathered face showing not a single emotion. Baronness Farah Erlins, still wearing black in mourning for her husband, clutched the railing in one hand and the arm of a guardsman with her other. Publicly, her husband Baron Theran Erlins had been murdered by the Florensians, sparking the war. But, Morgyn knew that the man had been tortured by Duke Penton and the Rostanians. She had found him herself, chained and mutilated, laying in a pool of his own putridity and l
eaning on the burned stump of his amputated hand.
She wondered, briefly, if his Farah knew the truth or if she was simply a pawn.
A few more council people were on the scaffolding, but Morgyn didn’t know them as well. Pereway de Ingus, a Nistling merchant who had holdings in Rostane that were only second to de Trenton, himself. Count Aron Witton, the man with the most productive farms in the country. And so on. A mix of the wealthy and powerful, nobles and merchants, ten in all. People who would generally only give Morgyn a second glance, and then only to see where their boot struck.
Finally, there was the prisoner himself, the man destined to be impaled. Tilner Pick, Lady Escamilla’s closest confidant.
He was well-groomed and clean, his silvery hair tied in a ponytail. An interesting and theatrical choice, as the man had been rotting in the Plateau’s prison for weeks. Morgyn figured that there was some symbolism in his cleanliness, but she didn’t strain herself to figure out what it was. She had met the man a couple of times, finding him to be relatively insufferable in his devotion to Lady Escamilla. Morgyn had wondered what that would be like, to command the emotions of others. It was almost a foreign concept.
“…peoples of Rostane. Peoples of Ardia.” This from Lord Faris, speaking into a great, curved cone in order to project his voice across the square. The crowd was surprisingly compliant, and quieted instantly.
“We are at war. Florens, our southern neighbors and ostensibly our allies, invaded our country in the heat of summer, slaughtering our fellow Rostanians. Breaking the tenants of Yetra by harming their fellow man for the sake of power. For greed. Perhaps, for envy.” Faris seemed to survey the crowd as he touched on both nationalism and religiosity.
“And envious they should be! Rostane, the city and the duchy, is the pride of Ardia! We have the greatest technology, the most intelligent scientists. Ours is the strongest navy and we keep the most skilled soldiers. Our farmers are the most stoic, our merchants the most savvy. Though their aggression is a tragedy, it is a great compliment. Rostane, my countrymen, my family…” Wait, wasn’t Lord Faris clearly Alganian? “…we are the jewel of Ardia. And, this tragedy is an opportunity to finally take what is ours. Ardia, Rostanians. Ardia shall be ours.”
A resounding cheer came as the gathered crowd was taken by Faris’ words. But Morgyn noticed a subset of people, here and there, who did not cheer or shout. Some merchants, some commoners. Mostly women and older men. As like as not, their sons and husbands, their laborers and skilled workers, had been conscripted into the army. Even now, the conscriptions continued, and the ranks of the army swelled while the population of the city dwindled.
“However… However, my people, there are those who would see us fail. There are those who would fight us, who would betray us. Those who would support our enemies against us.” He gestured to Escamilla’s retainer.
“Tilner Pick is one of those men. He tirelessly worked to slaughter our families, our parents, our husbands, our children.” The guards holding Pick forced him to stand upright, and a third grabbed his face. The prisoner struggled, but he was weak and outmanned. A sad-faced man with a braided beard stepped in from behind the guards, procuring a flask. The guards forced the potion into Pick’s mouth, clamping shut his nose and covering his face so that he’d swallow. Pick slumped backward, defeated.
Morgyn had heard gossip about the Spike, and of the plans for this traitor. The potion forced down his throat numbed the pain and slowed the heart, keeping the man alive as he was lowered onto to the tip of the Spike. He would be suspended by his wrists and ankles, parallel to the ground, and the needle-sharp tip of the Spike would be inserted quite precisely into his stomach, avoiding major organs and blood vessels—allowing the victim to survive while impaled, perhaps even for days. The ropes impaling the man would be slackened or cut completely over the hours, with his body sliding down the length of the Spike a little at a time. Some, stories said, survived until they reached the ground. If that happened, people would line up to spit on the body.
The guards readied the ropes to tie down Pick, to suspend him like a fish snagged by four lines.
“Thousands of our soldiers were killed at Florens, but we were ultimately victorious! With our allies, we fought back the combined forces of Florens and Brockmore, led by the traitorous Lady Escamilla Breen. The Army of Brockmore and the Florensian forces were routed, the Lady Escamilla killed in the counterattack. Tilner Pick…”
“What?” roared Pick, ripping free of his guards in a burst of wild strength. The Wolf Knights worked to subdue him, but Pick was quicker. He darted under the grip of one knight and kicked him in the side of the knee. The man’s leg buckled and he fell heavily to the platform, rolling toward the Spike. Where there was no railing.
The other knight ignored Pick and dove toward his companion, catching his armored leg. The first knight dangled slackly for a moment, in the open air, held only by his comrade-in-arms. Morgyn realized that her mouth was hanging as slack as the knight, and she popped it shut.
Then, the hanging knight realized his plight and began struggling, but this was the worst thing he could possibly do. His struggling savior was jerked forward a few inches, and kicked in the face. He began to topple into the gap even as he lost his grip on the first man.
Both tumbled into the air, the first knight headfirst and thrashing. The second guard flailed against the body of the Spike and even managed to grip the great impaler for a moment and slow his fall. But, somehow, he knocked himself away from his salvation and Pick’s doom. Both guards slammed into the ground with an audible clanking. There was no way that their armor had saved them at that height.
Some of the Wolf Knights surrounding the Spike rushed to the men as Tilner Pick faced the council and the remaining guards. Even though the man was malnourished, he appeared to be in control. He’d managed to pick up one of the fallen guard’s spears, and he used the pointy stick to hold the other guards at bay. Because the platform was so narrow, the guards couldn’t flank him. A standoff, it seemed. Morgyn had been in one or two of those in her life.
The crowd growled and barked like alley dogs fighting over rancid meat as they tried to make sense of the falling of the Wolf Knights. It soon grew quiet once again, though, as a collective Rostane strained to hear. Luckily, the echoing cone was a powerful tool.
“You lie about Escamilla. She lives, and the army fights on,” Pick shouted, his spear leveled over the gap at Lord Faris.
“I gain nothing from lying, prisoner,” Faris said, his voice calm and his arms folded.
“You seek to disillusion the crowd, to make them believe in your right to Ardia.” Even half the square away, Morgyn could hear the faith in his voice. She wondered what it would be like to have such blind faith in anything. She glanced down for a moment then, and swallowed.
“No, prisoner. The people know the truth.”
“Your truth!”
“The only truth. You want to know how she died?”
Morgyn stiffened. Tilner Pick made no move, either.
Faris’ voice was calm. “We had someone close to her, prisoner. A dark-haired girl.” Morgyn touched her shorn hair and glanced around. “She put a knife in Escamilla’s back weeks ago.” Morgyn remembered the warm blood washing over her hands. Her face and chest burned with the memory, and she felt like every eye was on her. Realistically, the crowd was near silent, every ear on the echoing conversation.
“No!” boomed Tilner Pick with the call of a slaughtered pig. He launched his spear directly at Faris’ chest. There was a flash of red light, and the weapon was deflected, flipping end over end into the crowd below.
The Wolf Knights rushed Pick, but again he was too fast. He flung himself off of the platform.
And directly onto the Spike.
Morgyn felt a sudden urge to run as the great spear pierced the heart of Escamilla’s man, but found herself unable to move. A paralysis seemed to permeate the gathered thousands like a plague for a solid five seconds. And
then, someone screamed, breaking the pregnant moment. Some surged toward the Spike, pushing back on the ring of Wolf Knights. Others attempted to leave the square by whatever means necessary, even if it meant trampling the fallen.
It made no sense to Morgyn. The crowd had come to see the blood of a traitor. But, after seeing two guards fall, and that traitor impale himself of his own volition, there was a general, irrational panic. The Wolf Knights beat the frenzied crowd back, spear handles and pommels cracking bones and even a few skulls. Morgyn, perched on her window ledge, thought twice about joining the mob as the pandemonium grew in pitch and violence. She glanced over her shoulder—she could still climb to the rooftops at any time.
Her eyes were drawn back to the Spike. Pick’s body was inching down the spire, limbs hanging downward like he was a spider impaled by a toothpick. His lifeblood outpaced his corpse, bathing the silver monument in a dark crimson already reaching the ground. The councilors were at each other’s throats. At least, de Trenton and Lord Faris were harshly gesturing at each other, an occasional shouted word audible above the cacophony. The other councilors were either watching their apparent betters, cowering on the scaffold, or descending a ladder to the ground. Apparently, a wall of soldiers was preferable to the heights, though the danger was much greater below.
As she watched, a stray thought picked at Morgyn’s brain. She’d caused this. Because of her, Escamilla was dead or nearly so. Because of her, Pick had flung himself to his bloody death. Because of her, Rostane was panicking. A girl who had no true power. She could barely get a stray dog to share a pile of trash with her. And yet, her actions had set in motion a chain of events that had led to… all this.
A weird mix of feelings came to her as a result. She was appalled, certainly. Though this city had treated her as an unwanted daughter, and though Tilner was a pompous kiss-ass, she wouldn’t have wished rioting on one and death for the other. She wasn’t heartless. And yet, she couldn’t deny a loud, rhythmic pounding in her heart that could only be interpreted as a fearful excitement.
Wisdom Lost Page 35
