by Gwen Perkins
“Felix?”
“Yes?” Felix stood, wiping the dirt and straw from his legs. He looked completely at ease as he always did, not distracted at all by the fact that he was in a dirty cell underneath the streets of Pallo. Quentin felt his muscles clench as he looked at the man, angry at his nonchalance. It was you who put me here. He stepped forward, his hands balled up into fists as he glared.
Felix backed up, his steps careful.
“You betrayed me,” Quentin growled.
“You act as if we had a friendship,” Felix said, still walking backwards as Quentin came towards him. “We didn’t.”
“What about Asahel? Did you give him to the Council as well?”
That sparked Felix out of serenity and he could see it in the way that his dark eyes lit up, as irritated as Quentin had ever seen them. “No, of course not. If I had, he would have hung already, although you never considered it.”
“What do you mean, I never considered it?” Quentin stopped, eying Felix uneasily.
“Why, of all people, did you get Soames involved in your madness? The rest of us would have had a chance at escaping the worst of the Council’s vengeance when caught. Not him.” Felix was the one to close the distance between them. Not quite of a height with Quentin, he still managed to make it feel as if he was taller.
“You keep asking that,” he snapped. “What is it between you?” Again, he caught Felix unaware and the older man hesitated.
“Nothing. Especially not now.” There was a finality in his words that sent a shiver through Quentin’s spine.
“What do you mean by that?” His shoulders slumped as he realized that he’d heard nothing from his friend and conspirator since he’d been brought to the prisons. Catharine had said little and even she had stopped coming.
“He and Catharine were trying to save you,” Felix spat on the ground. “It’s how I’ve ended up here. I was meant to distract the Geographer from them, and I failed in doing so. Or rather, I failed in not being held complicit. I have too much concern for Soames and his welfare for Tycho to believe I had nothing to do with it.”
“Where are they?” His heart skipped.
“I don’t know.” The heat of Quentin’s glare halted Felix as well for a moment before he shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that. I honestly don’t know.” Felix’s shoulders slumped as he stepped to the wall, leaning into it. Quentin didn’t follow him but remained where he was, still watching the other man.
“It was your wife’s plan,” he continued. “She’s determined to set you free, although I’ll never know why.” The words startled Quentin and he found himself smiling in spite of everything else, warmth creeping into his skin through the chill of the stone floor. Felix quirked an eyebrow, a laugh in his eyes as he saw the other man’s face. “Love must be blind. It’s certainly thoughtless.”
Quiet lapsed between them for a moment. Quentin walked back over to his bed of straw, sitting down on it. The cell still reeked of sickness and he sighed, burrowing his nose into his sleeve to try and escape the scent. He missed Catharine and her violets more now that he had been told of her by the other man. Why did I tell her the truth? It only seemed to pain her more. He swallowed, wishing that he was not trapped in a cell with no chance to hear her voice or watch her walk through the hall.
“Cheer up,” Felix told him, settling himself on the floor. “Perhaps we’ll have a miracle.”
“You need gods for that,” Quentin said.
“That would be a miracle, wouldn’t it?” He lightly punched Quentin in the shoulder. “Either way, that’s what we’ll need to see our way through this.”
As he spoke, the redhead winced, swallowing his doubt long enough to say, “I suppose. They’ve named the day of my Judgment and likely yours.”
“I know.” Felix answered, his words not much more than a whisper. “Tomorrow.”
“Let’s hope for miracles then.” Quentin closed his eyes. “It seems as likely as anything else in this place.”
“What beautiful weather for an execution,” Quentin heard Felix mutter as the two men stepped up on the platform. The chains around their ankles kept them bound gracelessly together as they stumbled towards the block, sunlight glinting in their eyes. It was a bright and cloudless day, the weather so warm that the crowds gathered around the Gallows were larger than usual. There were too many people gathered to make out individual faces. Quentin strained to see his wife’s face despite that, blinking back the sting that came with failure.
His focus returned when he realized that he would not find her. He allowed himself to examine the stage on which they stood. Quentin had witnessed a number of Judgments at the Gallows—it was something far different, however, to be awaiting his own punishment.
Thinking of that, he turned to Felix and whispered, “You can’t be sure that they’ll hang us.”
Felix stared out at the crowd before answering. People were thronged next to the platform, some of them reaching out while others hung back in vivid anticipation. The Judgments cast were usually those of mutilation. There hadn’t been an execution in years, and any hint of one fascinated Cercia.
All the same, Felix turned back to Quentin and said with dead-cold finality, “I’m sure.”
His voice pitched low, Quentin murmured, “I thought they’d be here.”
“I thought so too.”
Quentin felt pressure at his back as one of the guards pressed a rod into his soft skin. He jerked forward, dragging Felix with him. The crowd cheered. A second shove propelled the two magicians forward again. They want us to walk, Quentin thought, recalling Tammas and his Judgment. They want a show. It’s never two at once for Judgment, only one. They mean to make an act of us.
He took one step, then another. Felix seemed to understand what was happening as well, though he gritted his teeth and said nothing, resisting Quentin’s attempts to walk. The chain jerked around their ankles, pitching Quentin to the ground as Felix fought his movements. The crowd roared with laughter as Quentin’s momentum brought Felix crashing on top of him.
“So much for your pride,” Quentin muttered as he shoved himself up. This time, Felix joined him as he took the walk that the guards wanted. The two men in unison, their steps slow and steady as they circled the stage so that all onlookers could view the condemned men before the Council came to pronounce sentence.
“I don’t want to die in the dirt,” Felix said. “And that is what this feels like.”
Quentin was prodded in the back again, this time so hard that it cut off any reply he might have made. It was then that he noticed the Council ascending the steps, five magicians in black cloaks and raven’s head masks. The men were less intimidating up close in spite of the situation that he found himself in—from this distance, he could notice the finer details. One was limping slightly, his left leg shorter than the right. Another was so broad that he was having difficulty moving—the other men gave way to him as he passed, standing in the center.
This lack of fear did not extend to his companion. The chain that bound his ankles to Felix’s was rattling lightly, the other man’s leg quivering. That was what gave Quentin pause. Felix knew these men better than he. If he was afraid, it was only with good reason.
“Felix Carnicus,” the executioner read out, unrolling a piece of parchment. One of the guards knelt next to the two of them, unlocking their chains. There was no worry now that they would escape—the crowd was hungry and it showed by the stir as Felix stepped forward. His walk was slow but not lingering—his back straight even as a woman spat at his feet. Quentin took a perverse pleasure in the fact that she’d missed, staining the wooden boards with the brown juice that had been in her mouth. It looked like a bloodstain.
The walk itself only took a moment, but it felt like much longer. The older man stood in front of the executioner as Quentin watched, his face staring straight ahead. What is he thinking? He asked himself as the executioner hesitated, stumbling as he repeated the name. Of all the pe
ople who would have been convicted of Heresy, Felix is not the one I would have expected. He’s so close to the Council. It was apparent that every man on the stage concurred from the way that the boards seemed to shift collectively, each of the masks drooping slightly in turn.
“You are convicted of Heresy,” the executioner read, his voice picking up momentum now that he was listing the charges. “For planning to incite a rebellion and encourage your fellow magicians to leave the island.”
That wasn’t-- Quentin barely had time to formulate words in his mind before he heard a voice from the crowd.
“You call a false charge, sir.” The tone was low and familiar, breaking through the front of the crowd. The gathered watchers went silent, anticipation crackling in the air as a pair of brown-cloaked figures pushed their way to the platform. The shorter, stockier figure held three rolled papers underneath his arms and Quentin strained to see what they were, blinking as the sun caught his eyes.
He knew who it was under the cloak and yet, when his wife threw back her hood, it was as if he saw her for the first time. The men next to her drew back, allowing her to pass and walk to the stairs, gracefully taking one at a time. The executioner did not move to stop her nor the figure who followed. Instead, he turned to the Council, the eyes behind his mask imploring for assistance with the quickness of their glance.
“On what basis?” One of the magicians stepped forward. The glass eyes of the raven’s mask glittered as the black beak lowered, staring Catharine in the face.
“He is guilty of a greater charge.” The cloaked man behind her stepped up, standing next to her. His hood dropped, revealing a crop of tangled black hair. Asahel, Quentin realized and he himself stepped forward, unable to stop himself as he saw the man that he’d thought dead. The guard gripped his arm, holding him back before he could get close to the trio. Asahel’s next words stilled his struggle. “He’s assisted in committing the first Heresy as has Quentin Gredara. And I ought to be standing with them for Judgment.”
Not a sound could be heard save the scraping of the raven-masked man as he stepped forward, his boots digging into the wood. The other magicians followed, standing behind him to create a dark wall yet Asahel stood firm, his arms clutching the papers still.
“Then stand with them and the executioner shall deal with you.”
“I wasn’t saying that I deserved punishment.” A sharp gasp came from the crowd. The guards moved forward, their eyes on what Asahel held. A magician who admitted to casting magic against humans was dangerous indeed—no one but Quentin knew what Asahel was capable of. And Quentin admitted to himself that he hadn’t thought Asahel capable of this.
Asahel continued to speak, his voice steadier than Quentin had ever heard it. “The first Heresy is to cast magic on a human body. What it was that we were trying to do is heal. There is no wrong in that, none at all.” How quickly the crowd turns, Quentin thought as he saw a sudden wave of assent roll through the people, heads nodding and words muttered quietly.
“Silence!” The largest of the magicians roared. Quentin knew him for Tycho then by the way that the Geographer shouldered through the rest, using his bulk to knock the others aside. Asahel remained firm as Catharine slipped back, awed by the man barreling towards them. He lifted a hand, as if to strike Asahel, but stopped himself. “It is not yours to question the rules of the Council, nor of magic.”
“It is, when you’ve deliberately caused people harm.” His fingers slipped around the papers, handing two of them to Catharine as he unfurled the last, holding it up for the crowd.
It was a map, but one such as Quentin had never seen. The lines of streets were static, easily recognizable as places that he knew, but there were dark clouds swirling at certain doors. Asahel tapped the map and he saw, as did the others, that the clouds were not clouds at all but the dark crosses used to mark the pox on the doors of its victims.
What is he doing? Quentin thought, confused.
“You’ve got the ability to spread the Plague, haven’t you?” Asahel asked and the Geographer drew back. “You’ve done it—you’ve caused it. And all because you’ve a need to keep us from growing as a people. You’re afraid we’ll leave Cercia and take the magic with us.”
“Prove it,” Tycho said, speaking as a master would to a student. He gestured at Felix who had remained still. “Show them the proof.” Asahel hesitated and the Geographer threw back his head, laughing so hard that the raven’s beak on his mask bobbed. “And you see? No truth to his lies or his maps.”
Quentin watched as his friend looked at them both, swallowing hard.
“Do it,” Quentin whispered, noticing that Asahel’s face paled. He had understood Quentin. The question was, whether he would believe that the other man had conquered illness.
The Geographer’s laughter continued as Asahel stepped up to Felix. The swordsman trembled openly now as Asahel took his hands and placed the map in them. A drop of sweat beaded on Felix’s forehead but he made no objection as Asahel pulled him forward to the front of the crowd and the laughter stopped.
“Watch,” Asahel said, the words cracking in his throat.
He touched the map and Felix’s skin suddenly broke, a weeping sore cracking on his cheek. The crowd hissed as Asahel stroked the map again and the first sore was followed by another, then another. Water welled up in Asahel’s eyes as Felix let the map fall to the floor, his knees buckling as the sickness raced through his body, swifter than it should have been. The younger man caught him as the guards rushed to them.
“Step back.” Catharine reached down for the map and her fingers touched it. Quentin knew that she had no power over the paper, but her gesture halted the others. The crowd had drawn back, leaving a generous space around the stage, but many of the men had murder in their eyes as they stared at Tycho. The Geographer himself was moving backwards, falling into line with the rest of the Council.
Quentin knew now that nothing would stop him from healing the fallen man but himself.
“Help me,” Asahel whispered, helpless as Felix choked in his arms. “I don’t know how to save him.”
That look was enough to send him across the platform in a few strides despite the fact that the guards were beginning to close in. Quentin pressed his hands against Felix’s skin just as the hilt of a sword slammed into Asahel’s back, trying to force him apart from the sick man. Asahel clung to him as Quentin began to pull the energy out of Felix’s body, this time not calling it into the earth but sending it upwards.
The sky itself took fire, the magic flowing from the three of them and into the brilliant sun. Screams erupted from the crowd as the color changed, turning from scarlet to a paler glow. Pressure erupted from Quentin’s back, turning to pain as a blow from the executioner’s fist tried to knock him away. He was too far to move and he closed his eyes, willing Felix alive, listening as the other man gurgled through the sickness that threatened to consume him with its power.
Help me… He heard Asahel’s voice again, whispering in the back of his mind. There was nothing else he had given the other man—and Quentin drew as much of the sickness as he could hold from Felix, longing to give Asahel this, even if he died in the attempt. He felt Felix kick and then leave his grasp, pulled away by three men as Asahel fought them.
Quentin opened his eyes and stared at Felix, limp in their arms but still breathing. His skin was as clear as it had ever been, unstained by illness.
“He lives!” He screamed. “The Plague is gone! It is the Council who wants your families dead—what madness is this? Why will you execute those who can heal them?” Quentin wrenched his arm free from the guard who held him, turning to the crowd. He heard motion behind him but remained steady, staring into the eyes of angry men and daring them with his own to come forward.
“The Council!” The crowd screamed, their bloodlust and their anger uniting them as it had at the execution’s beginning. Now, it was something more for which they longed, and that longing drove them up the platform step
s. Men shoved past Quentin towards the guards, fingers jabbing and yanking in a blur. He turned to see the black cloaks of the Council fleeing, their steps too swift to be anything but magic.
A raven’s head mask flew up above the throng of people and he saw with sickening clarity that the glass eyes had been gouged out.
Catharine, he thought, and ran for her. Quentin pushed against the tide, trusting only in his instincts to find the woman that he himself needed. Asahel and Felix were lost in the sea of men and women, but he trusted that they were as safe as he—after all, if they lived through this, they would be heroes.
Alive was all he asked for.
He struggled against the bodies of a hundred men, looking for a lock of brown hair and a brown cloak. His fingers snagged against one, before realizing it belonged to another, and he fought his way to the edge of the stage without seeing her. All that he could smell was blood and fire, the energy crackling through the air enough to make him sick even without his fear for Catharine.
“Quentin,” he heard her say behind him as the rush quieted. He didn’t hesitate, turning as swiftly as he could to gather her in his arms, not caring whether or not she flinched. All that he wanted was to know that she was safe. He didn’t hear the others’ footsteps behind him, nor the triumphant howls of the crowd as they tore the Geographer’s maps into a thousand pieces. All that he heard was the soft sigh of her as her arms wrapped around him in return, breathing into his ear. “It’s over, Quent. It’s over.”
Chapter 29
“How did you know you could trust me?” Quentin asked.
“I didn’t,” Asahel answered. He was sitting on the edge of the dock, swinging his legs slightly as the tides came in. Quentin had settled himself further back, within arm’s reach of the piling. Asahel smiled at that. He works a miracle in front of hundreds and he still thinks he’ll drown in shallow water.
“That was quite a risk you took with Felix then.” His mouth twitched. “I’m not sure I’d appreciate it, if I was in his position.” Asahel sighed at the redhead, staring down at his feet.
