by K. C. May
“Stories aren’t proof,” the chief said. “Why have you come here speaking of the dead?”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I only wished to see Siong and Brae.”
“Begone, woman, and don’t return unless you bring proof of Sithral Tyr’s passing. Until then, he cannot be put to rest. This is our way.”
“Wait,” a woman’s voice cried from the gathered crowd. She pushed her way past Tyr’s neighbors Calyr and Vildur.
“Siong!” Cirang cried.
She was slightly taller than Cirang, and strong, not like a battler, but like a woman who worked from sunrise to sunset. A thin bolt of white now streaked through her hair on the right side, but it was her eyes that had changed the most. No longer doe-like, they were clear and determined. Cirang felt proud of her for the inner strength she must have developed to raise their son alone.
Cirang took a couple steps towards her wife and stopped when she saw wariness and unfamiliarity in Siong’s eyes. Siong didn’t know her, and why would she? In those brown eyes that Cirang knew so well, she was a stranger from a land of soulless debauchery and moral decay.
The heaviness of sorrow dragged Cirang’s heart into her stomach. These were the people she’d grown up with, laughed with, celebrated with, and cried with who now treated her with the same distant vigilance they did a complete stranger. Loneliness and grief hung like a mantle of lead across her shoulders. She wasn’t Tyr anymore, but neither was she Cirang. She was no one, an unloved and condemned murderer living on stolen time.
“Do you have news of my husband?” Siong asked.
Tears streamed down Cirang’s face. “I do. I’m sorry to tell you he’s... he’s dead,” she said through her sobs. “I’m so very sorry.” She hung her head and wept.
Siong stepped closer. “Tell me, stranger. Please. I must know what happened.”
Cirang longed to take Siong into her arms and beg forgiveness for leaving. Siong would think her mad. The villagers would run her off under a barrage of stones. There was only one thing to do—tell enough of the truth that Siong and Brae could release from their hearts any remaining hope that Tyr would ever return. “He did terrible things. Many terrible things. For his crimes, he deserved to be executed, but he was slain in battle by a worthy opponent and his body left on the side of the road.”
Siong sucked in a shuddering gasp of anguish. With a quivering chin, she asked, “Were you the one who slew him?”
“I was not,” Cirang said. Her stomach twisted like the reins in her restless hands. “He was slain by the king’s champion, and rightly so.”
“What became of his soulcele token? It was a green statue in the shape of a cat. Please tell me you’ve brought it.” Siong would undoubtedly want to break it on the rocks around the funeral pyre and set his soul free, but that was no longer possible.
“It was broken,” Cirang said, her voice thick, “but his soul wasn’t released. Not exactly.” Her heartbeat thudded so loudly, she thought everyone could hear it.
A glimmer of pain passed across Siong’s face, or perhaps... recognition? She shuffled another step closer to Cirang and looked deeply into her eyes. “About four months ago?”
Cirang blinked in surprise. “Yes. You felt it?”
“My son did. He told me his father is alive.” She knitted her brow and gave a tiny shake of her head. “No, that isn’t quite right. He said, ‘Baba is alive again.’ I didn’t know what to believe. Such things aren’t—”
“Baba?” A boy stepped past the onlookers and paused, his eyes glassy and staring. There was no mistaking Brae’s sweet face, older now, more angular, and with the Ward of Readiness sewn into the skin around his eyes and beneath his lower lip. It was her son. How he’d grown, a boy on the verge of manhood.
Pride swelled in her chest. Her heart beat faster, and her breath came in quick gasps. She couldn’t believe it. After so many years, he recognized her even in this new body. “Brae?” she asked. Her voice failed her, and her question came out only as a whisper. “By the gods, you’re a man.”
He started towards her, but his gaze was directed slightly to the right. Siong took him by the arm and led him to Cirang. To her surprise, he put his arms around her. He was as tall as she was and had to stoop to lay his head on her shoulder. “I’ve missed you, Baba.”
“My love,” Siong said. “Baba isn’t here. This is his friend come to tell us of his fate. What is your name, stranger?”
“My battler name was Cirang Deathsblade, but that isn’t my true name. You can call me Cirana,” she said. “Cirana Delusiol.”
“Do you not see him, Mama?” Brae asked, lifting his head. He gazed unblinking at Cirang’s mouth. “Why haven’t you come before now, Baba?”
Then it struck her. Her son was blind.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently, taking his hands. “I came as soon as I could. What happened to your sight, Brae?”
“It was the red fever,” Brae said. “Four years ago.”
“You know my son’s name,” Siong said. “How well did you know—Tyr?” She slapped both hands over her mouth, and her eyes welled with tears. “By the gods! How can it be?”
Cirang felt suddenly self-conscious. The spectators hadn’t meandered away; they’d shifted closer, listening intently. No one made a sound. They stared at her with eager anticipation. Would they stone her to death? Drag her off to undergo the painful separation ceremony again, to store her soul in another figurine?
She explained briefly what happened—the demon, the original Cirang’s death, the soulcele token smashing on the floor, Tyr’s awakening in a new body, and then, later, the magical water that cleansed the evil from his soul. Siong listened attentively, neither nodding nor interrupting.
When Cirang finished her story, Brae said, “I knew you were alive. I knew you would come home.”
Siong shook her head sadly. “I don’t know what to believe. Tyr left here a different man than the one I married, but you aren’t him. You don’t speak like Tyr, you don’t stand like him, and you certainly don’t look like him.”
“Ask me something only Tyr would know. Something that happened between the two of us—of you.” She grinned. “It’s odd talking about myself as if I’m not here.”
Siong didn’t return the smile. “What was the last thing Tyr said to me before he left us?”
Cirang hung her head. “Things are fine the way they are.”
“Yes,” Siong agreed with a pensive nod. “Things are fine the way they are. It’s been eight years. I’ve taken a new husband, had other children. You shouldn’t have come back. Not like this. What did you think would happen?”
I thought you wouldn’t stop loving me. I was wrong. She knew then that there was no life for her. Not here, not in Thendylath. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have come.” She took her son by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, Brae. I don’t belong here anymore, but I had to see you. I had to know you were healthy and happy.”
“Baba, don’t go. I love you.”
Those words cut Cirang so deeply, her soul began to bleed. Those were the last words Brae had said to Tyr as he was leaving forever. “I love you too, my son. I’ll always love you.”
“I’ll come find you,” Brae said tearfully. “When I’m old enough, I’ll come find you.”
Cirang didn’t want to quash his dreams by telling him no. He would never find her. “When you’re old enough,” she said, but she met Siong’s eyes and shook her head. They both knew what she meant: this was good-bye. Cirang would never see her son again.
She pulled him into her arms and clutched him fiercely, planting a dozen kisses on his face before pulling away. She stroked Siong’s face lovingly the way she used to when she was Tyr, and then lightly kissed her lips and whispered, “Sweet dreams, my love.”
The sound of Brae crying, the smell of hearth fires burning, and the warm feeling of love on her lips faded as Cirang rode back the way she’d come.
Chapter 64
Gavin stood
at the window of the upstairs library, looking down onto the courtyard below. Tennara still couldn’t grip her usual weapon in her right hand, but she managed to hold a wooden sword. Lilalian faced her, another training sword raised. She came in for an attack, slow and gentle like she was training a child. Tennara blocked the strike clumsily, struggling to control her arm. The sword came out of her grip and skittered across the grass. She rotated her arm at the shoulder and flexed the fingers as she went to pick up her weapon and start again, while Brawna clapped encouragingly.
He admired her tenacity. At forty-three years old, she was a year older than Calinor, making her the eldest of his battlers, but also one of his most dedicated. The loss of her arm had devastated him as much as it had her, though it wouldn’t surprise him if she recovered completely. She worked every day to regain her strength, feeling, and control.
He grinned, wondering how he’d managed to find such loyal and dedicated people to work and fight for him, people who would lay down their lives for him as he’d have done for them in his days as a warrant knight. Though he missed his old life at times, as king, he had a duty far greater than battling monsters and malefactors or saving drowning Farthans. The invisible crown atop his head now felt less like a yoke across his shoulders than a mantle of justice and truth. He owed the people leadership, not evasion. He owed them a king every bit as decisive and compassionate as the warrant knight he’d been.
Daia knocked on the door and came in. “Cirang’s back.”
Gavin scowled. The fool. He’d been more than a bit angry when she’d stolen one of his horses and escaped, but he couldn’t truly blame her. He would probably have done the same if he’d worn her boots. She had a son or, rather, Tyr did. Gavin would’ve done anything for his son, king be damned. “Where is she?”
“She rode into the stable a few minutes ago. They’re bringing her up now. What are you going to do?”
He wished he didn’t have to answer that. If she’d stayed gone, he wouldn’t have had to. “I don’t know.” He returned to the window and watched Lilalian and Brawna march Cirang, one on each arm, towards the palace’s rear door. There wasn’t much time left to make up his mind.
“She has to answer for what she’s done,” Daia said, though she didn’t have the forcefulness of her conviction that she had a month earlier. “But Gavin, I’ve been thinking. Is death really a suitable punishment for a person who’ll never commit another crime?”
He raised his eyebrows, surprised at her change of heart. A month earlier, she’d have gladly wielded the executioner’s blade herself. “She stole a horse and fled the king’s justice,” he said. “You don’t call those crimes?”
“That’s true, but she returned of her own will, knowing she’d be executed. That says something.”
That was true. Cirang wasn’t dangerous to anyone now, but she was still a murderer. What sort of precedent would he be setting if he let her go free? Would every other murderer in the country think that a few good deeds and a heartfelt apology would grant them a pardon? Because of her carving skill, he would benefit more by pardoning and retaining her than by putting her to death, but what was the cost of her freedom in the long run?
He paced the length of the room, listening to the three pairs of footsteps climb the back staircase. Every step brought the moment of his final decision closer. He owed the people leadership, yes, but he also owed them compassion.
Someone knocked on the open door, and the three women entered.
“Cirang’s been captured, my liege,” Lilalian said.
“I was under the impression she came back on her own,” he said.
“I’ve returned to face justice for my crimes,” Cirang said, meeting his eyes with a calm determination.
“Stealing a horse will be added to the list, you know.”
She lifted one side of her mouth in a smirk that reminded him of Sithral Tyr. “I brought him back, so he wasn’t truly stolen. Just borrowed.”
Gavin returned the half-smile. “Without permission. How’d you get out without anyone noticing?”
She opened the coin purse on her hip and withdrew an amulet. “I found this among Tokpah’s belongings. Since he didn’t return for it, I figured he didn’t want it anymore.” Lilalian snatched it and put it on the table beside her.
“Why’d you come back, Cirang?” Gavin asked. “I didn’t send anyone to hunt you down. You could’ve stayed away and lived a long life.”
“A few weeks ago, I promised not to run off, but I had to see my son one last time. I didn’t want that promise haunting me.”
“Don’t you want a pardon?”
“No, my liege. I want what you owe me. I believe you gave me the choice of method, and I choose the sword.”
He realized that she was putting his convictions to the test. Was he a decisive king about to dispense justice to a murderer, or was he still a warrant knight whose compassion would stay his hand?
Several heartbeats passed in silence while he considered his options. Finally, he nodded, his mind made up.
She shrugged out of her knapsack and offered him a small bundle of cloth. “I made something for your son. A gift. I hope you don’t mind.”
He took it but didn’t open it. “Awright, then. I’ll give you a week to prepare yourself, write letters, that sort o’thing.”
From her knapsack, she pulled a bundle of papers tied with ribbon. “I’ve written letters of apology to the families of the people I’ve slain. I’m ready now. I would rather not wait, if it’s all the same to you.”
“How about one last meal, then? Anything you want to eat.”
She gave him the resigned smile of a woman humoring her king. “I wouldn’t mind a thick steak, and perhaps a slice of that cherry pie your cook makes.”
Gavin found he had no appetite and only stared pensively at his plate while everyone chatted around the table. He owed Cirang much, for her gift of carving that enabled him to save all those people in Ambryce—people she was responsible for corrupting in the first place. But without her, they would still be lost. There was no denying that.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” Feanna asked, rubbing his knee under the table. “You haven’t eaten a thing.”
He nodded because it was easier than explaining his dilemma. The meal was over before he’d come to a final decision. He couldn’t force Cirang to ask him to spare her life, but he could change his mind about fulfilling his promise. He was good at breaking promises. Hell, he was the champion of it.
Would you deny a battler the honor she’s earned?
He looked up to find that everyone had eaten and left, except for Daia, watching him with those strikingly pale-blue eyes. “O’course not,” he said, still uncomfortable with the intimacy of sharing their thoughts. Whatever had happened when they were struck by Fabrice Canton’s lightning had grown stronger in the weeks that followed. “Cirang’s due no honors, though.”
“But she’s due this, and she’s returned to claim it. You shouldn’t feel bad about it.”
He’d executed dozens of men and women in his years as a warrant knight—people who’d committed crimes and refused to yield to his authority. This wasn’t so different.
Except that Cirang wasn’t evil anymore. Except that she had worthwhile contributions to make to society. Except that she was a danger to no one.
Could he do it? Could he swing his sword against a person that defined goodness in this realm? Everyone had a past, and Gavin himself had made terrible mistakes that caused the deaths of many. Was he in a position to judge her?
Mistakes aren’t murder, though, and you’ve never purposely killed an innocent.
“Daia, stop. I don’t need to wrestle with your thoughts added to my own.”
She was right though, he had to admit. Cirang might have been zhi-pure now, but she was guilty of heinous crimes—theft, torture, abduction, and murder.
He walked through the corridors with heavy steps and a heart filled with dread. There would be no pu
blic display this time, no gathering of victims to see justice done. She deserved some dignity at least.
Cirang was sitting on the chopping block when they got there, kicking her feet and gazing up at the night sky like she was waiting for the barber. She looked up at his approach and stood respectfully. “Good evening, my liege.”
He couldn’t meet her eyes, for the burning in his own would overwhelm him.
She approached and spoke softly so that only he could hear. “Please don’t feel sorry for me, King Gavin. I’ve earned this, and I’m ready for it. It was my honor to serve you, and I ask only for forgiveness from the families of the people I’ve slain so that they can let go of their hatred and live fulfilling lives. There were more than the four you knew of. As Tyr, I murdered thirteen and sold countless children into slavery. If it helps, keep in mind you’re executing that person, not the one who stands before you now. To this woman, Cirana Delusiol, my death will be a mercy. The remorse I feel every moment of every day and night is a burden I wouldn’t wish on anyone, the least of whom is you. Don’t grieve for me, my lord king. I’m a murderer.”
Several of the First Royals stood by, ready to assist. Gavin motioned for everyone to step back to give him space. He’d worn his ceremonial scabbard for this, and he drew Aldras Gar from it, flexing his hands around its jeweled hilt. He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump forming there. “Do you have any final words?”
“I’m sorry for everything I’ve done, everyone I’ve hurt, and for the lives I’ve taken. Above all, I’m sorry for disappointing you, my liege.”
For disappointing him? “You haven’t,” he whispered. “Don’t... don’t say that. You haven’t.” Why was this so hard? “Cirang Deathsblade—”
“Would you mind terribly using my true name? Cirana Delusiol.”
“Cirana Delusiol, for the murders you’ve committed...” He cleared his throat again. “I hereby fulfill your sentence o’death by beheading.”
“If you will permit me, my liege,” she said, “there’s another option I’d like to propose.”
