by Holly Lisle
Chapter 21
As best he could guess, Wraith spent three days alone in the cell following Faregan’s visit. On what he thought was the morning of the fourth day, though he could not be sure, four large men came for him. They put white-metal manacles around his wrists—the same cold bonds that had held him in place while the Masters of the Inquest tried to pry his secrets from him in that first meeting. They stood two to either side of him. And they marched him forward. Silent. Cold. As uncaring as the cold night sky, all of them, and seemingly as far away.
He didn’t try to escape. He was almost beyond caring. He would be witness to hell, to the destruction of his life’s work and the people who shared it, and if he was fortunate and the gods were kind, he would fall dead with the people he loved.
And if not, he would spend the rest of his life in torment from within and without.
They marched him through a maze of corridors. Out into bright daylight—the first he had seen since the Inquest brought him into the Gold Building. He squinted, blinded by the brilliance of the sun, and for a long moment could see nothing. In that moment, his guards shoved him into a seat, and one of them said, “You’ll open your eyes and watch, or you’ll suffer worse than any of them, starting now.”
Wraith said, “I’ll open my eyes and watch, but only because I will not do my friends the dishonor of hiding from the hell they face because of me. I will see, and I will remember. And if I ever can avenge them, I will.”
The guards laughed. “Sure. You just hang on to that thought,” one of them said.
His vision cleared. He sat in an outdoor amphitheater at the very heart of the Gold Building. The stage below him was covered in sand, and in the sand stood row upon row of thick metal posts. All of those posts were empty, but he could make out the rings into which the wrists of his friends would soon be clamped.
Wraith remembered the gods of his childhood—the gods in which he had once believed, and that he had once reviled. In a child’s act of unknowing hubris, he’d named himself after one of his favorites from among that pantheon, and named the first and pure love of his life after the other. Wraith and Shina, the Unseen One and the Mother Goddess.
At her death, he’d turned away from all gods. But now he prayed that they would intervene. He would find forgiveness in his heart for Shina’s loss, if he could just save the many who were about to die—the many who had trusted him, worked with him, and believed in the importance of what he and they did together. He did not want to live if they died.
He clenched his hands together tightly and stared at the killing field, and prayed with everything that was in him, offering himself in exchange for the lives of the many.
And a sudden peace descended over him, and inside him a voice spoke softly.
What is to be is as it should be. What is to come is as each soul has chosen. Grieve for your friends, but not for their choices; their road is not yours, but they walk that road by their own design. And be at peace. You, too, have a place in the changing of the world. Your time has not yet passed—Wraith and Vincalis still have much to do. Be strong. I am with you, as I have always been.
Please just save them, Wraith prayed silently, not believing that he heard anything but the desperation of his own heart, but willing the words in his head to be the words of the god he wanted to believe in.
Watch. And remember. Your voice will speak yet to this generation, and to generations yet to come. Watch.
Wraith shivered. Down on the killing field, commentators from the nightlies stood speaking into glowing blue communication spheres of wizard-fire that would transmit their words and images into each home in the Empire. Because of the nature of the magic, their voices also filled the amphitheater. Wraith tried to shut out the sound of their smug condemnation, but he could not.
“… and in just moments, the first group of traitors will be led onto Gold Field to hear their sentences read; we expect that among this first group will be a number of well-known stolti—”
“That’s ex-stolti, Farvan. Remember, part of their sentencing included being stripped of their stolti class.”
“You’re right, of course, Cherrill. We expect that among this first group will be a number of well-known ex-stolti, including Solander Artis, once a member of one of the highest-ranking families in the Empire as well as being a member of the Dragon Low Council of Magic, and socialite Velyn Artis-Tanquin, vowmate of ex-Dragon Councilor Luercas tal Jernas, who is watching from the stands today, and who may find public support for a bid for reinstatement on the Dragon Council after this is all over.”
“That’s right, Farvan. We’ve been told that members of the Dragon Judiciary Association, who sentenced these criminals and who are in no small part responsible for the events today, have received threats against their lives because they were unwilling to overturn the convictions of the stolti-class criminals based simply on their rank.”
Both commentators—themselves highly placed members of the stolti class—nodded to each other and exchanged smiles. “Cherrill, this is simply proof that justice in the Empire of the Hars Ticlarim is for everyone. Our government is just—but it will uncover the evil in its midst and root that evil out, no matter how … er, no matter how high into the air those roots may … ah … rise …”
Farvan, tangled in bad metaphor, fell silent, and Cherrill doggedly moved to fill the lull in the play-by-play. “We’re expecting to see nearly a thousand executions today. This pernicious plot spread from the lowest quarters in the Empire to the highest—a vast, insidious group of malcontents working toward the annihilation of all that we hold dear.”
Farvan got his second wind. “It’s going to be a long afternoon, I think. We don’t know exactly what to expect, but for this level of treason … well, all I can say is, I expect we’re all in for an education.”
All was exactly right, too, Wraith thought. According to the commentators, the entire Empire had shut down for the day in order that everyone could be at home to watch the executions. Watching was mandatory for anyone of the age of citizenship, and suggested for all children older than ten. Wraith wondered what effect watching more than a thousand men and women die in what would undoubtedly be the most creative manner the Masters of the Dragon Council could devise would have on the Empire’s inhabitants. No one could know. No one could even speculate; nothing like this had happened before within the long annals of the Empire’s recorded history.
Wraith would give his life for it not to happen right then, either— but the commentators had turned toward the huge arch that led out onto Gold Field, and the woman said, “And there it is, Farvan—the music that signals the approach of the traitors. We have to move into the spectator stands now. We’ve been told that no one who remains on Gold Field once this starts will be safe.”
The spheres of blue light floated toward the entrance; behind them, the commentators scrambled for the opposite end of the field and a rope ladder that colleagues hastily let down for them. No one would see their awkward ascent into the stands. Everyone, instead, would see the first of Wraith’s friends, colleagues, employees, and associates marched out onto the field, and would see them bound to the posts, and then would see them … what? Burned by fire from the heavens? Exploded limb from limb? Flayed alive by magical hands?
Soldiers of the Silent Inquest, no longer arrayed in the green and black, but in the standard uniforms of the Empire—for this hellish mass execution would never be called an action of the Silent Inquest, but instead would be credited to the legitimate government of the Hars Ticlarim—clamped people one at a time to the posts. Wraith could make out the faces of his friends: Rionvyeers the dancer; Meachaan the actress; Korr the Arts Master of the Order of Resonance. Too, he saw faces he had never seen before, and wondered if those were friends of Solander’s, or if they were innocents brought in to pad out the numbers and make the conspiracy look bigger than it truly was. But he did not see Solander. He did not see Jess. He did not see Velyn.
And then
the last of the first group came out onto the field, and she was Velyn. His Velyn, who had turned against him, and whom he had in turn pushed away. His eyes filled with tears, and he leaped to his feet, thinking to throw himself into the killing field and die with her and the rest. But the men guarding him shoved him roughly back into his seat.
“Move again and find out how much living can hurt,” one of them snarled.
Wraith felt a stab of pain at the back of his neck that blinded him and sent his body into spasms. He screamed, unable to stop himself, and sagged forward.
“That was just a taste,” the guard said.
They pulled his head upright and faced him toward the crowd.
“You are found guilty of treason against the Empire of the Hars Ticlarim,” a deep voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere. “You have plotted against the government of this great realm, but more, you have plotted for the destruction of the lives of the citizens of the realm, and their children. With callous disregard for life, for property, for humanity, you have planned to disrupt the magical underpinnings of this realm, and though your plans have come to nothing, your intent is enough to condemn you to death.
“You will, therefore, die as all plotters against the Hars shall die; you will die by the magic that you would have undone.”
“Rewhah,” Wraith heard someone behind him mutter. “They’re going to channel the rewhah from the Empire’s magic use through those posts and into their bodies. I can feel it building.”
“Quiet,” someone else behind him muttered. “Don’t spoil the surprise for anyone else.”
Those two voices sounded weirdly familiar, Wraith thought. Out of place, as if they belonged not in this amphitheater, but in …
Jess! Jess was the one who felt the rewhah. And Patr was the one who told her to be quiet!
They were behind him—a few seats behind, but still, if they were there, then they would not be dying on the killing fields. But had that really been Jess’s voice, or was he hearing what he wanted to hear? If next he heard Solander, he would know his heart and his mind were playing tricks on him.
He heard nothing else, though, but the cries of those on the field, begging for mercy.
“You will die by the sword you would have wielded against others,” the voice of the judge said with finality. “Prepare your souls; you shall this day meet perdition.”
Above the screaming, above the pleas for mercy, Wraith heard Velyn shout, “There’s the one you want, sitting in the stands. There’s the real traitor, Gellas Tomersin! Gellas! Wraith the Warrener! In truth he’s Vincalis the Agitator. Burn him, not us!”
He felt his heart break.
From her position several seats behind him, he heard Jess say, “Brace yourself. Here it comes.”
The guards, having finished binding all the first group of sacrifices— martyrs—to the posts, fled the killing field. The instant they were outside the ring, a sheet of green-gold light descended and formed a wall between the spectators and the victims. And in the eyeblink after that, the hideous fires of rewhah erupted from the ground, swirled up each of the posts, and enveloped each of the Empire’s sacrifices.
Wraith wanted to close his eyes, to hide his face in his hands, to block his ears … but he forced himself to watch. To bear witness to this thing that he had done, to this guilt that was his burden. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes and blurred his vision, but not enough to keep him from seeing the bound men and women shifted into ever more hideous parodies of the human form before the rewhah finally reduced them to ash. He thought that he would never escape the sounds of their screams, the sight of their destruction. And the vision of Velyn dying a death no human should experience, while on the safe side of the magical shield, Luercas tal Jernas sat applauding and cheering.
After the screaming died, after the dust that had moments before been human beings settled, the green-gold shield that kept the rewhah in the killing field disappeared. And the music began again, and into the breathless hush that ensued, the next group of victims marched. Wraith closed his eyes then, and prayed to the voice that had offered him comfort, “Save them. Take me, and save them.” If he could have changed the outcome by will alone, the men and women being fastened to the posts would have vanished, and he alone would have stood on the killing field.
But he opened his eyes and saw Solander being clamped front and center, with one of the blue communication spheres floating in front of him. The commentators were discussing him from the sidelines, speaking into a second communication sphere.
“… Solander Artis—who was expected to be in the first group, and who ends a promising career in magical research. Artis, whose father held the highest position in the Oel Artis Dragon Council before giving his life to save the city of Oel Maritias during a disaster some years ago, was expected to win a seat on the Dragon Council, and highly placed sources suggest that he might have been a favorite for early promotion to the chair occupied by his father. A conviction of treason doesn’t just shame him; it also casts shame on his entire family. They’ll lose a lot of stature among the stolti because of this.”
“They certainly will, Farvan. I can’t imagine what the Artis clan is thinking right now. You’ll notice that none of them are here watching.”
Wraith was having a hard time actually thinking critically—the horror he had just seen and the horror he was about to see had nearly shut down rational thought. But watching the commentators and the hovering communication spheres, he suddenly realized that none of the spheres had moved in on Velyn when she shouted that he was Vincalis the Agitator and pointed him out to the crowd. In fact, the commentators had taken no notice of her either. As if, he thought, they’d been told not to.
Yet the communication spheres were right up against Solander.
So the commentators knew at least enough about what was going on that they’d kept their commentary away from Velyn. And the wizards controlling the viewers knew enough to only catch her image from a distance. Had they known she would point him out and spoil their illusion that Vincalis the Agitator ran free in the Empire?
Probably.
And she died hating him. That was going to haunt him forever, he thought. He’d tried to save her—tried to help her. And he’d helped her to death.
Wraith shuddered as guards clamped the last of the second group of victims in place, and fled the killing field.
This time, the communication sphere stayed in front of Solander. Wraith saw Solander close his eyes. As the green-gold shield of light dropped into place, he saw another fire, a pale, soft white one, shimmer from Solander’s skin.
Behind him, Jess gasped.
In front of him, Solander lifted his eyes to the heavens.
He shouted, “Vodor Imrish! More time—I am not done here!”
Jess gripped Patr’s arm as they brought Solander out and whispered, “No.”
Patr took her hand in his, leaned over, and so softly that she almost couldn’t hear him, said, “We can’t leave. If we try, we’ll draw attention to ourselves and be down there in the arena with them before you can blink. Now sit up, keep your hood over your head, and don’t you dare cry, or we’re both dead.”
Jess nodded.
“I’m sorry, Jess,” he added. “I didn’t want you to be here for this.”
Now she wished that she hadn’t come. She couldn’t get over the hell of watching Velyn charred to ash in front of her eyes—and she hated Velyn. The nightmare of watching the others in the first hundred die equally horribly would never leave her. But now she was watching Solander, who in all the world was, next to Wraith, her best friend. He was going to die, and she was going to have to sit there and watch, helpless.
Four rows in front of her sat Wraith, with a guard on his left, a guard on his right, and two guards behind him. Jess didn’t know why he wasn’t down on the arena floor, but she could find only a little comfort in the fact. The Inquest held him, and according to Patr, if they let him live, what happened to him would
probably be worse than what would happen if they killed him.
Her world felt like it was coming to an end. She wanted to stand up in her seat and scream, I’m one of them. Kill me, too.
But something in Solander’s face kept her in her seat, and gave her hope. He didn’t look afraid. He looked … almost triumphant. He stared up at the sphere of fire that sent his image around the world, and she thought she saw the faintest of smiles cross his lips. She could not imagine being in his place, being merest instants from torture and death, and radiating the sort of calm he did.
Perhaps, she thought, he’s found a way to escape.
The shield dropped around the arena, and the people seated in the auditorium leaned forward in anticipation, but the rewhah didn’t have a chance to touch the Empire’s sacrifices. Instead, Solander shouted, “Vodor Imrish! More time—I am not done here!”
Solander had spent his time since meeting Vodor Imrish gathering his energy. Now, bound to the post, staring up at the faces of observers come to watch him and the rest of the rebels die, he considered for one final time the choices he had.
He could shield himself—he could, he felt sure, hold off the worst that all the gathered wizards of the Empire could throw at him. At least, he could for a while. But the Empire could bring in hundreds of wizards, all of whom could call on the nearly unlimited resources of the Empire’s many Warrens for their power. And he had what he held inside himself. In the end, he would falter, and he would die.
He might be able to attack the wizards controlling the rewhah by drawing on his life energy. But he would have to take the rewhah himself, and the force he would be able to throw at them would likely be nothing compared to shields they would already have in place. He would die having accomplished nothing.
For a long time he’d thought that he had no third option; that he would either die alone and shielded or die alone in a futile attack. It was only when he considered the rest of the Empire’s intended victims that he realized he did have a third option.
