The Executioner's Rebellion (The Executioner's Song Book 4)

by D. K. Holmberg

  By the time they reached the Teller Gate, Finn couldn’t help but feel as if the presence of the Archers in the city had truly pushed back the typical crowd.

  Then they stepped through.

  They were hundreds upon hundreds of people outside the Teller Gate. Thousands. It was as if the entirety of the city had emptied beyond the wall, filling the space. There was no festival feel here though—only an undercurrent of anger.

  The Archers slowed, but Meyer pushed them forward.

  “How are we supposed to get through the crowd?” Finn asked.

  “By walking,” Meyer said.

  “I understand that. I’m just saying—”

  “I know what you are saying,” Meyer said. “But keep moving.”

  They headed forward. Other Archers streamed out of the city, joining them and creating a path. Shouts started to ring out around them, loud and angry. People threw objects, though for the first time in Finn’s time serving as an executioner, no one threw anything at the one sentenced.

  Instead, Finn and Meyer were the targets along with the Archers, and even Garrett.

  An apple struck Finn, and it stung, but he ignored it, the way he had learned to ignore everything like this. He trudged forward, and with each step, he could feel the tension within the crowd beginning to rise, building around him.

  It was going to explode.

  “This is a bad idea,” Finn muttered.

  “We must carry out the sentence,” Meyer said.

  Typically, most of the jurors, along with the magister, came out for the sentencing, but Finn didn’t see them in the distance near the Raven Stone. Occasionally, the viscount would come out too, though maybe he wouldn’t for somebody like this.

  Finn didn’t know whether the king was still in the city, but he suspected he was, especially given the strong presence of the Archers, many of them palace Archers, along with some who had to be members of the Realmsguard.

  Finn heard a grunt and looked over to Meyer. He’d been struck in the head, and he held it, a bit of blood streaming down from his temple.

  “Meyer?”

  “Keep moving,” Meyer muttered.

  The Archers flanked them, creating a path they could walk through, though it wasn’t wide enough for them to make that much headway. Finn tried to keep his focus straight ahead of him, but he found it increasingly difficult with the crowd yelling and the agitation around him. He knew that if he was hit like Master Meyer, it would be difficult for him to carry out his responsibility.

  Another apple struck him, catching his shoulder, and though it stung, it wasn’t quite as bad as what he suspected Meyer had experienced.

  Once they had reached the Raven Stone, they forced Walter up the steps.

  There were still no jurors or magister.

  This was going to be done out here like this?

  “Where are they?” he whispered to Meyer.

  “I don’t know.”

  He stumbled, and Finn looked over.

  “Stay down there. I will do this,” Finn said.

  Meyer looked as if he wanted to argue, but instead just clutched his hand up against his head.

  Finn reached the top of the Raven Stone and guided Walter to the middle of it, holding on to the coiled rope in one hand, before looking out over the crowd.

  “Walter Briggs, I, Finn Jagger, present you for execution before the people of Verendal. You have been accused and sentenced for the crime of killing a city Archer.”

  Walter looked over, his eyes still searching, hoping Finn might change his mind, but Finn knew he couldn’t. It felt as if he had been forced in this direction, forced to do this, and yet…

  He didn’t like it.

  Finn looked down to Master Meyer. He still had one bloody hand on his temple, holding it. He needed healing, but there wasn’t going to be any—not until this was over.

  Finn affixed the rope to the gallows, placed the stairs into position, then motioned for Walter to climb up.

  “Don’t make me do this,” Walter said.

  “Neither of us have a choice,” Finn said.

  Walter swallowed, then climbed the stairs.

  Finn fitted the noose around his neck and looked over to him.

  “Do you have anything to say before you go to meet the gods?”

  Walter looked out over the crowd, then to Finn, terror filling his wide eyes.

  All Finn could see was a reflection of who he would’ve been, the way he would have felt, and he hated that he had to do this.

  He took a deep breath, then kicked the stairs out of the way.

  Walter dropped. His neck snapped.

  The crowd surged.

  The Archers cried out, turning to face the crowd, swords and shields trying to push them back, while the Archers along the wall surrounding Verendal began to fire into the crowd.

  Finn ducked down, hurrying to join Master Meyer.

  “Did you know they had Archers on the wall?”

  “No.”

  Other Archers surrounded them, guiding them toward the city.

  Finn looked back toward Walter, seeing him swinging with the cool northern breeze, and noticed movement out of the hegen section, though he hoped that Esmerelda and the others would wait until the crowd departed to claim their prize.

  In this case, maybe it would make more sense if they didn’t claim their prize.

  By the time they had reached the Teller Gate, the crowd had pushed toward the Archers, but thankfully, Finn and Meyer got into the city peacefully enough, and without any further injury.

  Finn looked over to Master Meyer. “We need to get you stitched up.”

  Meyer just nodded.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The riot following the execution stayed mostly out of the city, but the Archers had squashed it as quickly as they could—using a level of violence that Finn wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Meyer’s injury had required Lena’s deft hand to suture, but now he was well enough, which was good since he and Finn had to question some men about the protests.

  Now Finn had something more to deal with.

  Finn held the piece of paper in hand, the hastily written message all he needed, though it left him feeling cold. There was more going on here, though he didn’t know what it was.

  Jonrath was dead.

  Another death in custody. First Reginald, now him.

  Finn didn’t think it a suicide but didn’t know. The possibility that someone would be able to sneak into Declan to get to a prisoner there bothered him. It should be secure. He had made a point of ensuring that.

  Or thought he had.

  Both dead men had ties to the Black Rose, and Finn felt even more uncomfortable with that connection. He wished he could understand it.

  Everything continued to build, but Finn felt as if he was even further from answers than he had been before. He hadn’t been able to find out anything, even though he and Meyer had chased leads and questioned the men who had survived. The only thing he had managed to come up with was that the Black Rose was a movement. Nothing more.

  He should've trusted himself. He should’ve gone with his instincts to solve the mystery sooner. Maybe he would’ve even saved Walter Briggs.

  If only he had.

  Someone had suffered and died because he had not trusted himself.

  Finn would not let that happen again.

  He turned a corner on his way to Declan, and a flash of a black cloak caught his attention.

  He had seen something like that before; it was similar to the insignia worked into the man’s cloak.

  The Black Rose.

  He’d last seen it when he’d been chased out of the Brinder section.

  It might be coincidence. They might’ve only worn it as a way to show solidarity with others, but Finn wasn’t completely convinced that was the case.

  He needed to follow this man.

  Finn kept his distance, not wanting to make it too obvious that he was chasing him, but the streets were relat
ively empty these days.

  There had been no further protests since the execution, but that didn’t mean the movement had ceased; it had only gone quiet—for now.

  He still hadn’t managed to shake what Wella had suggested to him.

  A movement like this would require funding. Reginald might have been a part of it, but he couldn’t have been all of it. The protests had persisted after his death.

  Which meant he was only one part.

  Who would finance something like this? Better yet, why finance something like this?

  Most in the city with wealth wanted to do whatever they could to keep their wealth. They wouldn’t side with the poor whom they took advantage of.

  None of this made sense to him.

  The man ducked down a side street.

  Finn noted the heavy presence of Archers. There were probably five in the street, all of them armed with swords and crossbows, and all of them staring at each person they passed with a dark gleam in their eyes. Most of them were city Archers, though there were quite a few more palace Archers than Finn was accustomed to seeing out in the city.

  He turned the corner and lost sight of the man, but he couldn’t have gone far.

  Finn slowed and headed toward one of the bridges, pausing in the middle and looking out over the river. The river itself seemed to serve as a boundary within the city. On one side was the poorer outer sections, its inhabitants often treated unjustly. The wealthy inner sections were on the other side, and the people there tended to stay there, closer to the palace and the viscount’s manor.

  From here, Finn could make out trails of smoke that drifted up from hundreds of chimneys within the city. He felt a strange energy in the crisp northern breeze, charged with the fear of the people who lived there, charged with the fear of those who had experienced the dangers that had occurred, and charged with the death of Walter Briggs.

  Finn crossed the bridge, heading into the more central sections, wandering along the street that ran along the river. The River Walk was one of the nicer streets in the city, and though the nearby houses weren’t the wealthiest, there was still something quite regal about them. Many of them were dated, and some were made of a dark stone that reminded him of the stone used in City Hall—and the stone used in the ancient temples.

  There was still much he needed to do. He continued his walk until he reached a side street leading back over the river. He needed to go back to Declan, though something had prevented him from doing so ever since he’d hanged Walter Briggs. He and Meyer had been in hiding, for the most part, trying to keep themselves safe from the potential of danger during the unrest in the city, but Finn had to stop abandoning his responsibilities. It was time for him to focus.

  If only Jonrath had lived. It made him think the Black Rose was more than just a movement, though Finn couldn’t prove that. It irritated him—their way of showing they could get anyone, regardless of where they were.

  Finn had already dealt with the iron masters showing loyalty where they should not, and he hadn’t expected to struggle with that any longer. Perhaps continuing to struggle was to be his fate.

  Instead of going to the prison, he turned and headed toward the Church of Heleth.

  It wasn’t all that far from Declan, and as he approached it, Finn shook his head, wondering why he was coming here. Maybe it was in search of answers, or reassurance, or maybe it was just that he didn’t know where else to go.

  He entered through the small door on the periphery of the church, and stepped into a narrow antechamber that led into the worship hall. He didn’t expect there would be many priests available, and was surprised to see a younger priest of Heleth sitting in a booth.

  As soon as Finn entered, the priest got to his feet, heading toward him. He had thick glasses, short black hair, and a beard. “May I help you?”

  “Is Priest Garrett available?”

  “Any of the priests can help you with your needs.”

  “Garrett is really the only one who can address these particular needs,” Finn said.

  “I’m sure all of us can answer to your needs and help you find the wisdom of the Mother.”

  Finn looked over to him. He didn’t know this priest, but there was something about him that reminded Finn of the young priest he’d seen Lena walking through the city with. “I just need to see Garrett.”

  “Has Garrett helped you on your path to understanding the Mother?”

  Finn grunted, looking around the antechamber. There were markers of Heleth all over. She was the Blessed Mother, and she sat above the rest of the gods, which meant that everything here gave off a feeling of warmth. A portrait of Heleth hung on one of the walls, depicting her as a matronly-looking woman with a glow around her, her hands spread off to either side, as if looking down at the earth.

  Several wall hangings were in the shape of the earth and moon, the sun shining over them and looking as if it were Heleth herself, the Blessed Mother, shining down upon everyone.

  “You could say that,” Finn said.

  “Then you have already begun to understand your place with the gods.”

  “I have no place with the gods,” Finn said, and immediately regretted it.

  The priest frowned at him. “You said that Garrett has helped you.”

  “I am Finn Jagger, executioner for the king. Garrett has helped me as we’ve carried out sentences. I’d like to speak with him about the last sentence.”

  The priest stiffened, then nodded slowly, backing away and disappearing into the main part of the church. Finn should know better than to intimidate a priest, but he didn’t want to sit and have a conversation about Heleth with somebody who didn’t understand him.

  He stopped in front of another painting. All of the paintings hanging on the walls were intricately done, and he thought of Esmerelda and the artisans within the hegen section—the way they depicted scenes of nature and the world. Perhaps they would be able to paint something as exquisite as what he saw in front of him now. Heleth sat among the other gods, though all of them were blurry, making their features difficult to discern. She sat at the head of the table in this portrait, the only one clearly rendered, while the other gods all sat farther away. There was Fell, Volan, Cranar, and even Jor.

  “Are you trying to find the wisdom of the Blessed Mother?”

  Finn turned to see Garrett approaching. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he looked over at the same portrait Finn studied, his mouth pressed together in a tight frown.

  “I often come out here, like many of our parishioners, to see if I might be able to find the wisdom of the Blessed Mother myself. I find that these paintings inspire me.” He turned, looking at Finn. “Do they inspire you, Mr. Jagger?”

  “I don’t know if I can be inspired,” Finn said.

  “But you have come to visit with the Blessed Mother,” he said.

  Finn took a deep breath, looking around him. The air was damp, still, and carried with it a bit of warmth. Heat seemed to radiate off of the stone of the church itself. It was almost as if somebody could feel Heleth here. “I don’t even know why I came,” Finn said.

  “You came because you’re troubled.”

  “Yes, I’m troubled,” Finn agreed.

  “What is it that troubles you?”

  “What if I say everything?”

  “Then I would say we have a long conversation ahead of us.” Garrett motioned for Finn to join him at a booth, then he slipped into it, waiting for Finn to take a seat.

  Finn wrapped his cloak around him, taking a seat on the booth next to Garrett, who was dressed in the brown robes of his office. Garrett turned so he could look at Finn, yet Finn stared straight ahead, not knowing whether there was anything he could say beyond what he already had. He wanted to be here for some reason, but why? Finn wasn’t devout, so it wasn’t a matter of devotion that had driven him here. It was fear. Worry. Uncertainty.

  “Your last assignment troubles you.”

  “Was it obvious?”
>
  “From the moment you came to the confession hall,” he said.

  Finn smiled. The priests referred to the final holding cell as the confession hall, though there was no confession happening at that point. By the time the prisoners were brought to that room, they had already confessed, or they had already been convicted. He supposed it didn’t matter though. They called it that because it was meant to be the final place that prisoners could offer their confession to the gods, some sacred room that would give them an opportunity to reach for the gods’ forgiveness. Finn wondered if the gods even cared.

  Maybe that was why he came.

  “He was used as an example,” Finn said.

  “Does that bother you?”

  “I don’t know,” Finn said. “I don’t know if it bothers me that he was used as an example, or that he’s from the section I grew up in, or if it’s something else entirely,” he said and shook his head. “Maybe it’s all of that.”

  “Was he guilty?”

  “He said he was.”

  “Then he was guilty,” Garrett said.

  Finn looked over. “Normally, I confirm confessions so I can ensure those who have confessed to their crimes are actually guilty of those crimes.”

  “That’s what makes you effective, Mr. Jagger.”

  “I don’t always feel that way.”

  Garrett smiled sadly. “I have traveled much throughout the kingdom. I wasn’t always stationed in Verendal, though I did ask to come.”

  “I didn’t realize priests traveled.”

  “I didn’t realize executioners traveled.”

  “I don’t travel much.”

  “Yet you have been seen in the countryside, making journeys to different villages, offering the king’s justice.”

  “The king’s justice.”

  “The king serves the gods, Finn Jagger.”