Tristan hugged him, eliciting a cough. It felt like half his body was full of fluid, the other half aches. He tried rolling over in bed, was denied by a terrible spike of pain from his shoulder. He glanced at it and saw an impressive amount of stitchwork in his flesh. A bruise spread from the wound all the way across his chest. Cut, that was right, he’d been cut down through the collarbone by that bastard at the castle gate.
“What happened to him?” he asked.
“Who?”
Matthew grunted. “Never mind. You’re alive, and so am I, so must have worked out fine.”
“Lord Gandrem’s said you should be treated as a hero.”
“That so?”
Tristan bobbed his head up and down. Matthew chuckled.
“If this is how heroes feel, count me out. The plow fits me better than the sword.” He frowned. Tristan kept looking to the door, and his smile never seemed to last long.
“Something the matter, Tristan? Well, guess I should call you by your real name, shouldn’t I? Not much point in hiding who you are now.”
The boy obviously looked embarrassed, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“You can call me Tristan still, if you want, sir.”
“I guess I’ll let the habit linger, least until I can get out of this damn bed. What is the matter? You look like you’re expecting the executioner.”
Something about the way Tristan’s face paled made him wonder what he’d said wrong.
“It’s nothing,” Tristan said. “I just, it’s…nothing. I’m glad you’re awake. Really glad.”
Matthew’s head felt groggy and stuffed with cotton, but he pushed through to see his surroundings better and to make sense of them. He was in a small room with stone walls, a single red carpet, and a large bed with sheets stained with what must have been his blood. Tristan wore fine clothing, far beyond anything Matthew could have afforded at his farm house (before that Haern guy dumped a pile of gold in their hands, anyway). It didn’t look like everyday attire, but then again, he was hardly knowledgeable about the ways of courts and castles.
“They treating you well?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Tristan.
“Something bothering you?”
He looked once more to the door.
“Is it…is it all right if we just talk for a while?”
Matthew smiled. “Sure, son. You care about what?”
When he shook his head, Matthew began discussing his plans for the farm. He prattled on about cattle, where he bought his pigs, and how if he ever should get into the business in the north, to never ever buy from the Utters in the middle of winter unless he wanted to bend over and let them have their way with him. Tristan remained silent, but it seemed as if the tension drained out of him, until at last his eyes sparkled and he laughed at what few lame stories Matthew had to tell.
Every bit of that tension returned, though, when Lord Gandrem stepped into the room.
“Milord,” Matthew said, tilting his head to show his respect. Getting up and bowing was obviously out of the question.
“I’m pleased to see you well,” the lord said, though his voice hardly carried much pleasure. “You’ll be rewarded handsomely for protecting young Nathaniel here. Once I found someone who recognized you, I sent a rider to inform your loved ones of your stay in my care.”
“Thank you, milord,” said Matthew. “My wife will much appreciate knowing.”
“Rest, Matthew, and when you’re better, we can discuss giving you appropriate compensation. For now, I must borrow Nathaniel. We have matters to attend.”
“I’ll talk to you tonight,” Matthew told Nathaniel. “Right now, I feel like eating a little, and then sleeping for a while, so don’t worry about me.”
They left, and servants arrived immediately after, carrying bowls of soup and bread and changes of clothing. While they buzzed about, Matthew thought of Nathaniel, and he offered him a prayer for whatever trial seemed to await him.
*
Nathaniel followed after Lord Gandrem, feeling like an obedient dog. The thought was unfair, for he had been treated absurdly well. But already he heard the murmuring of the crowd as they climbed the stairs toward the front wall of the castle. The sunlight was glaring when they emerged, and the crowd of hundreds below cheered at their arrival. Four guards stood at either side of them upon the ramparts. Directly ahead, atop a retractable plank of wood, a long rope tied about his neck, was the man named Oric.
Lord Gandrem waved his greetings to the crowd gathered to watch the execution.
“This man was a coward and a traitor,” he cried out to them. “He dared lie to the lord of the lands, to mock the honor of Felwood! My allies, he struck against. This fiend, this foul murderer, even sought to coat his blade with the blood of children. What fate does he deserve?”
Those gathered below howled for his hanging. Nathaniel heard their cries and shivered. Lord Gandrem turned to him and beckoned him forth. His feet feeling made of lead, he approached. Oric’s face was covered with a black cloth, and his hands were tied behind him, but still he appeared dangerous.
“He’s bound and gagged,” John said, seeing his hesitation. “And even if he weren’t, you should not show fear. The eyes of the people are upon you, and more than anything, they want certainty from those who rule their lives.”
Nathaniel nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
The older man guided him to where a lever waited, connected to various gears and wheels that would drop the platform Oric stood upon. It was as tall as him, and when he put his hand upon it, he worried he might be too weak to move it.
“This way,” said a nearby knight, gesturing the direction for him to push. Hurling his weight upon it, Nathaniel felt the lever budge, then lurch forward. The crowd gasped, and before he could look away, Lord Gandrem took hold of his shoulder and forced him to watch. Oric fell, the rope snapped taut, but as he swung, his feet still kicked. A sickening groan floated up to them, barely audible over the cheer of the crowd.
“Bastard’s neck didn’t break,” said one of the knights.
“Just following orders,” said the man beside him. “John wanted to send a message.”
The words flowed over him, but Nathaniel refused to give them any meaning. Instead he just watched as Oric kicked, gagged, and swung from the castle wall, John’s hand holding him with strength frightening for his age.
“Remember this always,” he said to him. “This is the fate that should meet all who challenge you. If you deny them this, then you become as cowardly as they. Besides, listen to that roar, Nathaniel. Listen to them cheer. Our people want blood, crave it. Every dead man hanging is a man worse than them. They’ll spit on his corpse when we cut him down, and they’ll unite in a hatred of something they hardly even understand. We are their lords. We are their gods. Never deny them the spectacle they deserve. So long as you believe your acts are just, they will follow.”
Nathaniel nodded, his head dizzy, his stomach swinging side to side along with the convulsing body of Oric.
Epilogue
Haern found Deathmask and his Ash Guild back in their hiding hole, and they greeted him like a long lost friend.
“Behold the legend,” Deathmask said, but his laughter cut with dark humor.
“Gerand’s told me of the Spider Guild’s acceptance,” Haern said, not wishing to waste any time. “As for the Conningtons, some old man named Potts has assumed control while his relatives bicker and position themselves. Potts has also agreed to the terms. Only two guilds have refused, but they’re both currently leaderless.”
“Already we move in on their territory,” Veliana said. “Same for the Spiders and the Wolves. Whoever finally
