“You little cunt. Briste will see your end. The rest will bring your head to her on a platter, eyeless and tongueless.”
His words ended when the blade came across his throat. They held him over the barrel until the clicks from his throat were quiet and his body no longer writhed against the life leaving it. The corpse was removed from the platform, but the crowd continued their cheers.
“Bring the next.”
Faces upon faces were brought before her. The bulk, guards who still swore loyalty to Briste in the face of their own deaths. Scaa leaned to her when a woman had been bled.
“They fear her more than death?”
Óraithe’s face was hard and her words the same. “They are right to.”
There had not been a body worth saving through the whole of the morning. Óraithe was offered to have a break for lunch, but she refused it. She had no taste for food and if the people wished to see her dispense cruel justice she would sate them. The parade of prideful highborn had made her remember the way of the Bastion City. She understood their hunger for blood and it had not waned as the hours passed.
“Bring the next.”
A shout, not sooner than the masked men had taken their first steps.
“Kill the shiny bastard!”
A shout of agreement and another.
“What good’s he done? Just put the knife to him!”
Cheers rang out. Óraithe bolted up from her chair.
“Stop!”
A plume of dust shot from below the platform with incredible force. She had not made any such command with her mind and Óraithe froze there, watching as it settled. The eyes of silent, terrified elves lay on her and so she remembered her anger.
“Is that what you wish?! Blood for blood’s sake? To what end?! That you might become them—” her hand swept toward the Palisade— “when they are all dead?! If blood is what you wish, then take a cudgel or whatever you find and see yourself to the Palisade. You will find enemies there, sure. As many as you can stomach and more.” She came to the edge of the platform, where the hanging post had been. “This platform I stand upon, I have not forgotten what hung from it. My mother, my father, my grandfather. All that I had. And how many of you the same?” A few dozen bitter shouts. “And no matter your thirst for blood, I will not see it become that thing again. We will hear their voices. Each of them. We will have justice, so much as we can, for those in chains!”
The boy they brought before her was round-faced, clearly terrified. Maybe fifty or so, young. Borr began his readings. A highborn boy, said his name was Cáil. He kept his eyes on the platform below him. None of the others had been so shameful. He looked like to cry. His parents owned a jeweler’s in the High District. None of those asked knew of him. The first new recruit in three dozen faces. She expected there were many more. The seniors may have banded together and been captured together for it. The readings were done. There was hardly anything to damn the boy other than his birth and stolen food.
“What say you, Cáil?”
“I am—” His meek voice gave rise to shouts that he speak up from the onlookers. “I am sorry. Sorry for what I stole. Sorry for my work in service to Briste. I hold no love for the Tre— for that woman. My family were sent away and I was given choice of joining the guard or serving in the Bastion. I chose the guard.”
“And killed and raped, I bet. Highborn scum!” A single voice, followed by the cheers of others.
He turned to them. “I never did! I know nothing about swords or the duties of guards! They locked me here! I do not wish to harm anyone! Please believe me!”
The bulk of the crowd booed and shouted at the boy. He crumbled to his knees. Óraithe looked at Borr who shrugged.
“Pick him up.” The masked men obliged, turning the boy to face her. “Denounce her as a tyrant.”
“Of course. She is. Briste is a tyrant. A curse on our land.”
“He only begs for his life! A coward!”
Óraithe came to her feet again. “And you would not?”
“He stole food!”
“I stole food. Often. Scaa as well. And nearly every Low District child before us and since.” She stopped there, waiting. Silence. “Well? Would you have your crimes weighed against this highborn?” She turned to Borr. “Put him to work. He has done nothing that should cost his life.” Óraithe returned her eyes to the silent crowd. “What is he now? Highborn? Working at my command? What are you? Lowborn?” She spit at the word. “A brand applied by an iron that has gone cold. I will not hear of it anymore. I will not live under the yoke of my birth. Any who wish to live along those old divides can help fill the barrel.”
She whipped around, the cloak following her, catching in the wind and spreading wide. The cheers were immediate but sparse, growing as she returned to her chair and a mighty thunder when she sat.
“Bring the next.”
There was no more complaint from the crowd, though it thinned as she kept up her work. The night came and fires were lit. More blood was spilt, and some were sent to work, to be watched. They could live, but not without a careful eye upon them. Scaa finally complained of hunger and Óraithe relented in the work she had been called to do. They returned to the alehouse, Borr joining them and saying Callaire was like to be there, cooking with Earráid. He had taken a fancy to her and was bothering her to teach him
