“Where is he?” she asked when they reached her father’s cell. She looked around feverishly. “Where’s my father?”
The guards said nothing.
She squinted in the pale morning light, dim as it was, as they hauled her up the steps and out past the barracks. The place was eerily quiet. The few servants, soldiers and guards who were there stood still and silent, watching her. She shivered.
“Don’t worry, lass,” said one of the guards beside her, “you’ll soon warm up.”
It wasn’t just the biting air that made her muscles tense. She also felt like someone behind was watching her. Gaoth? She felt the flutter of his presence but heard nothing of his thoughts. As she looked for him over her shoulder, the only eyes she met were dead ones. Her stomach reeled. The heads of three men had been put on spikes above the ramparts of the inner gatehouse, their skin grey, their hair lifting in the wind. Each forehead bore the silver band signifying their status as earls. All seven of Dalrath’s earls had sworn fealty to Rhona as Alran’s heir yet, as far as she knew, only these three had tried to keep their oaths.
And I will die as a traitor too, she thought, though I failed to keep my oath. Yet she was dying for her loyalty. She tried to feel the nobility of that. But she didn’t. Tremors ran down her legs and arms and a wave of nausea swelled within her.
The doors of the outer gatehouse ahead were open for them and she was shoved marched through it and across the drawbridge. She searched desperately for a flicker of her Fire but every time she came close to harnessing it, fear choked her and she became helpless. The chattering of the densely packed crowd filled the air before she even saw it. A flurry of whispers rose and died away as all eyes turned to her. In this steep swathe of hillside, between the southern and western crescents of defended walls, people from city and citadel had gathered to witness the king’s justice.
She wasn’t long for this world, she knew that. This fact was clear but it didn’t feel real. She seemed to be outside of herself, watching all of this happen, seeing her hopes unravel, her life approach its end. As the crowd parted, she no longer saw the people. Her eyes were fixed on the pyre that was waiting for her, her heart stopping as time stood still.
The great pile of wood was pale and dry, ready to be eaten by flames. A log tumbled out of place and she flinched at the sound. Instinctively, her muscles tensed and she struggled in the grasp of the guards, their hands tightening around her arms. All at once, she was acutely aware of her own body, the cutting pain from her torture, the fabric of her kirtle whipping against her gooseflesh skin, the cold air scratching at the inside of her parched throat, her chest tight as she breathed shallow breaths. She felt dampness against her thighs before realising that she had pissed herself. The embarrassment of this shocked her and she stopped struggling, determined for her body to respond to her mind. She couldn’t escape this fate and she wanted to meet it with what dignity she had left.
As the guards walked her towards the roughly made wooden steps leading up to the stake, she walked straight and tall, holding her head high. And then she saw him. She lunged towards her father, catching at his hand but she was dragged away from him again. He was restrained by guards too, his wrists bound together by thick rope. She hated Svelrik more than ever for making him come out to watch. She kept her eyes fixed on her father’s as a guard led her up to the stake. Her father seemed unable to move, his face stricken with pain, but as he found his voice, Kaetha strained to catch all his words above the mutterings of the crowd.
“I’m so proud – to have had the chance to be your father. I love you, Kit.”
Her throat threatened to close up, stopping her from speaking but she nodded. “Please . . . don’t watch,” she managed. She closed her eyes and tears rolled down her cheeks. The guard tied her to the stake, rope clawing tightly at the soft skin of her wrists, pulling her hard against the stake as he wrapped it around her waist. She leant her head back against the wood and closed her eyes. She thought of climbing trees with Archie long ago. Now I’ve climbed one I cannot climb down from, she thought.
Svelrik walked through the crowd, his guards making way for him. She knew he meant for her to see his face as she died. His slender, Shamlakahn queen stood beside him, looking away from Kaetha and the pyre. Meraud stood behind the king, looking over his shoulder, her features unreadable. Murdo was there too, dressed in fine clothes, a silver band on his forehead catching the light of the pale sun. So his efforts had been successful, the king had granted him his earldom. Yet he didn’t look smug as she’d expected. He chewed at his thumbnail, his brows knit together, looking distinctly uncomfortable. That seemed strange. Raghnall was there too, yelling insults as loudly as the best of them.
Then someone standing behind the king caught her eye and she recognised him as a man she had seen at Neul Carraig. She shot him a venomous look, realising that he worked for Svelrik all that time and therefore must have been instrumental in the attack and in driving the survivors of it to their deaths at Longmachlag Bay. Seeing him there in his black and green livery, she realised why back at Neul Carraig
