Her thoughts were broken by the sudden silence of the crowd. Not yet, she thought. Not yet. Sir Jarl approached and handed the king a flaming brand.
Svelrik walked up to the pyre. “Today we bring to justice a witch and a traitor to the crown.” He tossed the brand amongst the wood. Guards surrounding her placed their brands in the pyre too and the fire spread in a ring around her. Her heart thundered in her chest and she panted for breath. Her panic rose and she felt sick as the crowd cheered.
She glared at Svelrik and tried to control her breathing.
“I’m no traitor to the crown,” she cried in an attempt at defiance, though terror coursed through her trembling body, “unlike the son of a whore who wears it. Long live Queen Rhona!”
Sweat gathered on her face, drips tracing the surface of her skin. She saw Archie in the crowd then, his face deathly white but for the dark bruises upon it.
“Rhona, our rightful Queen!” Her words were answered with a shocked hush and, for some time, all she heard was the crackling of the flames licking the wood as they rose.
THIRTY SEVEN
Firesong
The fire had not yet reached her, though tendrils of smoke bloomed into engulfing clouds. Her eyes stung and the crowd became a blur. She breathed in gulps of smoke, each wheezy breath followed by a hacking cough which left her throat raw and dry. Her surging panic made her breathe faster, only to take in more smoke whilst her body screamed for air.
In her flailing desperation, she clutched onto the thought of her magic. But without the stones, how can I—? Her eyes watered as she coughed, smoke gritty in her lungs. Fear crumbled her thoughts – stole her focus. Have to be calmer. The soles of her feet grew hot as the fire crept closer and she stood on tiptoes, closing her eyes against a great cloud of smoke which billowed up from the crackling wood.
She hung her head, her thoughts fluttering hesitantly with broken wings. It was all she could do to quell her terror enough to stop herself from screaming. As her mind drunkenly slipped into a nightmarish fog, a strain of melody came to her mind. She heard her mother’s voice singing a snatch of a half-forgotten lullaby from when she’d had bad dreams as a child.
. . . Through misty woods all veiled in night
I found them dancing by moonlight.
I gave them back the changeling fae
And took my own child far away . . .
Why those words came to her, she didn’t know but she held onto that half-remembered moment of comfort.
Blow the dream away, child, Morwena would say. Blow the dream away. It is nothing but air.
As she thought of Morwena, her Air magic gathered strength. She filled her lungs, resisting the urge to cough, then softly, slowly, blew out again. A wave of air followed the direction of her breath and smoke wafted away from her. She took a breath of clean air then blew again.
She was now surrounded by clean air, smoke being diverted away from her. However, flames bit at her toes and she realised that the fire was flaring, being fanned by the current of air created by her magic. She harnessed her Fire, drawing energy from the flames beneath her but, as they subsided, a cloud of smoke formed around her again.
So that’s my choice. To burn to death or to suffocate from the smoke before the fire takes me, she thought. Gaoth? She feared her thought-voice was too faint, surrounded by a cacophony of other minds, but surely he was here watching her. Gaoth, help!
I am here.
She couldn’t see him. Draw away the smoke, Gaoth.
But if I do that, the flames will grow.
Leave the flames to me.
She didn’t care that this would prove to the crowd that she was a witch. With Gaoth dispersing the smoke, letting it coil through the coughing crowd, she focussed on her Fire, pulling more and more of its energy. The flames sank back down through the wood, smouldering and subdued. The energy she had taken began to restore her strength but she had drawn more energy than she could consume and it was pushing to be released in some form or another.
She thought again of her mother’s song. Sing. Sing out your power, she thought, directing the Fire energy, and then the air was filled with the voices of the flames, a choir singing without words. Melodies wove into one another, mournful, bright and clear. The sound filled her, reaching into her soul, and she felt tears fall down her cheeks.
She couldn’t escape death, she knew, but at least she had the satisfaction of seeing Svelrik’s shock, his pale face, the panic in his eyes.
“Bring on your arrows,” she said, glaring at him, “bring on your swords and axes – but you will never burn me. I am Kaetha Baird, Chosen by Fire.”
As she scanned the stunned faces of the crowd, expecting the king to signal for archers to end his humiliation and kill her quickly, she found a familiar face. Mairi stood at the back of the crowd, a cloak draped over her, covering her hair. It was Morwena’s cloak and, for a moment, she thought she ought to feel angry that Mairi was wearing it. But she didn’t.
Mairi was talking to Donnan who held the reins of Smoke. She wished they had not come. She didn’t want them to see this. Svelrik would find a way of killing her and she hated to think that Donnan
