Kaede was already on the stand, resplendent in an emerald gown with matching jewels at ears and throat. But when she saw that Khallayne sat at Jyrbian’s right, she frowned and turned away. Jyrbian dismounted and led Khallayne up the stairs.
The Ruling Council arrived. Anel looked across the banister and bowed to Jyrbian. There was a buffet table, laden with delicacies, at the back of the viewing stand, and someone thrust a bronze goblet filled with deep red wine into Khallayne’s hand.
Music began, the high, trilling sound of a flute. Other instruments joined in, adding their melodies. Drums. Cymbals. Bells. Another flute. Twining their light, playful sounds.
The light seemed to dim, as if the sun had gone behind a dark cloud. Khallayne shivered, blinked her eyes to clear them, and found the light as bright as before. She clutched her goblet tighter to keep her fingers from trembling and peered down the street, as everyone around was doing. All except Jyrbian, who stood straight, stared straight ahead.
First to appear were the children. Ogre children, dressed in white with ribbons of every color, strewing flowers in the street as they danced, laughed, played, and shouted.
Behind them were the flute players, more musicians, more children. Young women and men tossed flowers to friends in the crowd. Troops, smartly dressed in their best, swords shining in the light, followed, then more children, older ones, all so filled with a gaiety that it struck Khallayne as false.
Then came the captured slaves, naked, barefoot, oiled as if they were on display for the auction block. They were bound together with chains that shone as bright as the soldiers’ swords.
The crowd cheered and clapped the same as they had for the dancing children.
Through it all, Jyrbian displayed a ghastly smile. “You don’t want to miss this,” he said, taking her arm gently.
More troops marched out of the coliseum. These were on foot, though from their uniforms it was obvious they were officers, higher in rank than those who had come before. They walked in perfect rows, in perfect step, shoulders thrust back proudly.
As they drew near, Jyrbian’s fingers tightened on her arm.
Three figures walked in the center of the rows of officers-one stumbling, almost carried by the two who walked at his side.
That one was Eadamm. His wrists were bound in front, and his legs streaked with bright red. He had been hamstrung, the heavy tendons cut just above the knee.
Khallayne cried out. The goblet of wine fell from her fingers, flashing in the sunlight. Jyrbian held her against him, forcing her to stand where she was. When the goblet hit the street below, it made not a sound.
Khajllayne looked down and saw that, while Jyrbian held her in a tight grip with one hand, with the other he held Kaede’s fingers, lightly, gently stroking them. “Eadamm will be paraded every day for six days,” Jyrbian was saying. “One day for each of the
six months since the rebellion. Then he will be publicly executed.”
He looked down at her and smiled before turning back to the spectacle, his eyes following Eadamm’s every step.
And Khallayne saw that his face, which had once rivaled hers for beauty, now had become twisted and ugly, like his soul.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Each day, Jyrbian sent a new dress to Khallayne’s apartment, each more elegant than the last.
Each day, he sent two burly guards, well versed in magic, to escort her. They broke through her wards. They carried her when she resisted.
Each day, Jyrbian sat astride his horse in the courtyard and watched as they brought her out and lifted her into the saddle of her horse beside him.
“Why do you slap and kick when you could destroy them with a simple magical thought?” he asked, amused.
“Kill them because they blindly follow your orders?” she asked. “That would make me just like you.”
Each day, he laughed as he led her down the mountain into the festive streets.
Each day, he stood beside her and held her arm and forced her to watch Eadamm’s humiliation, Eadamm’s torture.
On the seventh day, it was late afternoon before a slave came with the tunic and embroidered vest she had worn all those many nights ago, at the party where she’d looked at Jyrbian with lust and anticipation.
The castle had been rumbling with parties and celebrations all day. The execution was soon, she knew. And she knew Jyrbian would force her to watch, but she could feel nothing but relief that it would soon be over. At least Eadamm would be beyond Jyrbian’s reach, beyond pain.
The late afternoon sun shone brightly in the courtyard, making the cobblestones so warm that she could feel them through her boots.
Jyrbian was waiting for her as always, as was Kaede. She mounted without being prompted, but held back on the reins until Jyrbian turned back to her. “Why do I have to go to this?” she asked quietly.
He smiled and chided her, “Khallayne, you were here for the beginning. You can’t miss the end.”
The end was even more bizarre than what had gone before.
The coliseum was packed and surrounded by hundreds of Ogres who couldn’t get in. They wouldn’t have made it through the crowd without Jyrbian’s guards opening a path. The mood was ugly; there were mutterings and complaints because there wasn’t space for everybody.
Jyrbian and his entourage rode under the heavy stone arch into the coliseum. The sounds of the crowd muted. The whole coliseum became strangely quiet. They dismounted and were escorted to Jyrbian’s box, a private chamber that opened onto a huge balcony overlooking the stadium field. It was only then that she understood.
All around them, in other special boxes, were courtiers, packed into seats, hanging over the balconies, calling to each other and laughing.
To her horror, the majority of the seats were filled with slaves. They were interspersed with guards who brandished swords and pikes and bows.
The entertainment began. Dancers and jugglers and acrobats. Smartly trained horses and smartly trained soldiers went through their paces. Troops marched and saluted with perfect precision. Magicians magicked, pulling flowers out of thin air and juggling fireballs.
The Ogres clapped and cheered and drank. The slaves sat silently.
Then great torches were lit, and the real entertainment, what all the Ogres had come to see, began.
Eadamm was brought into the center of the coliseum.
Every slave in the place sat forward.
Shackles were attached to his arms with great ceremony. Horses backed into their traces.
Khallayne turned away. Jyrbian didn’t notice. His eyes were glued to the tableau, fists tapping his thighs. Kaede stood near him, brushing his arm, but he was unaware of her.
Khallayne saw Anel, in the center box, raise a red square of cloth, saw it fall, felt the sudden hush, heard sounds so horrible, she knew she would never be able to wipe them from her mind again. Whips cracked. Something creaked and snapped. Something tore.
She clapped her hands to her ears to shut out the raucous, frenzied cheering. Tears streamed down her face.
There was another burst of cheers, higher and louder than the first, then another, and she thought, “It’s over. It’s over.”
Eadamm had been drawn and quartered.
Then came a sound like nothing she’d ever heard in her life, like nothing she would ever hear again. It was dim at first, but building, surging, a hum that became a song that became a fire that became an explosion, rage and
