Tor understood. Alyssa was an exceptional beauty and if that could save her from death, why not?
The gaoler cleared his throat from the cell doorway, a little lost for what to do. He liked the boy. Always had. Didn’t everyone? He began to close the door as quietly as possible, then offered something which he hoped might help. ‘Not long now, lad. An hour or two maybe.’
His words were no comfort. Tor’s resolve broke. Tears fell for himself: for the pitiful way in which he was to die and the stupidity of his actions which had brought him to this monstrous conclusion. He cried too for Alyssa, who had never asked for anything but his love, yet he had betrayed her twice. He wept for his parents. Would they have made the journey to Tal to witness their famous son’s untimely end? His greatest despair, however, was reserved for two newborn infants he would never know. Not even their mother, his beloved Alyssa, knew they were alive. That was his third betrayal of her and now he would die and she would never know the truth.
‘Tor…’ Someone called his name gently. It was Herek, wondering if he needed help.
Had he stumbled? The sharp sunlight, the cries of the crowd and his own heartbeat. It was too much.
Now they were asking him to sit on a special chair: it was the Chair of the Damned, he realised. He would sit here now and hear why he was to be stoned. It was purely protocol—everyone gathered knew why Torkyn Gynt was to be slaughtered—but the Chair of the Damned was a final chilling reminder that death was imminent, stretching the ordeal just a little longer. It gave the victim a few last moments to repent his sins, beg forgiveness, beg for mercy—whatever he felt moved to say or do. It gave the audience, traditionally hungry for the blood of the accused, the opportunity to watch him suffer the terror of these final moments.
Tor sat, suddenly bewildered and stared at the dust on the ground. He could not look at anyone. One of the most senior of the courtiers who had presided at the trial in the Great Hall unrolled a parchment and read aloud its length of accusations. The actual sentence would be read shortly but only after the executioner himself had been introduced.
Tor could not bear to listen to their words any more. Instead he called himself within; shut out all of the people and allowed his thoughts to drift back. Back to where it had all begun, on that balmy afternoon in Twyfford Cross seven summers previous…
Torkyn Gynt was young, adventurous and bored. He hated being an apprentice scribe but it was expected by all that he would continue Jhon Gynt’s excellent work. He watched his father squinting at the letter he was working on with the Widow Ely. The older man’s eyes were failing and the day when his son would have to take over was fast approaching.
Today, however, they would spend the warm, sunny afternoon working at Twyfford Cross. A more sleepy, uneventful village Tor could not imagine. He felt like yelling his frustrations aloud as he heard the Widow Ely whingeing, yet again, about her sore hip. His mood was broken by the miller’s old dog Boj, who ambled over to the walnut tree beneath whose cool canopy they were working. Boj nudged Tor’s
hand. His days of being a champion mouser were over but everyone in the village loved the old rogue.
Guilt stabbed at Tor as he watched his father struggling to read back the letter to the cranky widow. He offered to take over and sighed to himself as he dipped the nib into the ink. Life did not get much less exciting than this, he decided.
As he scribed her boring words, his thoughts embraced more alluring sights than the widow’s beefy hips. The curve of Alyssa Qyn’s breasts brought a smile to his face. His client’s hacking cough unfortunately brought him back to the tiresome present. That and an urgent prod from his father, who knew better than most what a daydreamer his son was.
Rubbing his ribs and glaring at Jhon Gynt, Tor heard it. His strangely acute hearing picked up the ominous sound. His mother always said his ears were sharp enough to hear the birds breathing in the trees; a gift from the heavens she called it. Tor eventually realised this was her way of acknowledging—without actually admitting—that he possessed extraordinary powers. These were not times to be gifted with sentient ability; in fact it was a curse to possess any magic. So nothing was ever said openly. His strange and powerful talents had been kept hidden now for fifteen summers.
Widow Ely’s voice droned on. She hardly noticed Tor unfold his long legs from beneath the table and stand but Boj did. Disturbed from his doze, the dog waddled off.
Tor listened. Riders! Many of them and travelling fast. He did not need to see them to know they represented danger. Jhon Gynt was shocked to see ink, parchment and nibs suddenly scattered and hear his son yelling.
Too late. They were upon them in moments. Boj was trampled on his way across the street as a dozen riders came at full gallop into the village square. The face of the man in charge was unmistakable. Tor had not seen him before but vivid descriptions by others assured him this man was Chief Inquisitor Goth.
Goth’s face was a tortured mound of flesh. Savagely pocked, one side lay slack whilst the other twitched incessantly, giving his right eye a permanent tic. His sneer turned into a nasty smile as he drank in the village’s silent shock. Boj, almost dead, still managed to snap at the heels of Goth’s mount. A sword was driven into the dog’s belly to finish the cur off but inwardly Tor cheered his courage. Some of the folk flinched at Boj’s cruel death but held their tongues from a familiar fear.
Tor blinked his distinctive, cornflower blue eyes. He could feel his power gathering.
His father must have sensed it because he squeezed his son’s shoulder. ‘Don’t do anything foolish, Torkyn,’ Jhon murmured.
Goth stared at the villagers. They were still, watching the reviled Inquisitor carefully, waiting for his inevitable command. He allowed the silence to hang just a moment longer, relishing the fear he created wherever he rode.
When he spoke his voice was vaguely effeminate, its high pitch always a surprise for new listeners.
‘Good people, it’s been a while since we last visited. I see you have rebuilt the alehouse.’ He nodded towards the White Hart.
The inn had suffered the firebrands of the hated Inquisitors three winters previous. The sweating innkeeper groaned. Goth’s small, sharp eyes picked him out instantly.
‘Ah, Innkeeper Pawl,’ he cooed, ‘fret not. This time I’m sure the village will give me what I want.’
His fellow riders, dressed in their black cloaks and purple silks, sniggered.
Tor sensed a movement to the back of them and noticed a lone horseman turn into the street. He was old. Wispy grey hair struggled from beneath the brim of his hat and flapped around a silvery speckled beard. The rider paused, taking in the scene ahead before urging his fine black stallion forward.
Rhus, Goth’s second, had also noticed him and signalled his chief. Goth turned, lifted his eyes in irritation and cursed.
The stranger spoke. ‘What evil do you do here, Goth? Tell me, has some poor child seen animal shapes in the clouds and frightened you in your sleep? Or perhaps that poor creature I see at your feet had some profound ability to…what? Sniff out bones from the air, maybe?’
Somebody choked on a laugh but most of the village folk remained silent. No one who challenged Goth lived long enough to tell the tale. Tor shifted to get a
better look and was glad to see Goth’s complexion now almost matched his expensive purple silks.
‘Like you, I carry out the King’s work, Physic Merkhud.’ Goth was struggling to remain calm, hating the royal healer for his untimely appearance.
The old man sneered. ‘Never compare my work to your ignoble doings, Goth.’
‘Oh, I’ll be sure to pass on your sentiments to his majesty,’ Goth replied sweetly, regaining some composure.
The older man shook his head. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. I shall tell him myself when I share a meal with their majesties next.’
Merkhud knew that would sting. The Inquisitor may ride under the King’s banner but Merkhud was the King’s oldest, dearest friend. He promised himself he would take up the matter of Goth more vigorously with King Lorys.
The Inquisitor was obviously at Twyfford Cross for a bridling, Merkhud thought sourly. Lorys’s loyalty to this barbaric law to punish all sentients was primitive. Surely the centuries of persecution of these empowered innocents must soon end. Innocents may well be the very people to save Tallinor’s precious throne in years to come, he concluded to himself.
A stable boy appeared and took his horse’s reins but Merkhud did not move. He had eyes only for the Chief Inquisitor. Goth’s ire was at boiling point; Merkhud had ruined his fun. All pretence at civility fled. He waved Merkhud aside and addressed the villagers, his shrill voice carrying loudly.
‘We come for the woman known as Marya.’
A woman cried out and more wails joined with hers. He loved to hear them scream. He lifted his voice above the din.
‘She is sentient and has no place in our society. In the name of King Lorys, I pronounce she be embridled. Bring her forward immediately…or this whole village will be torched.’
Heads turned towards a group of four women. The eldest began to yell a stream of helpless abuse, beating her chest as she sank to the dust. This amused the riders; more so when her daughters began crying. Only the youngest refused to break down, a plain woman with languid dark eyes that hardened as she stared at Goth.
Tor could sense it coming though her power was weak. He felt her about to hurl it uselessly towards the Inquisitor when a calm voice spoke via a suddenly opened mindlink.
It’s no good, Marya. They are shielded well with archalyt. Go quietly and your sisters and mother will live. If you fight, he has the excuse he wants to kill you now along with your family.
The voice was firm but tender.
Tor was rocked. He looked wildly around. Who had spoken with this power? Before he could check himself he began following its magical scent, reaching out with his own senses, scrambling after a barely remaining trace…back to the old man. Tor locked on for just a moment and then, petrified at what he had done, snapped away. He was too late. Tor saw
the shock of discovery register on the stranger’s face. He looked away, back to Marya who was being forced to her knees in front of Goth’s horse. The retreat was not fast enough; the stranger was equally gifted at chasing a scent.
Physic Merkhud’s gaze burned into the side of the young scribe’s head…the intruder. Tor needed to escape. This was exquisitely dangerous. How could he have been so stupid after years of control? Although the exchange had occurred without note from the Inquisitors, Tor realised he was now indelibly marked by someone infinitely more subtle in the use of the Power Arts. Someone who could conceal the use of magic like he could.
‘Father, we must leave,’ he said and hurriedly bent to pick up his paperwork, nodding apologetically towards the Widow Ely. She only had eyes for the grisly scene unfolding in front of her.
Jhon Gynt grabbed his son’s arm. ‘Torkyn…he expects an audience for the bridling. I like it not either but we must remain for fear of stirring his anger.’
Tor looked over at Merkhud and this time their eyes locked. The surprise had still not left the old man’s face.
Goth had taken the opportunity to outline to the gathered how he had tracked the girl down, homing in on her magic and marvelled at her stupidity in using it so carelessly.
Finally he gave the command. ‘Bridle her!’
Marya became hysterical, struggling and scratching at the men who held her. She was sending strikes of
power at all her captors but, as Merkhud had warned, they and their horses were shielded by the mysterious archalyt, which reflected her power back at her.
Tor could not bear to watch her agony. Without further thought he cast a spike of his own power at her which stunned her temporarily. He could sense the old man’s horror at his audacity but refused to meet his eyes.
As the girl slumped to the ground, her mother cried out loudly to the heavens, begging the gods to unleash their wrath on the scum who would take her daughter.
Fortunately, Goth was too immersed in watching the dull leather bridle, studded with the same archalyt, being lifted from its sack to hear the mother’s scorn. Several of his men busied themselves with unnecessarily pinning down Marya’s limp body whilst another lifted her head. Rhus pulled the headpiece onto her face, slipping the metal bar between her teeth. Marya regained consciousness and began whimpering, her tongue pinned down painfully by the bar. They snapped the lock at the back and hammered the two pins firmly into place. Rough hands pulled her to her feet and ripped her clothes from her body. She stood unsteadily; naked, bridled and trembling, silenced by fear.
Many of the men from the village who knew her looked away, ashamed for the girl’s bared flesh and of themselves for not being able to protect their own.
Torkyn could feel himself losing control when the soothing voice entered his head again.
This is
not your time boy. Do not reveal yourself now
, it warned.
Once more Tor sensed the stranger’s eyes boring into him from across the street. He was so taken aback by the intrusion on his thoughts that the well of power within him temporarily subsided. As he watched, the village blacksmith was escorted to the humiliating scene. He carried a brand bearing the mark of a sentient: the hated star sign.
‘Now brand her as you’ve been instructed, blacksmith…or die.’
The smith knew Marya well. His only son, a serious lad, was very fond of the girl and had begun to talk of marriage. He could not move.
‘Do it!’ shrieked Goth, his high voice almost snapping with the tension.
He leapt down from his horse in a fury when the command was ignored for the second time, and pulled the smoking brand from the blacksmith’s limp grip.
‘Kill him,’ he said.
Rhus did not hesitate. He hacked off the smith’s head with such force it rolled down the street, coming to rest next to the mangled Boj. People began to scream. Goth barely paid any notice to the twitching, headless body from which the lifeblood gushed. Making sure two of his men were holding Marya firmly by the arms, Goth savagely pressed the smoking brand against each of her small breasts. As the smell of fresh blood mingled with that of smoking flesh, he finished his handiwork, pressing the brand between her legs.
Goth addressed his pale, shocked audience. ‘Another evil one, safely delivered. Now she’ll tempt men no more to spawn evil sentient bastards.’
Satisfied, he threw the brand aside and suggested to innkeeper Pawl that he and his men had acquired quite a thirst from this afternoon’s dusty ride. The trembling man gestured towards the door of his inn.
Marya’s wreck of a body was thrown into a waiting wagon by two of the riders. One by one the villagers ignored the risk and covered her with their own clothes, touching her tenderly and whispering promises to take care of her family. She heard none of them.
One of the village men picked up the smith’s head and reverently placed it on the chest of the pitiful, blood-drenched corpse, which was carried away quietly by his fellow folk.
No one bothered with Boj.
Tor knew he must get as far away from this harrowing scene as quickly as he could. Striding towards his father’s small wagon, he threw his belongings into the back and grabbed the reins. He dared not look at the old man. As soon as his father had climbed into the seat next to him, he guided Lady out of the village towards the safety of Flat Meadows several miles to the east.
Tor and Jhon Gynt shared not a word on the journey home.