deep burning pain, and he suspected his right eye was damaged beyond healing, little though that would
soon matter. The wood beneath his bleeding feet was dry and well-seasoned, promising a slow and
agonizing death.
The square between the Cabildo and the Cathedral had been dressed as if this were a saint's day. The
barricades were draped with colorful bunting, and the square was surrounded by torches. There was a
reviewing stand filled with the notable personages of Nouvelle-Orléans, and barricades behind which
were the folk of the city—proud Creoles and wealthy Frenchmen, burly Kaintocks, and haughty free
men of color, herded here in the dying of the day, all jammed together like sheep in a pen and hemmed
about by armed soldiers to keep them docile. They were not all the population of the city, but enough to
fill Cabildo Square as far as the eye could see, save for the small space between the Cathedral and the
stakes.
Men were tied to the stakes on either side of him. Their heads were covered with black hoods, though
Corday's head had been left bare. One was in a uniform that Corday did not recognize—he struggled
constantly and shouted, his voice muffled to unintelligibility by the hood.
The other wore the robes of a Prince of the Church, and stood quietly, though Corday could hear the
rhythm of his prayers. Even in his injured condition, facing horrible death, Corday felt a pang of deeper
grief. What was being done to him, some might say, was no more than justice for all the lives he had
taken in his career as an assassin. But for d'Charenton to burn a Bishop of God's Holy Church implied a
confidence on the Due's part that must have a basis in far more terrible pacts and abominations than
those Corday had witnessed.
There was a military band on the Cathedral steps behind him. Corday could hear them as they tuned.
From within a makeshift pen off to his right came outcries and prayers. Women's voices, more sacrifices
to d'Charenton's endless bloodlust. Even knowing how he was to die, Corday suddenly wished it would
be over with now. He did not wish to see what he knew he would see here tonight before he died.
He could not even pray. Somehow he felt he had lost the right. All he could think of was that this thing
was not right, that it should not be. He faced death and probable damnation, and all Corday could find in
himself to wish for was that in his life he had been kinder and not so clever…
The flickering of moving torches caught his attention, and he turned to look. D'Charenton was coming out
from the Cabildo, flanked by six soldiers of his personal guard, wearing black and scarlet livery and
carrying muskets. Behind him, Mam'selle McCarty walked proudly, all dressed in white lace and
crowned in flowers. She carried a Bible in her hands, like a child going to her Confirmation.
D'Charenton himself was wearing a mockery of priest's robes, and for a moment Corday was filled with
hope. Surely
this
would be enough to make the spectators rise up in protest. The soldiers could not kill
them all if they chose to riot. They could save the innocents that were to die tonight. They could save
themselves.
But no one moved.
What is wrong with everyone
? Corday thought in despair. Couldn't they see what was going to
happen? Didn't they care?
He tried to shout at them, to rally them to fight, but his voice came out in a cracked whisper, and the
band began to play, drowning him out. It was playing the "Marseillaise," the anthem of Revolutionary
France. Some of the onlookers began to cheer, and in his frantic despair, Corday felt the ghostly bream
of King Mob wash over his skin. A mob was nothing more than a murderous animal, and d'Charenton
would do his best to call that spirit into these good, frightened, confused men.
The music came to an end, and d'Charenton stepped forward to address the spectators, his silver hair
making him look like a benign old priest. Behind him, one of the soldiers escorted Mam'selle McCarty to
a chair of honor among the dignitaries in the stands, where the child would have a good view of the
horrors that were to come.
"People of Nouvelle-Orléans!" d'Charenton cried in a huge voice. "Tonight you are privileged to witness
a blessed birth. Tonight, Nouvelle-Orléans shall be reborn from the ashes of suspicion and doubt into a
new and shining paradise, purged of all infirmity!"
He raised his hand in a signal, and now Corday heard the booming of drums—voudou drums, their
rhythm calling the Gods, the Voudou Magnian, who lived both in the world and in the human heart.
Corday felt a flash of painful pity for the musicians who had been broken so far as to profane their art for
d'Charenton, but he did not blame them. He blamed none of d'Charenton's victims save himself. How
could he have gambled with so many lives, knowing what he knew?
The stockade door opened, and the first of the victims was led out—a girl of perhaps fifteen, her eyes
white with terror. D'Charenton held out his hand, and the captain of his guard placed a long knife into it.
The blade flashed silver in the torchlight. Corday screamed, and could not even hear himself. He closed
his good eye. In his self-imposed darkness, he heard the spectators cry out at last, but mingled with the
sounds of disbelief and anger was a curious anticipation.
"Something's wrong," Koscuisko announced in a whisper, coming to a stop. A moment later, sound filled
the air: drumming.
Wessex recognized it as the same cadence he had heard in the bayou when he had stumbled upon the
voudou ceremony, just before Annie Christmas had knocked him unconscious.
"Ceremonial drums. Corday said that d'Charenton was experimenting with the local witchcraft," Wessex
said.
In answer, Koscuisko pointed.
Between the buildings just ahead, a faint wash of light could be seen.
Torches in Cabildo Square.
And beneath the dramming, the sound of screams.
The roaring of a crowd followed the sound of the drums, blending with it and deepening its thunder. The
rhythm of the distant cheers set Wessex's teeth on edge, and after a moment he recognized why. So had
the mob which gathered to watch Madame Guillotine do her bloody work cheered each execution.
To the devil with circumspection. Such an audience would have eyes for nothing but the bloodshed
before it. Wessex began to run toward Cabildo Square. Koscuisko, running after, grabbed him just as he
reached the front of the Theatre d'Orléans which stood behind the Arsenal.
"No!" Koscuisko said urgently, yanking him back into the shadows.
Wessex blinked, shaking off the furious spell of memories called up by the drums and the cheering. It was
foolish of him to think he could stop the executions. As always, he must let innocents die to save himself.
"It seems," he said, his voice tight with anger, "that d'Charenton has moved his timetable forward. I
expect I had best to kill him now."
"You can't get to him," Koscuisko said. He was stripping off his soutane—there was no point now in the
disguise. Beneath it he wore a dark knit shirt and breeches.
"Perhaps not," Wessex answered, looking about himself. He smiled with savage triumph, seeing a path to
his enemy. "But the show must go on, don't you think?"
Sarah and Meriel reached the edge of the city just after full dark. There would be no moon tonight, and
Sarah had hoped for a lantern to guide her way, but the city was dark save for a glow upon the horizon
as if some great bonfire burned somewhere within. The land about the city was still, unnaturally so—no
dogs barked, no owls called.
"You see before you the end of all we are, Daughter of Kings."
Sarah turned toward the voice, swinging up her rifle in alarm. Meriel was nowhere to be seen. The sky
shone moon-silver, bright with an impossible light, and the world was even more still and silent than a
moment ago. Before her stood the Elderkin who had come to her upon the banks of Moonmere. Always
before she had seen him clearly, yet this time, though the light was bright, somehow she could not look at
him directly. Each time she tried, his form seemed to slide away, until he was only a flicker at the edge of
her vision.
"I'm sorry," Sarah said, still not understanding. "I did all I could. And I will continue to do all I can."
"After tonight, the path of What Will Be is set. This land will no longer be a refuge for our kind. We must
flee from Man's cities until at last we have no more foothold here.
"But do not despair, Daughter of Kings. We have departed from worlds before, and when it is time to go
beyond the mountains to a new land we will go. Yet we will never leave you entirely, just as Land will
never part from Land. And this last gift I give you."
He reached up to touch her between the eyes. Sarah recoiled, startled, and once more felt the rush of
breeze and the gentle sounds of the river. All around her, objects appeared as sharp and clear as if they
were well-lit, though the darkness was still as thick as before. Meriel was still gazing toward the city, as if
she had noticed nothing.
Perhaps she has not
, Sarah thought.
Perhaps the magic of that cup shields her from the Elderkin's
magic. Was that what he meant? Is that what will drive his folk from the world
?
She did not know, any more than she knew what quixotic gallantry had moved him to bestow upon her
the faery-sight that turned darkness into day and would make her journey into the city so much easier.
She did not trust what she didn't understand.
"We'll wait till morning," Sarah decided aloud. "I don't like this at all."
"No," Meriel said. She dropped her cloak and was shrugging the straps of the basket off her shoulders.
"We must go now. It is already nearly too late."
"Too late for what?" Sarah demanded in exasperation, but the words died in her throat.
The cup was glowing.
Meriel cradled it reverently, one hand cupping its base, one steadying its stem. The cup gleamed all over
with a soft golden light, as though it were lit from within, its gold as transparent as glass, or as if sunlight
from somewhere fell upon it alone.
It is bright enough to cast shadows
, Sarah thought numbly, looking down at the ground.
"We must go now," Meriel repeated. "Please, Sarah. Help me. Trust me."
Everybody wishes for me to trust them, and no one will explain
! Sarah thought indignantly, but
Meriel had begun walking toward the city without waiting for an answer, holding the cup before her like a
lamp.
Sarah shook her head. This was madness, and foolhardy besides. But she slung her rifle off her shoulder,
checked that her ammunition was ready to hand, and followed Meriel past the first of the outlying houses.
It was as if they walked through a city of ghosts—as if a city were a living thing, and this one a corpse of
a city. All the buildings they passed were deserted. Some were boarded up, others had open doors and
broken windows, but a terrible sense of
absence
seemed to radiate from every structure, as though
inanimate wood and stone could suffer bereavement.
Sarah would gladly have fled if she could have managed to take Meriel with her. This was a city like the
ones in her vision, and she wanted nothing to do with it. But Meriel walked on, neither looking to the left
or right, and so Sarah followed, dreading each step she took. There were houses all around
them—outlined in the light of whatever fire lay beyond—and Sarah had begun to assume that all the
thousands of people who lived here were somehow gone, when they rounded a corner and saw two
French soldiers patrolling, one carrying a lantern, the other with his rifle at the ready.
The soldiers stared at them in disbelief for a long moment, and Sarah thought at last perhaps she would
receive an explanation of what was going on here. But then the one with the lantern struck his companion
minatorily, and the other raised his rifle.
They aren't even going to arrest us
! Sarah thought indignantly. Without thought, she raised her own
rifle and fired. The rifleman fell backward, bowling his companion over and breaking the lantern. The
spilled oil ignited in a brief puff of flame, then guttered out.
Quickly Sarah dropped to one knee to reload, remembering just in time that this rifle loaded at the
breech and not the barrel. She worked the slide and charged the gun quickly, wishing with some
uninvolved part of her mind that Meriel would not stand so close with the light she held. The other soldier
could see her too clearly.
But he did not fire. He dragged himself out from beneath the body of his dead companion and fled.
Sarah watched after him until the sound of his running footsteps died away, then looked at Meriel,
puzzled. But no explanation was forthcoming.
"At least we can stay away from the fire," Sarah said, to break the silence. "I wouldn't like to know what
they're burning there, after a welcome like this."
"I'm sorry, Sarah," Meriel said apologetically, "but that is where the Cathedral is. And I must go there."
The cup in Meriel's hands burned ever brighter the closer they came to their destination, until both
women walked within a bell of golden light. It was as if the waves of a monstrous ocean of night beat
against the fragile protection of the light, and Sarah had a sudden intuition that without that protection