Stonewiser

One

 

S
ARIAH WAS WITH
her pupils when the executioners came. They arrived on her deck without warning or fanfare, slipping in through the door one after the other, until twelve of them crammed her stonewiser's deck. Twelve. They had been warned about her. They took care to block the door and windows before they stripped the dark mantles they wore to conceal their garb. The sight of their red robes was worse than a rotfish fang to her gut. Dread squelched all of the day's promises and numbed Sariah to death's bold announcement.

A bulky fellow with a face as cracked as the mud flats stepped forward. “Stonewiser, you are called to the nets.”

It was a measure of the fear Sariah inspired that the voice of the grizzled veteran shook faintly when he addressed her.

She called on her practiced discipline to avoid the man's pitfall. “Has it been decided?”

His smile was just another crevice on his weathered face. “We raced to beat the messengers. You die tomorrow at sunrise. Don't worry. We'll make great good of your death.”

Tomorrow. She chided herself for sending her guard away to aid with the blood month's butchering. At the time, it had seemed like the fair decision. Every able hand was needed and no word about her fate had been expected until next year. Besides, she couldn't very well keep the runners around when she intended a brief private foray of her own. She eyed the bag she had packed the night before. Her little journey would have to wait now.

Young Mia stood up, considering the executioners with the leery stare of a stalking cat. With a muted swoosh, a dozen swords rushed out of the executioners' sheaths and aimed at the girl. Perhaps they had heard about Mia as well. The little girl's freckled face darkened with the power gathering in her. Her sparkling blue and green eyes queried Sariah, pleading for permission. Such great insight in a twelve-year-old. Such great power and sorrow.

Restraint was the only guard against useless death at the moment. Keeping her eyes on the executioners and moving slowly to avoid startling them, Sariah inched closer to the girl, speaking softly. “Not now, Mianina. Remember, a deck can't withstand your flow. And you can't punish good people for doing their jobs.”

The executioners' dangerous mood eased a bit, but Mia was still on edge. Sariah loathed what she had done to the child, what she'd had to do. She pressed her palms on Mia's bony shoulders, closed her eyes and thought of the Barren Flats at dawn. It took a moment, but her determination to avoid disaster lent her the strength to concentrate.
Calm
. She infused Mia with as much of it as she could muster.
Peacefulness
. She tried to quench the anger rumbling in her creation's little body. She sensed Mia rally around the kinder emotions.

“That should last you a while, Mianina. Take the other children and go home.”

Blond spiraling curls tickled Sariah's nose when she planted a kiss on the top of Mia's head. The girl didn't want to go, but she did, leading the other children out of Sariah's deck, dripping a little black flow from her palms, but only a little. Sariah was proud of her.

The executioners allowed the children to pass without trouble. It had been nice, this little hiatus in her life, these few months of exploration and study. But she was a child of the Guild and knew better. Fate couldn't be escaped or skipped. Trespasses always caught up with the guilty. The executioners had found her. Now she had to find a way to thwart the Domain's justice and deny fair men their rightful dues.

“May I change?” she asked on the odd chance she might yet gain an advantage or two.

“You come as you are,” the chief executioner said. “You need nothing fancy to die. Search her.” He motioned with his head to one of the others. “Be careful.”

The other man hesitated before approaching. He patted her down with exaggerated care. He took her knife and the sling she wore at her belt. He found the other knife she kept tucked in the back of her boot and emptied her pockets of the assorted stones she liked to carry with her. The little pouch she wore tied as a garter around her thigh tripped his fingers. He rolled it down her leg and over her boot, and then shook three small stones out of the pouch. Guild-raised and owned, she lived safely in Ars, but even here, she hadn't been able to shed her wariness.

The executioner unhooked the leather string and removed her memory stone from her neck. He added it to the little pile growing on the floor. He handled the stones as if they were scalding hot, as if they were capable of singeing his soul. “Will they—?”