Chapter 59
LIX
I was surprisingly calm during the journey. They had tied me backward in the saddle so I would not easily be able to ride away, even if I managed to free myself.
The soldiers around me were in high spirits discussing what violent demise might be in store for me.
They seemed to be good friends and their banter was lively and engaging.
Would I be burned in the traditional way?
Or dragged behind a horse and drowned in the sea?
Perhaps the bishop would have me closed inside a barrel of caltrops and rolled down the mountainside?
Was a crucifixion out of the question? I gathered this expedition had turned out to be far more exciting than their usual duties.
The men were also unfortunately quite alert, and my bonds were very secure. Escape was unlikely.
Sarmodel? Any suggestions?
I could feel him thinking briefly. The barrel, if it were up to me.
Please, I need your help or we’re both going to die.
It’s hardly our first witch trial. You must know the script by now.
I think somehow this one might be different, and they have witnesses—that always makes it harder. Plus . . . well, my options are limited with this damned thing around my wrists.
True. And how did that get there?
I know. My fault. Again.
The Choking Braid was like a fist in my throat.
If I even began to formulate a spell, my tongue caught and my gullet swelled shut.
Sarmodel was likewise closed off from me, as though someone had dammed up my anima.
I stopped trying after the third time; whoever had crafted the chains knew what they were doing.
I would need to wait for Antoine to speak the words to release me.
Can you help at all? I asked.
Let’s see.
Gradually, gradually, like collecting the dew, Sarmodel was able to gather enough energy to brighten my vision and ease my discomfort a little, without provoking the Braid.
Thank you, my love.
It’s not much, but it will have to do for now, said my Guest grudgingly.
I was distracted by thoughts of Antoine. Our conversation at the ruins of the Bow and Brace disturbed me. It was hard to see him as he was now; hard and suspicious, clinging to the only faith he trusted. I found I couldn’t hate him, even if he had called for my death.
Antoine, Cecile, Dayane, Michael—this new trouble had brought them all into my path again, and there was unfinished business everywhere I looked.
Antoine’s terrible bargain with Dayane. The Beast. The curse of the ancient Spirit Avstamet, driving his violent madness across the land.
And driving Jacques to unspeakable acts with a hunger that was only growing.
Now Antoine had made a new bargain, with the Bishop of Mende and Archangel Michael himself, and this time it was my life to be taken in payment. There was, I could admit, something quite poetic about it.
We passed several groups of villagers on the road, all on foot and all heading toward Saint-Julien as we were.
They exchanged frightened glances as we left them behind, clearly unnerved at the sight of our armed and mounted company.
None of the others in our retinue seemed to pay them any attention; they were just peasants on the road.
But after the third such group, it began to bother me.
Another half dozen men, walking the road together at night. Why are there so many of them? I wondered to Sarmodel.
Probably for safety, my love. I understand there have been some animal attacks in the area.
My misgivings grew as we went through Saint-Julien’s main square. The fountain gurgled across from the gallows, now creaking drowsily with the weight of a half dozen freshly hanged bodies. Coraxes were clustered all over the corpses like engorged ticks.
I wondered briefly at the sudden spree of executions.
But then I remembered the chaos of the square earlier that morning—had it really been less than a day?
—and the coarse laughter that had followed us as we fled.
The bishop had clearly returned to answer his humiliation, in the most brutal terms. Now it was the soldiers of Mende who laughed as their lanterns revealed the swollen tongues and purple faces of the victims.
My captors remarked on the sport they had made of chasing down the villagers.
From what I could gather, the unfortunates hanging from the beam were those who had helped themselves to the bishop’s fallen jewelry.
They had been singled out by their fellow villagers with the use of torture, and each was marked for their crime before they died.
A finger was pulled off for every golden link found in their possession, and an eye spooned out for any precious gems. The men bragged that all the missing pieces had been recovered before noon.
An optimal result, I remarked uneasily to Sarmodel.
We headed up the high road toward the chateau. From my rear-facing position, and with Sarmodel’s assistance, I had ample opportunity to observe the panorama as we ascended.
There was movement all around the benighted village. I had a magnificent view of the surrounding countryside, and everywhere I saw them—little groups of people, traveling by night. They were all on foot, and they were all heading toward Saint-Julien.
My captors were absorbed in conversation and blinded by the light of their own lamps; they had noticed nothing. I contemplated drawing their attention to the strange crowd converging on the town behind them, perhaps as a diversion.
But there was no point.
The soldiers of Mende would see nothing because there were no lights in Saint-Julien. No windows were lit, and no lamps illuminated the streets.
And of all the dozens of people making their way into the village, not one of them carried a lantern.
1. The Angelic Host are all shameless gloaters. I suppose it’s hard to be gracious when Divine supremacy is your raison d’être.