Chapter 55 #2
Do not be a fool. Richard sighed. Those spears were likely quick enough to spill his guts. And the aftermath of Flint’s sleeping potion shrouded him still, slowing his steps and hazing his mind.
As they turned a corner past a grimy fountain, the captain spoke to the soldier on Richard’s left.
“Old Bartos was tearing his beard out last night. Said the king wants the bowman by week’s end or there’ll be three new heads on the gate. His among them.”
“Aye, well, Captain.” The soldier sniggered. “Bartos shouldn’t have lost the trail then.”
Richard’s brows rose. They still hunted for Kaelen?
“The instant we catch him, it’s a burning.” The captain gnashed his teeth. “The king wants an example made, he does. No surprise there—can’t be having people shooting down the prisoners before they finish screaming. Ruins half the fun!”
Richard grunted against the gag and widened his eyes at the captain. Let me speak.
The captain’s gaze turned shrewd. “Got some information, do you?”
Richard nodded frantically, and the captain halted the procession.
“Open his mouth.”
Hands fumbled at the knot behind Richard’s head, and the gag was wrenched free with a spill of saliva. Richard worked his jaw and ran a tongue over his split lip.
“Well?” The captain fondled the hilt of his spear. “This better be good.”
“It was me.”
The captain spluttered. “What?”
“The bowman,” Richard said. “On the inn’s sixth floor, third balcony from the left, three days ago at midday. I was chased into a dead end with ivy and managed to scale the wall.”
“Captain,” the soldier on his left stammered, “he—he knows about the dead end. They never put that on the poster, did they?”
“No, Mikel, they didn’t.” The captain raked his eyes over Richard’s face. “You’re telling me that you put an arrow through Pedron Holm.”
“Mercy killing,” Richard said pleasantly. “I had not anticipated such a large hunt afterwards, hence why I needed the ship.”
The captain tugged at his beard. “Well, fuck me sideways.”
“I would rather not,” Richard said.
That earned a startled bark of laughter from another soldier, who quietened as the captain glared.
“You a fool?” the captain snapped at Richard.
“A fool?” Richard could not help his affronted grimace. “I assure you, Captain. Though I am surrounded by fools, I am far from one myself—no matter what my kin says. Now, tell me. Will the king be there watching as I burn?”
“Uh…yes? He ain’t gonna want to miss it.”
“Excellent.” Richard smiled. “I should very much like to surprise him.”
The captain exchanged bemused glances with his companions before straightening.
“Boys.” He tightened his hand around Richard’s leash. “I do believe your captain’s about to get a promotion.”
“But, Captain.” The soldier on the right piped up. “We can’t be doing a burning today. The Ardenian envoy only entered the gates an hour ago.”
Richard’s heart leapt. Of course. The backup envoy.
The captain sniggered. “Aye. Aye, that’s right.
The Ardenians. King Marius will want a show, won’t he?
Something to put on for our foreign guests.
Show ‘em how Vexmara handles its murderers. Send a runner up to the fortress. Tell ‘em we’ve a great treat for the king and his guests.” He spat onto the cobbles. “Tell ‘em to ring the bells.”
* * *
People had already gathered by the time the soldiers brought Richard through the eastern arch.
They lugged him briskly through the crowd, not bothering to help whenever he stumbled.
One of the soldiers had blindfolded him, but had done so carelessly enough that Richard could see through the gaps along his cheekbones.
There was a sea of faces, teeth bared and fists in the air.
Richard’s eyes widened on spotting two girls on the square’s western border.
Jeya with Daisy on her shoulders. Near them was the whole circus troupe with their wagons.
They seemed to have been in the midst of leaving the fortress when the crowd blocked their progress.
Talia and Boris were trying to grab the triplets, who had taken seats atop a wagon, and Jeya was yelling at Master Clemens that she wanted to watch.
Richard sighed. Well, they were certainly in for a shock.
The guards dragged him up the steps to the dais and lashed his wrists wide along the horizontal bar. Richard tipped his head back to peer at the high balcony.
There was Marius, leaning against the railing with a wine goblet in hand. Octavia was on his left, hugging his arm and smiling coquettishly. And on his right—
Richard’s breath hitched.
Three figures in Ardenian red and gold stood in a stiff knot. Sir Joffrey, who watched the dais with a flat stare. Lord Malgrin, who was bowing low to Marius.
Lower, you old fraud, Richard thought, with a sudden absurd fondness. Let him think you grovel.
And at Malgrin’s elbow, with only her head poking above the balcony’s rail, was a hunched old woman with a walking stick. Lady Agnes squinted down at the dais with the same disdainful expression she wore when discussing a poorly written book.
It took all Richard had not to grin. By the gods, distance truly did make the heart grow fonder. Even Malgrin was a welcoming sight.
The herald’s voice boomed.
“BY THE WILL OF HIS MAJESTY KING MARIUS, ANTLERED LORD OF THE EASTERN COAST, FIRSTBORN OF THE LINE OF VEXMAR—”
A raucous cheer.
“—THE PRISONER NOW brOUGHT BEFORE YOU, HAVING THIS DAY CONFESSED OPENLY AND WITHOUT COMPULSION TO THE CRIME OF REGICIDAL INTENT, IN THAT HE DID LOOSE AN ARROW IN THE SOVEREIGN PRESENCE AND DID SLAY THE LAWFULLY CONDEMNED TRAITOR PEDRON HOLM, IN DEFIANCE OF HIS MAJESTY’S JUSTICE—”
The mob booed.
“—SHALL THIS DAY, IN THE SIGHT OF IGNATIOUS AND CROWN AND PEOPLE, BE PURIFIED BY THE SACRED FLAME, THAT HIS TREASONS BE BURNED FROM HIM AND HIS SOUL DELIVERED THUS UNTO JUDGEMENT.”
“Burn him!” A chant began. “Burn him! Burn him!”
A soldier with a jug stepped close. Oil splashed down across Richard’s front, soaking through his shirt and running down his thighs. A smaller jug was tipped over his head, and Richard blinked the slick off his lashes.
The same soldier—just a boy, really, with pimples on his cheeks—lowered a torch and set the flame to the kindling at Richard’s feet. The oil caught at once. Yellow bloomed from the base of the pyre, and as the flames climbed Richard’s calves, the horde cheered.
Richard felt no pain. Of course, he didn’t—only a mild prickle against his skin, akin to lying in the sun for too long. The phoenix’s blessing, as the siren had said.