SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows) (11 page)

Mabbina
’s baleful eye fell upon them, and Michael swallowed hard. “Pol isn’t feeling well, Nanna,” he said. “I think the crowd is making it worse.” It certainly was for him. “May I take him—?”

“
No,” she snapped, but she seemed more irritated than anything else. “Just mind him. It’s too chaotic to leave now, and you’ll only get lost in any case.” She looked directly at Michael, her frown deepening, and added, “Besides,
you
need to see this most of all.”

This caught Pol
’s attention at last, and he turned a savage glare on the woman who took an involuntary step back.

“
Behave,” she said after a hesitation, then she turned away and stared determinedly toward the platform.

A man stepped forward, away from the rest of the highborns, and began to speak.
His voice carried over the crowd as if he were used to addressing throngs.

“
That’s the Duke of Reyahl,” Jiin breathed, deeply impressed, and Michael could see why. The queen’s nephew commanded the entire military and, most said, all but ran the country himself. Most people were more afraid of his power than the queen’s, and, if the tales were true, with good reason. No one ever defeated the duke.

As the duke spoke, a
n older man was led out, chains binding his arms and legs. The guards shoved and dragged him to the post, but he didn’t seem to have the strength to help or hinder them. He leaned against the post almost as if he were happy to have it there to support him. He’d been cleaned up, but Michael was close enough to see he’d been beaten, probably more than once.

He couldn
’t take his eyes off the man who was so soon to die so horribly. He thought he would have been much more afraid—crying or fighting the chains or something—but this man seemed resigned.
Or maybe he’s too bad off to realize what’s happening.

The jailors retreated, closing the gap in the brush which had allowed them to reach the pillar, and the executioner stepped forward
, holding aloft a torch. Michael hadn’t heard a word the duke had said up to now, too focused on the victim, but he heard the last words as sentence was pronounced.

“
...mercy of Vail, this man shall be executed by fire. May the fire purify his soul of all evil so that Vail Herself will welcome him into Her Country.”

And with that, the executioner lowered the torch and lit the brush.
Slowly, he walked the circumference of the pyre, lighting the brush at regular intervals, until the convicted man was hidden behind a wall of fire. The sweet smell of burning brush jarred against Michael’s understanding of what was to follow.

T
he fire started well away from the victim, and this seemed to Michael impossibly cruel—
as if killing someone this way isn’t cruel enough already
!

How can Vail be loving or kind if She wants people to die like this
?
He knew this thought probably was very heretical, but he didn’t care.
He’s going to burn anyway—why does he have to watch and wait for the fire to reach him?
Why couldn’t they set fire to his clothes and get it over with as quickly as possible?

That would be some sort of mercy...compared to this.

Pol stood beside him, still clutching his arm. His friend shook with fear and rage combined so thoroughly they made a single, indelible emotion.

Michael
could barely breathe. He and Pol were locked into their own experience of the execution while everyone around them seemed to be enjoying it—cheering and throwing things into the fire to watch them burn up.

I can
’t be sick, can’t be weak, have to be strong for Pol.

But when the fire reached
its victim at last, Michael couldn’t block out the agony radiating from the man, hotter than the fire itself. He bit down hard, locking his jaw to keep from screaming, and tasted blood. Pol’s fingers squeezed bruises into his arm as the man’s screams sounded over the roar of the crowd and noise of the fire. The thick, choking odor of burning flesh filled his nose and mouth and throat, and he wanted to vomit.

Through
it all, Michael saw Mabbina watching him, and a fleeting prayer ran through his mind just before the man’s death hit him. Somehow, he managed not to faint or scream or do anything to give himself away. He still wanted to be sick, but Pol beat him to that, and he thanked Vail for the distraction tending his friend gave him. This distracted Mabbina, too, who seemed to fear not some telltale sign of heresy in her charge but that he may have, after all, contracted some illness.

They were all hurried back to the orphanage, thoughts of the promised treat forgotten, and
Michael hoped the distraction would make her also forget his own behavior.

Staring out h
is window much later that night, Cyra cuddled comfortingly in his lap, he admitted to himself that he was probably not going to be that lucky.
She already suspected before we even left JhaPel. She already thinks I’m bad.

Memories of the pyre ran through his mind
, and he shuddered again, sick with fear, and knew he would do anything to avoid meeting such a fate.

# # #

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jarlyth Denara stood in the corridor outside the royal courtroom, unable to endure witnessing what was going on inside its walls.

It had taken
almost two years, but he and the small band of soldiers he had gathered to his cause as a sort of “prince’s guard” had finally run to ground the remnant of the mercenary gang responsible for the abduction of Prince Nylan and his own near-murder that horrible morning.

They claimed to have been ripped apart and tortured by the Voyavel Curse
—a further, silent witness to their guilt—and though a mere handful survived to tell the tale, they seemed almost relieved to have been captured at last.

They
’d told Jarlyth blood-chilling tales of mischance, mayhem, and disaster steadily winnowing their numbers, and all seemed sure the curse was to blame. The highest-ranking survivor swore as much to any who would listen.

“
The captain said the prince’d called down the curse. Chlena’s fault—if he’d not touched the boy, like we could’a dropped him an’ run afore he thought to damn us.”

Seeing as how they
’d dared do anything at all to the boy he’d raised since birth, Jarlyth had no pity to spare them. He’d heard all their vile tales and excuses before anyone else had learned about the monstrous things they’d done to the prince. He couldn’t stand to hear them admit those atrocities again.

Beside him, dressed in her Templar
apprentice’s garb, stood the ever-faithful Flannery Llorka. Fifteen years old but as steady and brave as any of his veterans—and she’d never wavered in her support.
But she was there when he was born, too. Maybe that makes a difference—to have seen that moment.

In spite of the fact that, as the prince
’s warder, Jarlyth had a mystical, goddess-blessed connection to Nylan which enabled him to know as surely as he knew anything that the boy was still alive, nearly everyone believed Nylan was dead. They believed Jarlyth’s surety came from guilt over his failure to save the boy. Even those who had helped Jarlyth on his “mad” quest didn’t really believe the prince was alive; they simply believed such a crime could not go unpunished.

Even Mother
and Father look at me with pity.
But Flannery believed, and she stood beside him, keeping him company now. He was glad to have her there. It was tiring being constantly surrounded by those who looked on him as a foolish, broken man, lost in denial.

“
Milord?” Flannery said, her voice hesitant and worried. “Jary?”

“
Yes?” His voice was toneless, but he looked up to meet her eyes.

“
They’re calling for you, Jary.” She pointed down the corridor toward the massive door that now stood half-open. Evander Mercatia—one of the “prince’s guard”—was peering around the door at him, waiting while Flannery redirected his attention. He nodded his thanks to her and went to Evander.

“
The king requests you return to the courtroom, milord,” the man said. “I’m sorry.” The last he said in a low voice, and Jarlyth almost smiled. Evander knew.

It had taken Jarlyth far too many precious moons to recover from his long death
-sleep. He’d had to rebuild atrophied muscles and learn to walk all over again. Then more time had been wasted as he’d had to retrain his body in the martial skills he’d once thought were written into his bones. All the days and moons lost that he could not afford to lose. So much time passing while Nylan awaited a rescue that failed to come.

Evander had served Jarlyth
as loyally as any of them, chasing down every fruitless lead until, at last...

And now here they were.

“Have they finished?” Jarlyth asked, though it didn’t matter if they had. He couldn’t disobey a royal request.

“
Yes, milord. They’re finished.” Jarlyth guessed Evander hadn’t used that last word without intending its double meaning.

So, it
will be a hanging after all.
Or perhaps something much more gruesome? Jarlyth had wanted this end from the moment he’d known Nylan was gone, but now he didn’t see what the point of such a thing could be.

“
Milord?” Evander prompted. Jarlyth inhaled and straightened up to a more soldierly posture then blew out his breath and nodded for Evander to lead on.

#

Michael had read about the world changing overnight, and sometimes adults would say something similar about some great event—usually in regard to the war in general or referring to some bloody battle just written-up in the
Sentinel
—but he’d never really thought about what such a phrase meant.

It was not, after all, overnight that his world changed, though it was very fast, indeed.
It snuck up on him, bit by bit, until the last few changes that completely altered his life seemed to occur all at once. Overnight.

He didn
’t know how to accept so much change, but he tried not to show how much it upset him, and he made certain to hide his anger and resentment. None of that would do him any good. The world had changed, after all. His world had changed. There didn’t seem to be any way to go back to what it had been before.

Michael
sensed Pol’s approach but didn’t turn his attention toward his friend’s arrival. Since the pyre, he’d become even more careful not to do anything out of the ordinary.

When Pol drew near enough for a normal person to have noticed,
Michael smiled at him. He straightened up from where he’d been scrubbing the entrance hall’s enormous tiled floor and dropped his brush into the bucket for a moment.

“
I’ve almost finished,” he said, a little out-of-breath. “Is it time for evening meal already?”

Pol had come to a stop a little distance from him and shifted from foot to foot, nervous about something.
“Not yet. I have something to tell you, and it couldn’t wait.”

It took
Michael a moment to stand up, so cramped were his legs from kneeling on the wet, cold floor for hours. His shoulders ached, and his hand felt stuck in its scrubbing shape. But he shook the loose strands of his long, black hair out of his face, his smile fading a bit as he looked up at his friend. Even when he stood up, the top of his head just reached Pol’s chin.

“
What’s happened? You’re all...I don’t know. Funny.”

“
And you have a smudge on your nose,” Pol retorted.

Michael
’s hand flew up to cover then rub at the alleged smudge. “It itched!”

“
I’m not all funny!”

“
Tell me!” Michael insisted. “I have to finish, or I’ll be late for evening meal, and then I’ll get in more trouble, and then I’ll never be done scrubbing floors! And you know Nanna Mabbina won’t save anything for me.”

Pol
’s annoyance flared, and his hatred for Abbess Ethene’s first assistant seemed so strong to Michael that he wondered how anyone could be ignorant of it. But Pol controlled himself, his excitement overpowering his anger.

“
My uncle’s come back, and he’s staying this time. He’s part-owner of the Red Boar Inn, and he’s arranged for me to go live there and be apprenticed to his stable master!”

Michael
’s eyes widened in dismay but he forced the smile to stay on his face and breathed, “That’s wonderful news, Pol. You’ll have a family again.” It was what Pol had always wanted—all of it.

Overnight...

“He’s promised before every one of his last three voyages that it would be his last, but then he’s changed his mind. But this time he means it! He says between the fever and the fighting, Vail doesn’t have to hit him over the head a third time.”

Michael
cast a wincing glance around the hall, wondering if Pol’s words could be counted as blasphemy, but nothing happened.

“
Mabbina’s got you so jumpy, Michael. I didn’t say anything wrong.”

“
Nanna
Mabbina,” Michael corrected. “You know how she is about that.”

“
Michael, would you relax?”

Michael
gave Pol a quick hug. “I’m so happy for you. But you’d better go—”

“
Hold on!” Pol protested. He pushed Michael away playfully, laughing. “I’m not done yet.”

“
What?” Michael wanted him to leave so he could start feeling properly sorry for himself, but he didn’t want to steal the smile from Pol’s face just because
he
wasn’t happy about the news for himself.

Pol grinned.
“I asked him about you.”

“
About me?” Michael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“
Yes! I want you to come live with us, too.”

The words rang in
Michael’s ears, too beautiful to be believed.

Pol
’s gaze shifted away, though, as he continued. “But he said not right away.”

Michael
tried not to let his face fall and held his breath to keep himself from demanding to know why Pol had even told him if it was all pointless.

Pol rushed on.
“He said there’s so much going on, and he doesn’t have things settled yet, but as soon as we do, he’s going to file the papers. He said you could be his clerk or something. He’d figure it out, he said. And we’ll be together!”

Michael
stood frozen for a long moment before launching himself at Pol again, hugging him. “That would be great, Pol. I would love that.”

“
Get you out of here, away from that old bag Mabbina—”

“
Shh!” Michael hissed.

But Pol continued, his grin turning impudent
as they stepped away from each other once more. “Room of your own, right? Just like you’ve always wanted.”

Michael
grinned back this time. “That would be really great,” he said. “But go on, now, or I really will be late.”

“
All right. I’ll save your seat,” Pol called as he disappeared around the corner. Michael listened as his footsteps faded down the corridor leading back to the main part of the building.
Away from here.

Yesterday he
’d scrubbed the corridor’s floor. Today he scrubbed the entrance hall floor. Tomorrow he’d be doing something equally unpleasant and exhausting and isolated. Even if he didn’t do anything to deserve it, Mabbina would figure out some way to justify it.
As if she even has to.

Michael
hoped Pol’s uncle hadn’t been putting him off, lying to him to keep him from asking.
I won’t hope too much. I won’t expect it.
He’d be apprenticed soon enough, anyway. Even if it didn’t work out to go live with Pol, he should be getting out of JhaPel in a few moons.

He
knelt back down to finish the last part of the floor that still needed scrubbing, almost laughing when he remembered how jealously he’d guarded his free time before and how often he’d turned down his friends’ pleas to join them just so he could be alone for a little while. He rarely had the luxury of turning anything down
or
joining in anything anymore.
I was mean about it, too, acting like I was special.
Pol would look hurt while trying to hide it, and Michael had pretended he didn’t notice sometimes.
Selfish...but he’s still trying to protect me.

Mabbina had been
in charge ever since Abbess Ethene caught fever from helping out at Landsend during the epidemic. Ethene hadn’t been the same since, and she only seemed to get worse as time passed. Where he was used to talking to her every day before, it had been over a moon since Michael had last even seen her. When the nannas talked about her now, it was always in hushed, worried tones.

He hadn
’t spent very much time before Ethene’s illness doing the heavy chores. Mostly, he’d been assigned to garden or scullery duty. He’d have given up morning meals for an entire moon if he could’ve gone back to working in the gardens. He’d even have welcomed mucking out the stables or washing the endless piles of dishes that stacked up in the scullery, but instead, Mabbina found fault with him and assigned him solitary scrubbings, sweepings, dustings, and polishings in the echoing halls, corridors, and little-used great rooms of the orphanage’s web of interconnected buildings.

In spite of his obvious talent for gardening
—something that, unlike his arts skills, even Mabbina couldn’t deny was of practical value in the real world—once Mabbina had taken over in Ethene’s stead, keeping Michael apart from the other children as much as possible seemed to be more of a priority for her.

Michael
sighed again and looked around the hall once more as he stood up, having finished scrubbing the floor. He still had to haul in clean water to give it a final rinsing. Leaving the scrub brush on the floor, he picked up the bucket and walked toward the enormous front door. Mabbina had left the key in the lock so that he could use the pump just outside the orphanage’s front gate instead of having to go to the other end of the compound for water.