He was in a boat.
Andras could tell that much from the way the ground rocked and shifted beneath him, the salt on the wind that kissed his face. He couldn’t tell much else, though. The knights had blindfolded him when they dragged him out of his cell-one more indignity, after the chains and the ridiculous metal mask they’d strapped over his mouth. They’d escorted him down hallway, stair, and street for what had seemed like hours. Now they were stopped, and grunting sounds told him that men-or minotaurs, from the stink-were rowing away from the city’s jetties.
He grimaced, musing on the prospect of jumping overboard. Lattakay had a deep harbor, and his shackles were heavy. He would sink fast. Unfortunately, the knights had thought of that, too. Testing his chains, Andras found they had bolted him in place.
Nothing to do, then, but wait and count the oarstrokes.
“How fast do you think he’ll go up?” one of the nearby knights asked another. “I’ve got twenty falcons the bastard’ll be dead before a hundred-count, with those bloody robes he’s wearing.”
“You’re on, Marto,” said someone else. “Maybe, if the flames aren’t controlled. They’ll be low enough at the start, though, that he’ll have some time to beg for mercy first-or would, if it weren’t for the Tasabo … ”
They hadn’t taken the mask off in three days, giving him water to drink and broth to eat through a slit in the metal. It made his jaw ache and robbed him of the ability to do anything more than grunt. He knew they wouldn’t ever remove it while he was alive. That was smart of them.
It was just as well, though. The mask kept him from touching his face. The feel of smooth skin, where cracks and blisters once had ravaged it, made him physically ill. So did every itch, every twinge that came from the finger that had sprouted, fully formed, from his stump. Every sacrifice he had made for the magic seemed gone-healed, by the Lightbringer’s loathsome miracle touch. His burned face had been his mark of passage, the price he’d paid to work the Art. Now, save for his torn, dirty robes, he looked just like a common man.
Or a knight, he thought, choking back a chuckle.
A bump jarred him, and they stopped moving. The boat had come to a halt. He could hear mail jingling around him as the knights got up from their seats. He started to rise too, but someone yanked on his chains, making him stumble. The knights laughed as he banged his shins against the gunwale. Cursing, he climbed out, onto a dock.
The time had come. He could hear the clamor of the crowds, sense the tension. He’d impaled himself on another man’s sword to avoid this, but-by Paladine’s mercy, he thought wryly-it was going to happen anyway. All these years, after witnessing Nusendran’s fate, he’d lived in terror of the stake. Now that it was inevitable, he found his fear was no longer so overpowering.
Hands grabbed him, shoved him. He nearly fell again, righted himself, and began to stumble forward. As he went, still blindfolded, to meet his doom, only one thought circled in his mind.
Fistandantilus, where are you?
“Sweet Lunitari,” Leciane breathed, staring across the Bilstibo. “There are more of them out there than there were for the tourney.”
Cathan raised his eyebrows, following her gaze. The benches of the stands were packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, all jostling and craning for a better view of the sands below. They stood in the aisles and perched on the walls, where black banners had replaced the usual, colorful flags. Where they had cheered and stamped their feet for the Divine Hammer-had it really been almost a fortnight since that awful day? — now they jeered and hissed, forking their fingers against evil. Some had daubed their faces with paste made from ashes, drawing the sacred triangle or the burning hammer.
“Fupolo!” they shouted. “Bulmud, malscrono!”
Devil! Death to the sorcerer!
The stake stood in the center of the arena. It was tall and stout, cut from a great ironwood tree and capped by the imperial falcon and triangle in silver. More wood, soaked in holy oil, lay in a heap about its base. Armored knights, the survivors of the slaughter, ringed it around. In their hands they held blazing torches, the flames making their armor gleam like red gold. Priests of Paladine walked among them, swinging thuribles of incense and chanting purification prayers.
It was a sight Cathan had seen before, more times than he could count. He’d cut down a forest’s worth of stakes, it seemed. Today, though, everything about it was grander. Leciane was right: More people had come to watch Andras die than to watch the Hammer fight. He frowned, unsure whether that thought should trouble him.
“You can see why His Holiness couldn’t grant mercy,” he noted. “The people need to see evil punished, particularly today.”
Leciane scowled. For three days now she had pleaded with the Kingpriest, begging him to spare the Black Robe’s life. She might as well have been talking to the Udenso, glittering above the harbor in the glow of dawn. Now she looked to Beldinas, her eyes beseeching.
“Your Majesty,” she spoke, “this cannot happen. The Order of High Sorcery forbids it.”
Beldinas silenced her with a wave of his hand. “The Order of High Sorcery will learn not to let its initiates wreak mayhem,” he replied, the light around him flaring. “No matter what you wizards think, evil is not something to welcome among us.”
“But the magic-” Leciane insisted.
“Your magic is nothing, before the god’s wrath,” Beldinas returned.
The sorceress’s face colored, and she opened her mouth to reply. Before she could speak, however, Cathan nudged her.
“Listen,” he said. “Do you hear that?”
The jeering grew silent, the crowd’s anger fading to a rumble as another sound rose: the ominous boom of drums. Everyone turned, looking toward the arena’s entrance. The whole city of Lattakay seemed to draw a breath and hold it, waiting-then, in the stillness, he appeared.
Andras shuffled into the Bilstibo, his shackled ankles hindering his gait. Masked and blindfolded, he needed two knights to guide him toward the stake. Cathan had hand-picked Sir Marto and Sir Tithian for the duty, and they bore it well, neither hurrying the wizard nor giving him any chance to escape. As the highest-ranking knight in Lattakay, Cathan’s own place was here at the Kingpriest’s side, but he found himself wishing he could be with his men below.
The crowd turned ferocious at the sight of the wizard, cursing him in Old Seldjuki and both Istaran tongues, Church and Common. Some flung garbage down from the stands-rotten vegetables and fish innards that splattered upon the sands.
Leciane muttered something under her breath. Cathan glanced at her. She shook her head, fingering something at her throat-then looked away, seeing his eyes on her.
The other knights parted as Tithian and Marto guided the sorcerer past them, into the inner circle. Now, finally, the wizard began to falter, slowing and struggling. The two knights had to all but carry him, hoisting him up onto the kindling. Laughter echoed down from the stands. Marto and Tithian chained him to the stake. He fought them, but his struggles weakened. The crowd’s shouts rose as he finally lost his will and slumped, beaten.
With a jerk, Sir Marto tore away the blindfold that had covered the upper half of the sorcerer’s face. Golden hair spilled free. Andras’s eyes were squeezed shut, his cheeks wet with tears. The crowd laughed harder still.
“This is disgusting,” Leciane muttered as Marto and Tithian climbed down from the stake. “How can you do it in the name of a god of good?”
Beldinas did not hear her; within his aura, his gaze was far away. But Quarath did and he answered, his chin rising.