Myrren's Gift (10 page)

“Tell me quickly. Let me understand,” he urged.

“I need to share it with her,” Wyl blurted, rubbing a hand through his flame hair.

“Share what?”

“Her death. I can’t describe it any better.”

They both glanced toward the grim-faced Gueryn, now only a few strides away.

“Why? You can’t do anything for her!”

“She needs me” was all Wyl could say and then the shadow of Gueryn fell over them.

“What happens here. Wyl?” There was no trace of emotion in the man’s voice. Not a good sign. It was often easier when Gueryn was stirred to raise his voice.

Wyl told his tale as simply as he could, sticking to the facts in soldier fashion, as he had been trained. “I was forced to accompany Celimus to watch the torture of a woman accused of being a witch.” Gueryn sighed. “I gather.”

“She wouldn’t confess, didn’t even utter a single sound of protest.” he continued. “Confessor Lymbert made her go straight to the third stage. They dropped her four times using a contraption called the Dark Angel.”

Wyl could see the confusion on Alyd’s face and the inevitable question springing to his lips but Gueryn must have seen it too, for he prevented it with his own comment. “I have only witnessed such a thing once in my life. I only wish that I had been around to spare you of such a thing.” Wyl looked down. “I survived. She won’t, guilty or otherwise.”

“I heard that you assisted her.”

“A sip of water.” Wyl shrugged.

Gueryn nodded. He had heard all of this from someone who had been present. “That was noble of you, boy. So why are you here now?”

Wyl stayed quiet. It was Alyd who answered. “He says he wants to share her death.” He looked back at his friend with an apology in his eyes and could see none was necessary. Wyl would forgive him anything.

Their attention was diverted to the main party bringing the accused.

“Here she comes!” Wyl exclaimed and made a move towards them.

“Leave it alone, lad.” Gueryn said, grabbing his arm and spinning him back. “I felt similarly when I had to watch a woman suffer. I felt I should do something to help her but it was useless. They’re going to burn her in spite of you.”

Wyl’s gaze considered Gueryn coolly. “I know.”

His expression was now as serious and determined as any his father would strike when he had made a major decision. It was clear he would not be moved. “She needs to know that when she dies here today that her death is witnessed by at least one person who disagrees with it.” It sounded like an accusation. Gueryn let go of his arm. He and Alyd watched Wyl draw up alongside the cart and call to the slumped figure it carried.

“I thought they paraded convicted witches,” Alyd queried.

“Normally, yes, but not if they’ve survived the Dark Angel,” Gueryn answered, “and it would be nigh impossible after her swoops.”

“Oh…is that when they rip all the limbs from their sockets?” Alyd asked, unable to quell his eagerness to learn all the bleak details of torture.

Gueryn answered absentmindedly, more intent on watching Wyl. “After what I’ve heard they’ve done to that poor girl, they’ll be lucky if she can do any more than lie at the burning pole. Come, lad, if he’s determined to see this, we must stay close. I fear it will be his undoing.” Wyl was already a brisk walk away, so his two friends did not hear the exchange between him and the torturer.

“Come to say your farewell?” Lymbert asked Wyl.

“Come to see that you treat this woman with the respect she deserves,” he answered.

“Respect! A witch?” The Confessor was amused.

“Not proven, Lymbert. Your vile tortures won nothing from her.”

“Watch yourself, boy. I know who you are but your rank counts for naught with me when I am about my business.”

“That may be so, Confessor,” Wyl replied, scowling at the title, “but officially those are my men behind you escorting this charade and I could disrupt affairs just as easily as let them take their course.” Wyl knew Lymbert regarded him with pure hate, although he was wise enough not to show too much of such an expression on his face.

“Have a care, Confessor.” he added. “Do it right. Where is the samarra she is supposed to wear?”

“For someone so squeamish, you appear to know a great deal about the formalities of witch trials.” The barb did not work. Celimus’s taunts had ensured Wyl was well used to ignoring insults. Instead he glared. “I am a noble’s son. sir. I am well read.” Wyl suddenly sounded years older.

Lymbert stepped away to order one of his men to fetch the special cloak. He carried a samarra with him as he travelled the realm but it was rarely seen. Ancient law required that the victim be burned wearing the samarra. which was believed to entrap evil humors emanating from the witch’s flesh. The cloak bore a design of flames and dancing devils, with the Zerque sigil of a silver star to denote purity in the face of debauchery and evil. It was crafted by a special tailor, who needed royal assent to produce this garment.

In ancient times, the cloak itself was considered enchanted and dangerous, and as such no other tailor could be granted permission to touch it. Lymbert realized this would be the first occasion for its use and grumbled at the price he calculated he would need to replace it. He stalked away from the upstart

“General” and awaited his man.

“Myrren,” Wyl called gently, trotting now alongside the cart, knowing he had but moments. “Myrren!” Her eyes opened to slits. He watched her sore lips mouth his name. She tried to say something but he could not hear. He smiled, trying to convey his care, not knowing what to say. There were no words of comfort that could begin to touch what she had endured or would still endure before she met her god.

Wyl reached to her hand and touched it gently, casting a silent prayer to Shar to send his Gatherers for her soul and make her end quick. Then her minders pushed him aside as they arrived on the hillock. A single post had been buried into the ground, rising up to stand taller than the tallest of men. Around it were placed bales of straw. It was a sharply bright afternoon with few clouds. A breeze ruffled everyone’s hair and the more wily onlookers took the hint and moved upwind of the promised smoke.

“General, if you please?” Lymbert said with a forced politeness that was all underlying insult. “We have a witch to burn.” He hurled the highly decorated samarra at her.

She could not support herself, and so Lymbert’s men. with no care for her suffering, pulled the cloak over her naked body before taking her by her stretched and broken limbs and throwing her toward the Witch Post.

“No point in tying her, Confessor, she ain’t going anywhere,” one commented.

The people near the front of the crowd dared a nervous laugh. Lymbert smiled indulgently and nodded as a priest might to his flock. He stood on a hay bale and began reciting the list of terrible acts Myrren was supposedly responsible for.

Gueryn grunted and muttered. “I see they make it no easier for her.”

“What do you mean?” Wyl asked.

“The bushels are damp to ensure a slow burn.”

Wyl did not reply but his expression darkened further as he gripped the small sack he carried with him.

The accusations done, Lymbert had nothing further to say other than to acknowledge that the accused woman had not confessed to being a witch.

“However, you can all view her eyes—as ill-matched a pair as you’ll ever see.” He made a gesture and one of his men pulled up the lids of Myrren’s eyes to reveal the disturbing facts. Those closest peered obediently and made warding signs. “Might I add,” Lymbert continued, “the mere fact she has survived four flights with the Dark Angel proves conclusively that she wields evil power.” The city’s bells tolled their dour clangor again—a new series of peals that announced the burning was about to commence.

Myrren had not moved since they threw her among the kindling. This was not what Lymbert wanted for his spectacle. The people had waited a long time for a burning and this wretch was determined to ruin the event. He noticed not a single noble was present, barring the lippy redhead and his hangers-on. Not even Lord Rokan was in attendance. It irritated Lymbert that he was performing for commoners; he ignored the small voice in his head that whispered that it was only they who might take him or the claim seriously enough to be impressed.

He called to his henchmen. “I suspect our fancy cloak need not burn with the witch.” he said and chuckled, inviting all the onlookers to join him. Like sheep, they followed, unconcerned that in the absence of the samarra they might be infected by evil humors. Unlike their ancestors, who truly believed in the power of witchcraft, the majority of onlookers viewed the burning with curiosity. A few older members of the crowd made a warding gesture, but their mutterings were ignored.

The samarra, which had covered the girl, was wrenched away, leaving her naked once again.

That should spice things up a little
, Lymbert thought to himself, pleased with the effect her broken but still strangely desirable body had on the menfolk. He was especially glad that the red-headed youth had not protested at the cloak being removed, although it surprised him. It seemed the young man’s attention was diverted to a sack he was holding. Lymbert cared not. “Burn her!” he commanded.

And then there it was again, that damnable voice.

“Wait!” Wyl yelled, surprising Gueryn and Alyd, who flanked him. He stepped away from them. “Myrren of Baelup has not confessed to being a witch. She remains only accused and convicted. She will die by the flames, yes, but she will die with the dignity she has shown throughout her ordeal.” Wyl lifted out a shirt from the sack he carried.

Lymbert heard a sound and glanced behind him. “As you will, General Thirsk,” the Confessor responded through gritted teeth. At least his expensive cloak was spared.

A group of the King’s private soldiers moved briskly toward them on horseback. Amongst them he saw the unmistakable figures of Magnus and Celimus. So that was why Lymbert conceded so fast. Men immediately bowed low and the womenfolk curtsied, taken by surprise that their sovereign was present.

Magnus said nothing but his face was grim, his jaw clenched.

If you don’t like it, stop it, my King
! Wyl begged inwardly. But Magnus only nodded once as he and his men continued on. passing by within twenty feet of the crowd. Celimus’s expression was dark with his own anger but he managed a smirk at Wyl. It was Wyl’s only consolation in this disturbing day that Celimus was clearly not going to be permitted to witness the burning. Perhaps his father had forbidden it.

One could only hope. How these people could watch something like this—and cheer over it—eluded him.

It made him think of how. as a realm, they poked fun at the Mountain Dwellers, accusing them of being nothing more than barbarians. His father had cautioned him at leveling that tag so loosely.

We are the barbarians
, Wyl thought,
to still be persecuting helpless women in this way. Peasants!

Just like Adana claimed
. He looked around at the folk of Pearlis, out for some excitement. There were no nobles present, he was glad to note. Many in the crowd were youngsters, who had never seen a witch-burning before, and so he found it within himself to forgive them their gawking.

The King’s arrival had broken the spell. People looked suddenly uncomfortable and Lymbert felt himself lose control of his special event. He grimaced as Wyl, rising from his obeisance to his sovereign, walked over to the girl and placed the damp shirt across her body.

Wyl whispered something again to her and she heard him, raising her face toward the one person who had shown her tenderness.

“My dog. Knave. Promise me you will keep him,” she croaked.

“I swear it to you.” Wyl said, bewildered at her concern for a beast when her own life was about to be obliterated.

At his response she smiled and her torn, twisted body seemed to relax.

“Farewell, Wyl. Fear not my gift.”

Wyl nodded once, wondering why he should be afraid of a dog. He returned to stand alongside his companions, feeling that he had done all that he could for this woman.

Gueryn muttered under his breath, “I see you’re well ahead of the Confessor, boy.”

“She’s suffered enough,” Wyl murmured back.

“What are you both talking about?” Alyd whispered, helplessly mesmerized by the torches being lit.

“You’ll see,” Gueryn replied. “Good work, Wyl.”

The torches touched the dry kindling. Immediately the twigs began to burn and Wyl saw Lymbert smile, smug in the knowledge that the straw would be a long time in the burning, his plan being that Myrren’s throat would scorch and her insides dry out from inhaling the smoke long before her body would be consumed by the flame.

He watched the confessor take the comforting cup of wine that one of his assistants had poured from a clay flagon and heard the hateful man complain: “Such thirsty work, this burning.” As Lymbert tipped his head to take a gulp of the wine, his attention was grabbed by the sudden whoosh of flames around Myrren.

A spark had landed on the shirt Wyl had placed over her to protect her modesty and the tiny flame had caused the linen to ignite. Myrren. her body aflame now, struggled to sit up. Predictably, she failed. Wyl watched for Lymbert to search him out—the cursed boy—now that he realized that Wyl had doused the shirt with lamp oil. Wyl looked away. His eyes were only for Myrren now. Her lovely hair caught alight, shriveling about her as flames reached out to lick at her pretty face and through it all Wyl noticed her eyes…those arresting oddly matched eyes that found his gaze and locked onto it. She began to tremble as her flesh burned freely now, the oil clinging to her body and helping the flames do their work. Her face was charred, her teeth bared in a grimace of agony but still her eyes held his in a final embrace of death.

Wyl heard her words again in his mind.
Fear not my gift
.

Now Myrren did finally vent her anger and despair. At last Lymbert heard her voice and he reveled in her agony.

And at the sound of her final, chilling scream, Wyl Thirsk, General of the Legion, felt a strange sensation overcome him. It was neither painful nor pleasant but it was keen and pressing. It devoured him. Then it changed into a sharp, splintering agony and Wyl felt as though he was losing his breath—his ability to breathe, in fact. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth against it, unaware of anyone around him, hearing only the piercing sound of her scream. When her voice ended abruptly Wyl lost his wits, collapsing into an all-encompassing darkness. A few people watched him fall to the ground, including Lymbert.