Stone of Tears

Chapter 26

Queen Cyrilla held her head high. She refused to acknowledge how much the coarse fingers of the brutes who held her were hurting her arms. She didn’t resist as they walked her down the filthy corridor. Resistance was hopeless, anyway, and would bring her no aid. She would conduct herself now as always: with dignity. She was the queen of Galea. She would endure with dignity what was to come. She would not show her terror.

Besides, it was not what was being done to her that mattered. It was what was going to happen to the Galean people that grieved her.

And what had already happened.

Nearly one hundred score of the Galean guard had been murdered before her eyes. Who could have foreseen that they would be set upon in this, of all places: on neutral ground? That a few had escaped was no solace. They, too, would probably be hunted down and killed.

She hoped that her brother, Prince Harold, had been among those who had escaped. If he had gotten away, perhaps he could rally a defense against the worse slaughter that was yet to come.

The brutal hands on her arms brought her to a halt next to a hissing torch set in a rust-encrusted bracket. The fingers twisted so painfully that a small cry escaped her lips despite her will to stifle it.

“Are my men hurting you, my lady?” came a mocking voice from behind.

She coolly denied Prince Fyren the satisfaction of an answer.

A guard worked keys at a rusty lock, sending a sharp, metallic sound echoing down the stone corridor when the bolt finally drew. The heavy door groaned on its hinges as it was pulled open. The viselike hands forced her on, through the doorway and down another long, low passageway.

She could hear the swish of her satin skirts, and to the sides and behind, the men’s boots on the stone floor, splashing occasionally through stagnant, foul-smelling water. The dank air felt cold on her shoulders, which were unaccustomed to being uncovered.

Her heart threatened to race out of control when she thought about where she was being taken. She prayed to the dear spirits that there wouldn’t be rats. She feared rats, their sharp teeth, their clutching claws, and their cunning, black eyes. When she was very little she had nightmares about rats, and would wake screaming.

It an effort to bring her heart back under control, she tried to think of other things. She thought about the strange woman who had sought a private audience with her. Cyrilla wasn’t at all sure why she had granted it, but she now wished she had paid more heed to the insistent woman.

What was her name? Lady something. A glimpse of her hair beneath the concealing veil had shown it to be too short for someone of her standing. Lady . . . Bevinvier. Yes, that was it: Lady Bevinvier. Lady Bevinvier of . . . someplace. She couldn’t will her mind to remember. It didn’t matter anyway; it was not where the woman was from, but what she had said, that mattered.

Leave Aydindril, Lady Bevinvier had warned. Leave at once.

But Cyrilla had not come all this way, in the teeth of winter, to leave before the Council of the Midlands had heard her grievance, and acted upon it. She had come to demand that the council do its duty to bring an immediate halt to the transgressions against her land and people.

Towns had been sacked, farms burned, and people murdered. The armies of Kelton were massing to attack. An invasion was imminent, if not already under way. And for what? Nothing but naked conquest. Against an ally! It was an outrage!

It was the council’s duty to come to the defense of any land being attacked, no matter by whom. The whole point of the Council of the Midlands was to prevent just such treason. It was their duty to direct all the lands to come to the aid of Galea, and put down the aggression.

Though Galea was a powerful land, it had been gravely weakened by its defense of the Midlands against D’Hara, and was not prepared for another costly war. Kelton had been spared the brunt of the D’Haran conquest, and had reserves aplenty. Galea had paid the price of resistance in their stead.

The night before, Lady Bevinvier had come to her, and had begged that she leave at once. She had said Cyrilla would find no help for Galea from the council. The Lady Bevinvier said that if the queen stayed, she would be in great personal danger. At first, when pressed, Lady Bevinvier refused to explain herself.

Cyrilla thanked her but said she would not turn away from her duty to her people, and would go before the council, as planned. Lady Bevinvier broke down in tears, begging that the queen heed her words.

She at last confided that she had had a vision.

Cyrilla tried to draw the nature of the vision out of the woman, but she said that it was incomplete, that she didn’t know any details, only that if the queen didn’t leave at once, something terrible would happen. Though Cyrilla trusted well the powers of magic, she had little faith in fortunetellers. Most were charlatans, seeking only to fatten their purse with a clever turn of a phrase, or a vague hint of danger to be avoided.

Queen Cyrilla was touched by the woman’s seeming sincerity, though she reasoned it might be nothing but deception, meant to trick her out of a coin. A ruse for money seemed strange coming from a woman of such seeming wealth, but times had been hard, and she knew the wealthy were not immune to losses. After all, if gold and goods were to be seized, it only made sense to seek them from those who had them. Cyrilla knew many who had worked hard all their lives, only to lose everything in the war with D’Hara. Perhaps Lady Bevinvier’s short hair was the result of that loss.

She thanked the woman, but told her that the mission was too important to be turned aside. She pressed a gold piece into the woman’s hand, only to have Lady Bevinvier throw the coin across the room before rushing off in tears.

Cyrilla had been shaken by that. A charlatan did not refuse gold. Unless of course she sought something more.

Either the woman had been telling the truth, or she was working in aid of Kelton, trying to prevent the council from hearing of the aggression.

Either way, it didn’t matter; Cyrilla was resolute. Besides, she was influential in the council. Galea was respected for its defense of the Midlands. When Aydindril had fallen, councilors who had refused to swear the allegiance of their land to D’Hara had been put to death and replaced by puppets. Those councilors who had collaborated were allowed to retain their position. Galea’s loyal ambassador to the council had been executed.

How the war had ended was a puzzle; D’Haran forces were told that Darken Rahl was dead and all hostilities were ended. A new Lord Rahl had succeeded, and the troops were simply called home, or ordered to help those they had conquered. Cyrilla suspected Darken Rahl had been assassinated.

Whatever had happened was good by her; the council was now back in the hands of the people of the Midlands. The ones who collaborated, and the puppets, had been arrested. Things were said to be set back to the way they had been before the dictator. She expected the council would come to the aid of Galea.

Queen Cyrilla, too, had an ally on the council, the most powerful ally there was: the Mother Confessor. Though Kahlan was her half-sister, that wasn’t what forged their alliance. Cyrilla had always supported the sovereignty of the various lands, while also recognizing the fundamental need for peace among them. The Mother Confessor respected that steadfastness, and it was that respect which made her Galea’s ally.

Kahlan had never shown Cyrilla any favoritism, and that was as it should have been; favoritism would have weakened the Mother Confessor, threatening the alliance of the council, and therefore peace. She respected Kahlan for putting the unity of the Midlands above any power games. Such games were a shifting bog anyway; one was always better off in the end when dealt with fairly, rather than by favor.

Cyrilla had always been secretly proud of her half sister. Kahlan was twelve years younger, smart, strong, and, despite her young age, an astute leader. Though they were related by blood, they almost never spoke of it. Kahlan was a Confessor, and of the magic. She was not a sister who shared the blood of a father, but a Confessor, and the Mother Confessor of the Midlands. Confessors were blood to no one but Confessors.

Still, having no family of her own, save her beloved brother, Harold, she had often longed to take Kahlan in her arms as kin, as a little sister, and speak of the things they shared. But that was not possible. Cyrilla was the queen of Galea, and Kahlan was the Mother Confessor; two women who were virtual strangers who shared nothing save blood and mutual respect. Duty came before the heart. Galea was Cyrilla’s family; the Confessors, Kahlan’s.

Though there were those who resented Kahlan’s mother taking Wyborn as a mate, Cyrilla was not among them. Her mother, Queen Bernadine, had taught her and Harold of the need for Confessors, their need for strong blood in that line of magic, and how it served the greater cause of the Midlands in keeping peace. Her mother had never spoken bitterly of losing her husband to the Confessors, but explained instead the honor Cyrilla and Harold had of sharing blood with the Confessors, even if it was mostly unspoken. Yes, she was proud of Kahlan.

Proud, but also perhaps a bit wary. The ways of Confessors were a mystery to her. From birth they were trained in Aydindril, trained by other Confessors, and by wizards. Their magic, their power, was something they were born with, and in a way they were slaves to it. In some ways it was the same with her; born to be queen, without much choice. Though she had no magic, she understood the weight of birthright.

From birth until their training was completed, Confessors were kept cloistered, like priestesses, in a world apart. Their discipline was said to be rigorous. Though Cyrilla knew they must have emotions like anyone, Confessors were trained to subjugate them. Duty to their power was all. It left them no choice in life, save choosing a mate, and even that was not for love but for duty.

Cyrilla had always wished she could bring a little of the love of a sister to Kahlan. Perhaps, she also wished Kahlan could have brought a little of that love to her, too. But it could never be. Maybe Kahlan had loved her from afar, as Cyrilla had Kahlan. Perhaps Kahlan had been proud of her, too, in her own way. She had always hoped it was so.

The thing that pained her the most was that though they both served the Midlands, she was loved by her people for doing her duty, but Kahlan was feared and hated for it. She wished Kahlan could know a people’s love; it was a comfort that in part made up for the sacrifice. But a Confessor never could. Perhaps, she thought, that was why they were taught to subjugate their emotions and needs.

Kahlan, too, had tried to warn her of the danger from Kelton.

It had been at the midsummer festival, several years ago, the first summer after the death of Cyrilla’s mother. The first summer Cyrilla had been queen. The first summer, too, since Kahlan had ascended to Mother Confessor.

That Kahlan had become the Mother Confessor at such a young age spoke of both the strength of her power and of her character. And perhaps of a need. Since the selection was made in secrecy, Cyrilla knew little about the succession of Confessors, except that it was done without animosity or rivalry, and had to do with the strength of power weighed against age and training.

To the people of the Midlands, age was irrelevant. They feared Confessors in general, regardless of age, and the Mother Confessor in particular. They knew she was the most powerful of Confessors. Unlike most people, however, Cyrilla knew that power in and of itself was not necessarily something to fear, and Kahlan had always been fair. She had never sought anything but peace.

That day the streets of Ebinissia, the Crown city of Galea, had been filled with festivities of every sort. Not even the lowest stableboy had failed to find welcome at the tables of the fair, or at the games, or around the musicians, acrobats, and jugglers.

Cyrilla, as queen, had presided over the contests, and given ribbons to the victors. She had never seen so many smiling faces, so many happy people. She had never felt so contented for her people, or been made to feel so loved by them.

That night there was a royal ball at the palace. The great hall was filled with nearly four hundred people. It was dazzling to see everyone in their most elegant dress. Food and wine were arrayed on the long tables in abundant and stunning variety—only fitting for the most important day of the year. It was grand beyond any ball that had come before, for there was much for which to be thankful. It was a time of peace and prosperity, growth and promise, new life and bounty.

The music trailed off in thin, discordant notes, and the loud drone of the gathering fell suddenly dead silent as the the Mother Confessor strode purposefully into the hall, her wizard at her heels, his silver robes flying behind. Her regal-looking white dress stood out among the confusion of color like the full moon among the stars. Bright color and fancy dress had never looked so unexpectedly trivial. Everyone bowed low at her passing. Cyrilla waited with her advisors beside the table on which sat a large, cut-glass bowl of spiced wine.

Kahlan crossed the hushed room, followed by every eye, and drew to a halt before the queen, giving a prompt bow of her head. Her expression was as still as ice. She didn’t wait for the formality of the bow to her office to be returned.

“Queen Cyrilla. You have an advisor named Drefan Tross?”

Cyrilla held her open hand out to the side. “This is he.”

Kahlan’s emotionless gaze moved to Drefan. “I would speak with you in private.”

“Drefan Tross is a trusted advisor,” Cyrilla interrupted. He was more than that. He was a man she was very fond of, a man she was just beginning to fall in love with. “You may speak to him in my presence.” She didn’t know what this was about, but thought it best if she were privy to it. Confessors did not interrupt banquets except for trouble. “This is neither the time nor place to conduct business of this sort, Mother Confessor, but if it cannot wait, then let it be done and finished with here and now.”

She thought that would put it in abeyance until a more appropriate time. Without expression, the Mother Confessor considered this a moment. The wizard at her back was anything but expressionless. He appeared quite agitated, in fact.

He bent toward Kahlan to speak, but she raised her hand to silence him before he could begin.

“As you wish. I am sorry, Queen Cyrilla, but it cannot wait.” She returned her attention to Drefan. “I have just taken the confession of a murderer. In his confession, he also revealed himself to be an accomplice to an assassin. He named you as that assassin, and your target as Queen Cyrilla.”

There were astonished whispers from those near enough to overhear. Drefan’s face went red. The whispers died into brittle silence.

Cyrilla could scarcely follow what happened next. A blink of the eye and it would have been missed. One instant Drefan stood as he had, with his hand in his gold and deep blue coat, and the next he was driving a knife toward the Mother Confessor. Standing tall, she moved only her arm, catching his wrist. Seemingly at the same time, there was a violent impact to the air—thunder but no sound. The cut-glass bowl shattered, flooding red wine over the table and floor. Cyrilla flinched with the sudden flash of pain coursing through every joint in her body. The knife clattered to the floor. Drefan’s eyes went wide, his jaw slack.

“Mistress,” he whispered reverently.

Cyrilla was numb with shock to see a Confessor use her power. She knew only of its aftereffects, and had never seen it being used. Few had. The magic seemed still to sizzle in the air a long moment.

The crowd pressed closer. A warning glare from the wizard changed their curiosity to timidity, and they moved back.

Kahlan looked drained, but her voice betrayed no weakness. “You intended to assassinate the queen?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said eagerly, licking his lips.

“When?”

“Tonight. In the confusion when the guests were departing.” Drefan looked to be in torment. Tears welled up and ran down his cheeks. “Please, Mistress, command me. Tell me what you wish. Let me carry out your command.”

Cyrilla was still in shock. This was what had been done to her father. This was how he had been taken as a mate to a Confessor. First her father, and now a man she held dear.

“Wait in silence,” Kahlan ordered. Hands hanging at her sides, she turned to Cyrilla, her young eyes now heavy with sorrow. “Forgive me for disturbing your celebration, Queen Cyrilla, but I feared the results of delay.”

Her face burning, Cyrilla twisted to face Drefan. He stood gaping at Kahlan. “Who ordered this, Drefan! Who ordered you kill me!”

He didn’t even seem to be aware she had spoken.

“He will not answer you, Queen Cyrilla,” Kahlan said. “He will only answer me.”

“Then you ask!”

“That would not be advisable,” the wizard offered quietly.

Cyrilla felt a fool. Everyone knew of her fondness for Drefan. Everyone saw now that she had been duped. No one would ever forget this midsummer festival.

“Do not presume to advise me!”

Kahlan leaned closer and spoke softly. “Cyrilla, we think he may be protected by a spell. When I asked his accomplice that question, he died before he could answer. But I believe I know the answer. There are oblique ways of getting the information that might possibly circumvent the spell. If I could take him somewhere alone and question him in my own way, we might be able to get the answer.”

Cyrilla was near tears with fury. “I trusted him! He was close to me! He has betrayed me! Me, not you! I will know who sent him! I will hear it from his own lips! You stand in my kingdom, in my home! Ask him!”

Kahlan straightened, her face returning to the calm mask that showed nothing. “As you wish.” She redirected her attention to Drefan. “Was what you intended to do to the queen of your own volition?”

He dry-washed his hands in anxious anticipation of pleasing the Mother Confessor. “No, Mistress. I was sent.”

If it was possible, Kahlan’s face seemed to become even more placid. “Who sent you?”

One hand rose, and his mouth opened, as if in an attempt to do her bidding. All that came from his throat was a gurgle of blood before he collapsed.

The wizard gave a knowing grunt. “As I thought: the same as the other.”

Kahlan picked up the knife and offered it handle-first to Cyrilla. “We believe there to be a conspiracy of great magnitude brewing. Whether or not this man was part of it I don’t know, but he was sent by Kelton.”

“Kelton! I refuse to believe that.”

Kahlan nodded at the knife in Cyrilla’s hand. “The knife is Keltish.”

“Many people carry weapons forged in Kelton. They are some of the finest made. That is hardly proof enough for such an accusation.”

Kahlan stood unmoving. Cyrilla was too upset at that moment to wonder what thoughts could have been going on behind those green eyes. Kahlan’s voice finally came without emotion. “My father taught me that the Keltans will strike for only two reasons. First out of jealousy, and second when they are tempted by weakness. He said that either way, they will always first test by trying to kill the strongest, highest-ranking, of their opponents they can. Galea is now the strongest it has ever been, thanks to you, and the midsummer festival is the mark of that strength. You are the cause of that jealousy, and a symbol of that strength.

“My father also said that you must always keep an eye to the Keltans, and never offer them your back. He said that if you thwart them in the first attempt, it deepens their hunger for your blood, and they will always lie in wait for any weakness so they may strike.”

Cyrilla’s smoldering rage at being beguiled by Drefan made her lash out without considering her words. “I would not know what our father said. I never had the benefit of his teachings. He was taken from us by a Confessor.”

Kahlan’s face transformed from the calm, cold blankness of a Confessor to a look of ageless, knowing benevolence that seemed well beyond her years.

“Perhaps, Queen Cyrilla, the good spirits chose to spare you the things he would have taught you, and had him teach me instead. Be thankful they have looked kindly upon you. I doubt the things he taught would have brought you any joy. They bring me none, save perhaps that they have helped me preserve your life this night. Please do not be bitter. Be at peace with yourself, and cherish what you do have: the love of your people. They are your family, one and all.”

Kahlan started to turn away, but Cyrilla gently caught her arm and drew her aside as men bent to carry the body from the hall.

“Kahlan, forgive me.” Her fingers worked a ribbon at her waist. “I have wrongly directed my anger over Drefan to you.”

“I understand, Cyrilla. In your place, I would probably have reacted the same. I could see your feelings for Drefan in your eyes. I would not expect you to be happy over what I have just done. Forgive me for bringing anguish to your home on a day that should be only joyful, but I greatly feared the results of delay.”

Kahlan had made her feel like the younger sister. She looked anew at the tall, beautiful young woman standing before her. Kahlan was of the age to have a mate. Perhaps she had already chosen one, for all she knew. Her mother must have been about this old when she took Cyrilla’s father as hers. So young.

Looking into those depthless green eyes, Cyrilla let go of some of her anger over Drefan. This young woman, her sister, had just saved her life, knowing full well it would bring no thanks, and would probably earn her only deeper fear, and possibly undying hatred, from her half sister. So young. Cyrilla felt shame at her own selfishness.

She smiled at Kahlan for the first time. “Surely, the things Wyborn taught you weren’t all grim?”

“He taught me only killing. Whom to kill, when to kill, and how to kill. Be thankful you know no more of his lessons, and that you have never needed what he taught. I have, and I fear I have only begun to use what he taught me.”

Cyrilla frowned. Kahlan was a Confessor, not a killer. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“We believe we have uncovered a conspiracy. I will not speak of it until I know its nature, and have proof, but I think it may bring a storm beyond any you or I have ever seen before.”

Cyrilla touched her sister’s cheek, the only time in her life she had ever done so. “Kahlan, please stay? Enjoy at my side what is left of the festival? I would love to have you with me.”

Kahlan’s face returned to the calm mask of a Confessor. “I cannot. It would only ruin your people’s light heart to have me present. Thank you for the offer, but you should be able to enjoy your day with your people, without my spoiling it further.”

“Nonsense. It would spoil nothing.”

“I would like nothing more than that it were so, but it is not. Remember what our father said: keep a wary eye to the Keltans. I must be gone. There is trouble gathering and I must see that the Confessors find its cause. Before I return to Aydindril I will pay a visit to Kelton and deliver my suspicions, and a warning that what has happened not be repeated. I will inform the council of the trouble of this day, so that all eyes will be on the Keltans.”

What did they teach in Aydindril that could turn what looked to be porcelain to iron?

“Thank you, Mother Confessor” was all she had been able to say, to offer her sister the honor of her office, as she watched her stride off, her wizard in tow. That had been the most intimate conversation she had ever had with her half sister. The midsummer festival had not held much joy for her after Kahlan had left. So young, yet so old.

At the council today, Cyrilla had been surprised to find that the Mother Confessor was not presiding over the council. No one knew where she was. It was to be expected she would have been absent when Aydindril fell; she was frequently gone in her capacity as a Confessor, and had probably been doing what she could to halt the threat from D’Hara. All the Confessors had fiercely fought the hordes from D’Hara. She was sure Kahlan would have done no less, using in part what her father had taught her.

But that she had not immediately returned to Aydindril when D’Hara withdrew was worrisome. Perhaps she had not yet had time to return. Cyrilla feared Kahlan might have been killed at the hands of a quad. D’Hara had sentenced all the Confessors to death, and hunted them relentlessly. Galea had offered refuge to the Confessors, but the quads, implacable, and without mercy, had found them anyway.

Worse, absent the Mother Confessor, there had not been a wizard overseeing the council meeting. Cyrilla’s flesh had prickled with apprehension at seeing no wizard. She recognized that the absence of a Confessor and a wizard created a dangerous vacuum in the council chambers.

But when she saw who presided over the council session, her apprehension sharpened to alarm. Sitting in the first chair was High Prince Fyren, of Kelton. The very man she had come to seek deliverance from sat in judgment. To see him sitting in the chair that had always belonged only to the Mother Confessor was startling.

The council, it would seem, had not been put back to the way it should have been.

Nonetheless, she ignored him and instead pressed her demands to the rest of the council. In turn, Prince Fyren stood and accused her of treason against the Midlands. He had the unmitigated gall to accuse her of the very thing of which he was guilty.

Further, Prince Fyren assured the council that Kelton was committing no aggression but was acting only in self-defense against a greedy neighbor. In a tirade, he lectured them on the evils of women in positions of power. The council took his word for everything. They allowed her to present no evidence.

She stood stunned and speechless as the council heard Fyren’s charges, and without pause found her guilty, sentencing her to be beheaded.

Where was Kahlan? Where were the wizards?

Lady Bevinvier’s vision had proven true. Cyrilla should have listened, or at least taken some precaution. Kahlan’s warning, too, had proven true; Kelton had first tried to strike out of jealousy, and now, years later, they had renewed the attack when they saw tempting weakness.

The Galean guard stood in the great courtyard, ready to immediately escort Cyrilla home. She had needed to set about readying Galea’s defenses until the forces expected to be sent by the council could arrive. But it was not to be.

At the pronouncement of sentence, she heard the terrible shouts of battle outside. Battle, she thought bitterly. It was not a battle, but a slaughter. Her troops had waited in the great courtyard without their weapons, as a sign of respect and deference, an open gesture of acquiescence to the rule of the Council of the Midlands.

Queen Cyrilla stood at the window, a guard at each arm, shaking in horror as she watched the slaughter. A few of her men managed to take up weapons by overpowering their attackers, and put up a valiant struggle, but they had no chance. They were outnumbered five to one, and were, by and large, without means to defend themselves. She couldn’t tell if in the chaos any escaped. She hoped they had. She prayed Harold had.

The white snow that lay upon the ground was turned to a sea of red. She was aghast at the butchery. There was mercy only in its swiftness.

Cyrilla had been made to kneel before the council as Prince Fyren took up her long hair in his fist, and with his own sword sliced it away. She had knelt in silence, her head held proudly up in honor of her people, in honor of the men she had just seen murdered, while he cut her hair as short as the lowest kitchen scullion.

What an hour before had seemed to be the near end of her people’s ordeal had become instead the mere beginning.

The powerful fingers on her arms jerked her to a halt before a small iron door. She winced in pain. A crude ladder twice her height lay on its side against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor.

Again the guard with the keys came forward to work the lock. He cursed the mechanism, complaining that its lack of use made it stiff. All the guards seemed to be Keltans. She had seen none of the Aydindril Home Guard. Most, she knew, had been killed in Aydindril’s fall to D’Hara.

At last the man drew back the door to reveal a dark pit. Her legs felt as if they wanted to turn liquid. Only the hands gripping her arms held her up. They were going to put her in that dark pit. With the rats.

She willed her legs solid again. She was the queen. But her pulse would not slow.

“How dare you put a lady in a rat-infested hole!”

Prince Fyren stepped close to the black maw. One hand on a hip held back his unbuttoned, royal blue coat. With his other hand he hefted a torch from a bracket.

“Rats? Is that what worries you, my lady? Rats?” He gave her a derisive smile. He was too young to be so well schooled at insolence. Had her arms been free she would have slapped him. “Let me allay your fears, Queen Cyrilla.”

He tossed the torch into the blackness. As it dropped, it illuminated faces. A husky fist caught the torch. There were men in the pit. At least six, maybe ten.

Prince Fyren leaned into the doorway, his voice echoing into the hole. “The queen worries there may be rats down there.”

“Rats?” came a coarse voice from the pit. “There be no rats down here. Not anymore. We ate them all.”

A hand with white ruffles at the wrist still rested on Prince Fyren’s hip. His voice taunted with feigned concern. “There, you see? The man says there are no rats. Does that ease your apprehension, my lady?”

Her eyes darted between the flickering torchlight below and Fyren. “Who are those men?”

“Why, just a few murderers and rapists awaiting their beheading, same as you. Quite vile animals, actually. What with all I’ve had to attend to, I haven’t had time to see to their sentences. I’m afraid being down in the pit for so long puts them in an ugly disposition.” His grin returned, “But I’m sure having a queen among them will mellow their mood.”

Cyrilla had to force her voice to come. “I demand my own cell.”

The grin vanished. An eyebrow lifted. “Demand? You demand?” He suddenly struck her across the face. “You demand nothing! You are nothing but a common criminal, a loathsome murderer of my people! You have been tried and convicted!”

Her cheek burned with the sting of his handprint.

“You can’t put me in there—with them.” Her whispered entreaty was hopeless, she knew, but she couldn’t keep it from her lips.

Fyren rolled his shoulders, straightening his back and coat as he regained his composure. His voice rose to those below. “You men wouldn’t defile a lady, would you?”

Soft laughter echoed up from the pit. “Why, course not. We wouldn’t want to be beheaded twice.” The coarse voice deepened into cold menace. “We’ll treat her real nice like.”

Cyrilla could taste warm, salty blood at the corner of her mouth. “Fyren, you can’t do this. I demand to be beheaded at once.”

“There you go again: demanding.”

“Why can’t it be done now! Let it be done now!”

He drew his hand back to slap her again, but then let it lower as his simper returned. “You see? At first you proclaimed your innocence, and didn’t want to be executed, but already you are reconsidering. After a few days down there, with them, you will be begging to be beheaded. You will eagerly confess your treason before all those gathered to witness your punishment. Besides, I have other matters to attend to. I can’t be bothered right now. You will be put to death when I deem I have the time.”

With rising terror, she was only now beginning to grasp the full extent of the fate that awaited her in the pit. Tears burned her eyes.

“Please . . . don’t do this to me. I’m begging you.”

Prince Fyren smoothed the white ruffles at his throat and spoke softly. “I tried to make it easy for you, Cyrilla, because you’re a woman. Drefan’s knife would have been quick. You would have suffered little that way. I would never have allowed a man in your place such mercy. But you wouldn’t have it the easy way. You allowed the Mother Confessor to interfere. You allowed yet another woman to infringe on the dominion of men!

“Women don’t have the stomach for ruling. They’re ill suited to the task. They should never be allowed to command armies or to meddle in the affairs of nations. Things had to be set right. Drefan died trying to do it the easy way. Now we do it the other way.”

He nodded to a man behind him. The guard hauled the ladder to the doorway to lower an end into the pit as the hands on her arms moved her to the edge. The other men drew swords, apparently to prevent any in the pit from thinking to come up the ladder.

Cyrilla could think of no way to stop this. She voiced a protest, knowing it was foolish, but unable to check her panic. “I am a queen, a lady, I will not be made to scurry down a rickety ladder.”

Prince Fyren blinked at her ludicrous objection, but then motioned with his hand for the man to pull the ladder back from the doorway.

He gave a mocking bow. “As you wish, my lady.”

He rose, giving a slight nod to the men holding her arms. They released her. Before she thought to move a muscle, he rammed the heel of his hand into her chest, between her breasts.

The painful blow knocked her off balance. She toppled backward through the opening. Down into the pit.

As she plummeted, she fully expected to strike the stone floor and be killed. She resigned to it with a last gasp as the futile flow of her past glory whirled before her mind’s eye. Had it all come to this? All for nought? To have her skull cracked like an egg fallen from a table to the floor?

But hands caught her. Hands were everywhere upon her, unexpectedly upon the most indecent places. Her eyes opened to see the light of the doorway go dark with a loud, reverberating clang.

Faces were all around her in the haunting, flickering torchlight. Scruffy, whiskered faces. Ugly, sweaty, wicked faces. Cunning black eyes played over her. Hungry, humorless grins showed crooked, sharp teeth. So many teeth. Her throat clenched shut, locking her breath in her lungs. Her mind refused to function, and flashed with confusing, useless images.

She was pressed to the floor. The stone was cold and painfully rough against her back. Grunts and low squeals assailed her from every side. Men were tight together above her. Against her struggles, her limbs were pushed and pulled as the men willed.

Clutching, clawlike hands ripped at her fine dress and pinched brutally at suddenly, shockingly, exposed flesh.

And then Cyrilla did something she hadn’t done since she was a little girl.

She screamed.