Page 9

“Ready?” Ruby whispers.

Dawsyn does not answer. How can one ever be truly ready to die?

The people on the Ledge are still trapped.

The pool in Glacia still churns.

Ryon.Ryon.

Ryon’s death remains unavenged.

And there it is, that flood of grief that has tried valiantly to consume her. That sorrow for a man who has not earnt her last thoughts in the moments before she dies. But something in her still welcomes the memory of his touch along her jaw, the feel of his lips on her forehead. And if she’s to die this day, then resistance is pointless. She closes her eyes to better see his face and is, for once, not perturbed by the copious tears that overcome her.

Perhaps there is sanctuary to be found in those gallows. She can finally follow the ones who left her here alone, and cross that unseeable bridge.Perhaps they will be there, waiting.

The guards lead her forward, slowing their gait to allow her shackled feet to keep pace.

Thousands of faces turn to see her, chained and dirty, her eyes squinting against the harsh sun. Beyond the crowd is the Mecca, now emptied of its people. So many of them, here in this desolate corner.

Dirt starts to collect between her toes. It occurs to her that this is the first time she has felt earth beneath her bare feet. She cannot even linger on the strange way it yields. There are so many things that will remain mysterious to her now. So many corners and facets of this world undiscovered.

The crowd continues its silence as she passes, the gallows looming ever nearer. When she blinks the dust away, Dawsyn can make out the people around her but cannot discern their demeanour. Are they curious? Remorseful? Exultant? What do they think of her, this escapee of the Ledge? Do they wish to see her dead?

As the captain leads their assemblage forward, the crowd parts to her presence alone. She leads the way through, her chin lifted, but Dawsyn can still see the way her hand trembles.

An eternity passes before they reach the steps. As it draws nearer, Dawsyn’s heart beats in protest, crashing against her ribs. She takes the steps awkwardly, her shackles a hindrance. The guards have to lift her to the platform, and once upon it, the nausea swells.

Help me,she calls inward, desperate, afraid.Help me.

But the magic is as trapped as her. She can feel how it sticks to the sides, mired in fear.

Beneath the noose, the woman who escaped the Ledge is turned to face the crowd – scarred, barefooted. Wild.

Dawsyn finally sees them: the faces of the Mecca. Women in aprons and shawls and coats with shiny buttons. Men with dirty hands and clean faces. Gaunt cheeks next to fed bellies. Parents with children at their feet, on their hips, in their arms. People bent with age and illness, and yet they all are here, wide-eyed.

Confused.

Disturbed.

Enraged.

She can feel, then, why they have come. It is not to spectate.

A short horn sounds from above, and for a moment, Dawsyn is transported back to the slopes, running through a blizzard with Glacians at her heels. That sound always forewarns disaster.

The Queens, Alvira and Cressida both, appear on a balcony, the only one jutting from this corner of the palace walls. The silver threads of their dresses catch the sun and glisten. Queen Alvira’s hands clasp gently before her stomach, a ring per finger. She meets the gaze of her people, a perfected mix of duty and contrition.

How Dawsyn wishes she could pull her over that banister.

The crowd turns their attention to their monarch, and the guards hold their right hands over their hearts in her presence. Dawsyn waits, eyes straight ahead.

“To the good people of Terrsaw,” Queen Alvira calls, her voice ringing from those plum-stained lips. “Today we mourn, for before you stands a miracle: Dawsyn Sabar, the granddaughter of Valma, the fallen princess of Terrsaw.”

A rumble spreads amongst the people, one of awe, and one of impatience.So, it is true,they seem to say.A Sabar.

“But that is not all she is… She is also a murderer.”

Dawsyn’s head whips to the balcony.