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The Day of Final Mercy

T he Little Cat is executed on the Mercy Pavilion erected every year for the Day of Final Mercy. It’s a performance, you see, an ostentatious display of power.

Every year several are sentenced to die, and every year the Vertex Seal calls mercy for one name. Rarely does the choice surprise anyone, for it’s negotiated and argued quads beforehand among the mirané council. But that year, there is a surprise.

Two, really, since Iriset has never seen the royal griffons personally before. Only their silhouettes as they fly against the dome of the menagerie. It is said that these queens of the sky were designed by the Moon-Eater himself, from a leopard, a prairie eagle, and his own moon-red flesh.

But at the end of the Apostate Age, with the Holy Syr’s blessing and the approval of the first Vertex Seal, priests of Aharté determined that whatever creatures the apostate architects had created would be left alone to live or die according to Aharté’s will.

Those that died would pass into legend, but those that could feed themselves could reproduce without intercession, would not be destroyed.

Most of the megafauna could not manage their size without additional design, and were put down with pity; the largest feather dragons were hunted for their destructive natures; the delicate unicorns fled, too intelligent to be captured, and it is possible some live in the wilds beyond the empire; those creatures made with especially bold, terrible magic like the singing trees or spliced dogs could not reproduce at all, and when they died, their kind died with them.

The griffons, though, were perfect.

At the execution of the Little Cat are four griffons: a massive queen called Seti, her vivid mirané-brown wings broad and outswept as she perches on a heavy trellis built over the royal stage, her mass and wings shading Iriset and Lyric.

Another adult female clutches her own trellis, her gorgeous wings mottled with brown, mirané brown, and black markings.

With her are a pair of juvenile twins. They’re all thin and elegant, with lanky legs and wide paws.

Their sleek mirané-brown fur is patterned with white spots and sweeping stripes that curve around their huge slit-pupil eyes like kohl.

Long tails curl over their backs, or swipe in avid interest as the griffons keep watch.

Be?, the griffon-keeper and Garnet’s mother, stands at the pointed end of the half-circle stage, whip and long silk leashes at her hips and around her neck.

Scars on her brow are painted bold red and she wears a headdress of feathers that’s like a mask, only it does not occlude her vision at all. She smells like raw meat.

Iriset keeps glancing up at the griffon queen, annoyed that they exist. If she had called the little bobcat kitten she designed wings for a griffon, would it have been such a crime?

Her constant glances must read as nerves, for Lyric touches the back of Iriset’s hand and says, “You are safe, beloved.”

He maintains poise easily, it seems, his faith in Be? and her control over the griffons simple and resolute. Iriset smells that musty-feather smell of the griffons, and hopes their cat-eyes are a sign of good luck for whatever Bittor does today.

Her stomach is loose and sloshy. Iriset grips the rail of the half-circle royal pavilion, gasping at the sparks of ecstatic force that pinch her palms. A force-shield so thin and perfect she’d not seen it surrounds their stage, to protect the Vertex Seal and his party.

It’s to be expected here, in case someone decides to toss trash or flowers, but Iriset hopes there’s nothing like it around the execution pillars.

All night, while her husband slept, Iriset worked: She chose one of Singix’s embroidered chest pieces and wove a force-shield through the back that will act as armor.

She took a pencil and two quills from Lyric’s desk and imbued them with charge-designs she can activate—she’s toyed with tiny prototype ecstatic blades in the past. Mostly for picking locks and thievery, but they should do for shocking Seal guards back, slicing through force-blades if she’s lucky.

They could cut through this shield around the pavilion, certainly.

The weapons are fixed to her arms under her wide sleeves with friction-buttons.

Iriset is as ready as she knows how to be for whatever will happen. She can’t be a palace-wide distraction, and since Bittor must think she’s dead, he won’t count on it anymore. Whatever his new plan is, if she can help, she will.

He must have a plan. He must be coming.

Iriset looks out over the crowd toward the Mercy Pavilion.

It seems to have been grown overnight out of the Crystal Desert, shining in striae of pink salt and white-silver quartz, with veins of iron deposits striping violently through in forks and slices like lightning.

Four pillars evenly spaced in a square rise from the smooth, flat surface of the pavilion. Each for a criminal.

People, mostly miran wearing red death masks under shaded palanquins or palm umbrellas hovering over their heads, fill the space between the Vertex Seal’s stage and the pavilion.

The chatter and anticipation are ecstatic in the hot air.

Toward the edges, groups of non-miran gather together, just as eager.

It’s not bloodthirsty of them, exactly, for these executions include no blood.

It’s closer to curiosity that brings them here, not to witness death but to witness the Glorious Unraveling that is how the criminals die.

Such architecture is—in Iriset’s opinion—human architecture, as it changes life, reworks living flesh.

But officially it’s only a weapon, like a force-blade.

Besides, unraveling is the way the Holy Syr executed the Moon-Eater four hundred years ago, and so it is blessed by She Who Loves Silence.

Even if it’s human architecture, technically, no gift from Aharté can be apostasy.

Semantics and doctrine , Iriset thinks bitterly, wishing Ceres fashion allowed for a mask to hide her expression.

She wishes to argue with Lyric that all these who approve of this method of execution but claim innocence of apostasy are hypocrites.

She wishes she were herself, to sneer in his face that his empire is unworthy of the moral heights to which he aspires.

She wishes she could unleash her rage and grief onto something that will affect the outcome of this eclipse day.

Now she understands why people pray.

Amaranth arrives, her face striped in thick black lines, and Lyric seems surprised to see her.

Garnet even makes a slight comment to Sidoné, for Her Glory has never attended the Final Mercy executions before.

Sidoné merely grimaces at the griffons above.

But room is made among the Seal guards, attendants, and handful of miran of high enough rank to observe from Lyric’s side.

Beremé mé Adora tries to maneuver herself next to Amaranth, but Her Glory stands with Iriset and takes her other hand, making herself, along with her brother, into royal buttresses holding Iriset up.

The Moon-Eater’s Mistress came for Iriset.

How dare she? Iriset carefully tugs away.

There’s little fanfare to the execution, as it’s a performance of justice.

The moment the sun touches the eastern edge of the moon, priests stationed at each cardinal point surrounding the venue begin force-prayers, calling on the crowd to join them in summoning a balanced song.

Because of where the royal stage is positioned, the Vertex Seal’s party joins in with the falling principle, following Lyric’s lead in a soothing melody that slides back and forth between four notes, between major and minor chords. Iriset remains quiet.

The song fades and Seal guards escort four prisoners onto the pavilion. Three men and one woman are bound with prepared linen to the crystal pillars. Isidor the Little Cat is given the position at the forefront, the tip of the death diamond.

The light of the summer sun fades into a cooler blue.

Where is Bittor? Did he not act before Isidor was on the stage because her security map was rendered useless?

Miran lower their palm fans and umbrellas to let the eclipse light reach their faces.

Iriset lifts her chin. She imagines how the wavering blue sunlight catches the ghost writing on her forehead.

What will her father see? Rays of rainbow light, mimicking a mask?

Will it dazzle him? She is so far away, but she can see his face, see that he turns in her direction.

This is the end. Iriset feels so much it is like feeling nothing at all. All four forces crashing together so strongly they negate.

The rumble of conversation lifts, though nobody cheers or cries out either eagerly or in protest. It’s not Silent, but neither is it fraught. Beremé murmurs something to Amaranth. One of the Seal guards on the royal platform coughs.

Iriset barely breathes.

Priests of Aharté, in their dark red robes and silver masks, bring out the unraveling collars, affixing them to the prisoners in pairs. Each collar is wrought of four echo coins and threads of force gathered in long, narrow webs like ladder rope. They settle over the shoulders of the criminals.

Iriset stares hard at her father, memorizing him like he’s the last sunset she’ll ever see.

His shorn hair is slicked back as if wet, his beard shaved away.

He’s clean, wearing a simple robe and trousers, no shoes.

They’ve painted something onto his forehead and chin, and maybe his hands, but she can’t see well enough from her distance.

When a thrum of unexpected falling force slinks beneath Iriset’s slippered feet, she’s startled into glancing down. Above her the griffon queen screams .