At first, we went unnoticed. To the common folk milling about the city gates, going about their daily business, we were just another Griidlord train. Such an arrival was enough to draw curious eyes but not so rare as to create a commotion. Traders and craftsmen turned their heads to our convoy, likely wondering what new goods we’d brought. A few merchants with wagons lingered outside the city, hoping to barter their way onto a train headed elsewhere.
Once we exited the Footfield, several hundred yards from the outer structures that grew like weeds around the walls, we began rolling toward the gate at a mortal pace. Two of the ten mounted knights accompanying us peeled off and galloped toward the city, heedless of the peasants in their path, who jumped aside as the horses charged forward.
It didn’t take long for eyes to settle on me, and shouts went up. The people had yet to celebrate their new commoner Sword, and soon a small crowd gathered.
At first, I didn’t enjoy this. I didn’t like the press of people, the way they looked at me as though I were better or greater than them. I didn’t like the strange teary hope that filled some of their eyes, as though my ascension to this rank heralded better times for them, too.
Yet the words, the glances, the outstretched hands, the throng—all gathered for me—stroked my ego. I had never been the most important person in any room; that honor had always belonged to Father. I could see myself coming to enjoy this in time.
Not all the crowd was focused on our convoy, though. A dense throng had gathered by the gallows to the north of the wall. The structure itself was a necessity. There had never been an intentional effort to build a gallows. At some point in the ancient past, the need arose, and a hasty structure was erected from wood. Over the ages, the original structure had been repaired, rotten boards replaced, and storm damage mended. Not one piece of original lumber remained, yet it retained a dilapidated, temporary feel.
The crowd before the gallows jeered with a cruelty only possible in a crowd. A crowd has no soul of its own, no basic decency or compassion that dwells in individuals. The crowd is an empty vessel, awaiting only the emotion of consensus, and that emotion often lacks mercy.
I saw fruit flying through the air, heard the vicious curses. Soldiers stood between the people and the gallows, containing the savage energy of the mob. White-cloaked priests stood on the stage, reveling in the murderous eagerness of the onlookers. I wondered what crime could inspire such rage—what rapist or killer awaited their doom.
SIGHT revealed what I should have guessed. So much had happened, and so much was happening, that I had never paused to process the inevitable consequence of Leona’s interference in the arena.
She stood on the platform, dressed in rags, arms bound behind her, the posture of one awaiting judgment. There was no noose around her neck. A priest stood on either side, each one loudly inciting the crowd, fueling their hatred even as soldiers struggled to keep the most frenzied of the people from rushing the platform.
I stood up in the wagon, a cold feeling flooding over me. “No…”
Chowwick looked around, sitting up straighter. He nodded grimly, “Ah, that... Sad, that.”
I said, “They’re not going to execute her…”
Chowwick replied, “What else can they do, lad? She broke the rules of the tourney in the most blatant way. She tried to subvert the will of the Oracle. Look how clearly the Oracle chose you, lad. The mad girl tried to alter the Oracle’s will, and now she has to pay the price.”
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I protested, “No, you can’t be so willing to accept that. There must be something we can do.”
Chowwick said, “Why would you want to? The girl betrayed you; she sent you to the hospital. Laws are laws.”
Dirk trotted over, catching the tail end of our conversation. He said, “They won’t hang her today.”
I asked, “How can you know that?”
There was a sudden, strange compassion in Dirk’s expression. His eyes were narrowed with a real concern that didn’t fit the hardness of his face. “It’s a rare treat for them. How often do the priests get to put a noble to death for defying the Oracle? They’ll want to play this out. In the endless game of musical chairs between the white cloaks and the fat-assed cats, the whites won’t waste a chance to remind them that this is their power, their right. They’ve probably been bringing her out here every day and showing her off. Don’t yinz worry; the day they put the rope around her neck, there’ll be a bigger crowd than this. The whole city will be here to watch.”
SIGHT showed me Leona’s face. I had expected to see tears, maybe fear. What I saw instead was something close to death. There was no emotion, no flicker, just eyes that barely seemed to see. Perhaps she had wept and sobbed the first day they brought her out before the crowd. But now, only numbness remained.
Dirk glanced at me. “Yinz the Sword. Maybe there’s somethin’ yinz can do.”
Chowwick said, “Why would he want to? The girl’s a traitor and a heretic. There’s no other fate for her.”
I made to drop from the cart, my eyes fixed on the crowd, hand brushing the hilt of my sword. Dirk reached out to stop me. Despite his irreverence, his eyes held a mild concern, perhaps fearing he’d overstepped in touching a Griidlord.
I looked down at him but said nothing.
He advised, “Not like this. If yinz want to do somethin’ about it, don’t go confrontin’ the priests in front of a crowd. Yinz know what they’re like. If they feel embarrassed or humiliated, they’ll fight twice as hard to get the knot around her. Take care of it in the Tower, not out here.”
I nodded slowly, disgusted at leaving her there, pelted with rotting fruit and vile curses, but knowing Dirk was right. I sat back down and turned my head from the sight.
Chowwick couldn’t let go of his incredulity. “But why, lad? Why would you want to? You haven’t answered me.”
I said, “It just doesn’t seem right… I know she turned on me; I know she broke the law. But why did she do it? She was in line to win a Flow for her house if she was part of the winning team. You have to wonder, what pressure was on her? She looked down her nose at me, but I doubt she was so offended by a commoner winning the Sword that she’d give up her life to stop me. She had to know what she was doing. The replays made it pretty damn clear she knew she’d just killed herself. So, why? There must have been some pressure—someone must have driven her to it. The moment she put her arms around me and held me for Theo, that was the moment she threw her life away.”
Chowwick nodded slowly, speaking carefully, with consideration. “But she still did it, lad. If you kill a man or rape a lass, there’s no changing the nature of the crime.”
A solemn moment hung over us. We didn’t speak. I think our words had reached each other. I wrestled with the possibility that this was simply just punishment for a crime—a crime committed against me. Chowwick seemed to weigh my words as well.
I wanted to say more, but the crowd that had loosely followed our slowing wagons began to part. People, many reluctantly, moved back from the wagons. Soldiers marched up: Tower guards and two knights. Behind them, I could see the flowing white robes of priests and the fine silks of nobles.
Among them, I saw Baltazar. There was no way he could have traveled from the Tower so quickly; he must have been waiting. Had some word arrived before us to warn of our approach? Perhaps a spotter had seen the Footfield from a distance, and Baltazar and the nobles had gathered on the chance that it was my train. I realized it would take some adjustment to understand just how important I had become.
I glanced at Chowwick’s legs and then back to the stern expression of Baltazar as he approached. I swallowed hard, wondering how Baltazar would react.
But I needed to grasp the role I had stepped into. He was Lord Supreme, but I was the Sword of Boston. I needed to remind myself, as often as necessary, that he was not my master. I was Sword. I was a Griidlord. I had no master.