~ IAN ~
The morning was for the pilgrims. Three hundred of them made the journey up to Caroline’s hill, men and women and children, bleary-eyed and damp from the pervasive drizzle. Dark days brought dark skies, as the old saying went. Today the clouds were black as the rings of hell. Every clap of thunder was the Gods screaming their anger, and of late they seemed particularly furious. Skerrett had claimed to serve those Gods. Maybe the old priest was right, and they were not happy that he had to die for his service.
Ian had not expected a capital sentence. Nobody had, really. Execution as a punishment was as illegal in the Unity as religious sacrifice. And yet no blanket ban had ever been written in, and some of the oldest laws still had their ancient justice. The law was the law, and the sentence was death, and so Skerrett had to burn.
That was if the rain didn’t extinguish the flames.
Perhaps it would have been better to let Skerrett go. They could keep a close eye on him, find the most petty of charges with which to gaol him, and keep him incarcerated then for years—imprisoned but alive. If Chris had seen the blood of a man dead at his own hand, surely he’d not have been so ardent that Skerrett had to die.
Water doesn’t wash all the blood out.
But Skerrett had killed. Dani never had. She’d only loved, and picked the wrong love. She’d sang her way to her dying place, and watched the sun set feet from the spot she now lay rotting in. “My love, he’ll carry me over the sea, my love, he’s carrying treasures for me.” The words still played in Ian’s head sometimes. Dani’s voice had been sweet, but the music in his memory was discordant.
Molly Bradshaw had not killed either. Maybe she was a spy, as Skerrett claimed. Maybe she really was devout. Either way she was seventeen, and either way dead.
The death of the priest would not breathe life back into her. It would fuel a bloodlust. Old Master Ruddingshaw had agreed with Ian. A mockery of justice, he called it. It didn’t matter. There was no debate to be had. The moment they’d read the old law, the decision of the Council was made. Chris had been happy to go along with their fury.
Without Caroline he became a different person. He needed her. In the old days, the daughters of nobles went to Temperance Colleges, so they could learn how best to be wives. A queen practiced morality, sought counsel, gave wise advice, while her king’s blood ran hot. The best kings died before their wives, before the advice ran out. Chris was born to be a king, and Caro a queen. Anyone could see it.
That was why Dani had needed to die.
What remained of Skerrett’s followers came down from the church in single file, each in the drab hair shirts of piety. Many had abandoned worship since Molly died. A few had tried to break Skerrett out of his prison, and instead been confined there with him. A dozen were left, Tim Fawley at their head. Fawley was dour, dry, far too severe. He’d probably drive the rest of them away quickly enough.
Millie had not come. She was full enough already with the sight of death. In that, she seemed to be almost alone. The valley had teemed with angry whispers. Many wanted Skerrett to die. Even more disturbing were the people who wanted him to suffer. More than once, Ian had overheard somebody describing all the gruesome things they thought Skerrett deserved to have done to him. One man’s expressed fantasy belied a fundamental lack of understanding about what could physically be done to a person, and even were it possible it was comically disproportionate to the crime.
He stayed clear of the zealots. Better to walk alone, in the company of his thoughts. He knew Elise would have walked with him, had she been here—not out of any love of violent spectacle, but out of fear of seeing him afraid. And he was afraid, he was man enough to admit that. Things were mounting up. He’d pushed the ball down the hill when he spoke to Skerrett, but he hadn’t seen how far it had to roll. Perhaps he shouldn’t have pushed it in the first place. Elise would have squeezed his hand tight, and walked with him silently, and that would have made everything better. It was the one aspect of her that he still had love for.
The grass was wet on Caroline’s hill, on that flat respite from the southern slope upon which she’d been laid to rest. Chris had arrived early; he was stood beside the stake that had been erected. Behind him, half a dozen Constabulary guards in resplendent uniforms kept hold of Skerrett. The Lightness had been given little more than a dirty tunic to wear, and a heavy sack was tied over his head, to keep his face from view. A metal brazier was positioned at one side of the hill, smoke billowing from it, and a woman was fanning to keep the smoke from her face.
It didn’t take long for the area to become crowded. David gave a signal from the apple box he was sat on and his soldiers moved into crowd control. They fanned out evenly around the masses, forming an open hemisphere around the stake.
“People of Essegena, you on this hill, please be at ease,” David yelled, bringing silence with him. “The man will burn, but not until there’s peace here. This is the pendant Lightness Skerrett wore around his neck: a lie. It will go to the flames with him.” David held aloft a silver necklace, too small from this distance for Ian to make out the shape it was cut into, and threw it onto the waiting pyre.
“Bastard,” one of the acolytes screamed. They’d gathered together at the extreme right of the semi-circle, behind boring Tim Fawley.
“It’s him that should be burning,” shrieked Boneskin Bets, pointing a skinny finger at Chris.
An amused smirk spread across David’s face, Ian saw. “Your precious Lightness has been convicted of a criminal act.”
“Governor, you’re in the wrong here,” said Tim Fawley, inching forward. The guard nearest to him began to look nervous, and another ran to support him. “The Gods will judge you harshly. This was all your doing.” The two guards together were enough to keep Fawley back, so he walked away from them. The sea of acolytes parted to let him by, and he clambered up onto a huge boulder behind them. He turned to address the crowds, projecting his voice far into the heavens. “The Governor arranged the death of the girl. He planned it all.” That perked Ian up. Boring Tim Fawley had become interesting for once.
The two guards glanced at one another. David said something to them, and the larger of the two—the one who had come to assist—pushed his way into the crowd, between the acolytes. He reached up to Fawley, dragged him off the boulder, and pulled him out. Laying him down in the empty hemisphere, the two guards took turns beating Fawley. Each blow brought a sickening crunch. Kicked up flecks of blood.
Godsouls, Ian thought. They’re going to kill Fawley. One execution was bad enough. Tim Fawley had committed no crimes.
“Stop this,” came the booming voice of Mark Bradshaw, just arriving up the hill. “Captain Clifford, control your men.”
David was chastened, and ordered the guards to stop. Fawley scrambled back into the throng of acolytes, blood streaming from his nose. They absorbed him into their ranks and linked their arms together, forming a wall around him. One of the guards briefly moved to separate them. His mates didn’t follow suit, and he gave up the idea.
The crowd parted as Bradshaw took his place at the front, his daughter Megan by his side. “There’s no need for any riots here.”
At last, Chris stepped forward, blocking the stake. “This is to be the end of it,” he said. “Any feuds will die on the flames beside Lightness Skerrett. Let his be a death for the sins of us all. For those of his followers who share in his guilt, this is an amnesty. Your actions will be forgotten. Such is justice. And this is justice, make no mistake. Reprehensible as Lightness Skerrett’s actions were, they were his actions. Those who shared his faith do not share his guilt. With his death, the debt will be cleared. I hope the church can find a way to move forward and prove itself worthy of its name, and the memories of those it venerates. A strong faith can bolster us, and be a boon to all Essegena. But a weak faith, one that falls back on the murderous ways of Lightness Skerrett, cannot be allowed to endure. Let this be your warning: it will be the whole church on the pyre next time.”
Ian shook his head. It was bad enough that Chris had given in to the demands from certain quarters and condemned Skerrett to such an end. Now here he was giving a speech, like it was some game and he was laying down the rules. Reach out a hand of reconciliation to the church. Don’t threaten to burn it down.
“Bring him forward,” said Chris, stood before the baying crowd.
A bearded soldier guided Skerrett towards the stake. The platform around it had been hurriedly erected. It creaked and buckled as Skerrett was led over it. The soldier tied him to the stake with thick ropes, tying knots around each ankle and each wrist and looping the ropes around Skerrett’s neck. He made a feeble attempt to pull free, but the ropes were tied firm. They did not budge.
Skerrett was barefoot, Ian noticed. The skin was heavily callused, and the soles were filthy. The bearded soldier made a point of standing squarely on Skerrett’s toes as he descended from the platform. The Lightness yelped, a muffled, almost girlish cry.
As soon as the soldier was well clear of the platform, Chris moved aside. One of the Constabulary guards, having procured a torch from somewhere—Ian hadn’t seen it, but it must have been near the brazier somewhere—held it over the fire until it took light, then passed it to Chris.
Ian held his breath as Chris walked in what felt like slow-motion towards the base of the pyre. He touched the torch to the stacks of kindling, and suddenly the whole thing was ablaze. Through the flames Ian could see Skerrett shuffling away as the fire approached. His feet were pressed tight against the stake. He tried to hoist them up, to get off the platform, but then the fire reached him.
That was all Ian could take. He turned away as Skerrett started to scream. It was a high scream, shrill, piercing, deathly loud. Others were turning away too, Ian could see. Lots of them. Many sought the comfort of a loved one’s arm to cry into. Some stayed rapt on the pyre, the flames reflected in their eyes, completely frozen. Skerrett’s screams became louder and louder, higher and higher. He sounded at first like a woman, but then the cries became inhuman. An animal howling. A base screeching. And then silence.
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The silence was worse than the screams.
Ian kept facing away from the pyre until he felt safe to turn around. His eyes were slick with tears which he tried to blink away. Why had he come? What had he expected? Not this, that was certain. This was worse than he could have imagined. Dani’s drowning pleas for mercy were a pale imitation of this.
Thunder cracked overhead, and the rain grew heavier. Ian let it drench him. Who cared if he got wet? Certainly he didn’t. He stood in the midst of the falling water, feeling his clothes get soaked through. Others were running for shelter, leaving the hill in their droves. Scores of them were heading back into the valley. Skerrett was dead, for better or worse. The show was over. Why stay to be soaked?
Why stay?
Ian could have gone too. He wanted to go. But his legs wouldn’t obey him. He could feel them wobbling, like jelly, the nerves all a-tingle. Two steps and they’d give out, and he’d be in a crumpled heap on the wet ground. So he remained in place to take the beating of the rain. He pressed shaking hands, balled into fists, to his eyes. Where tears ended and rain began was uncertain, but Ian wiped them both away the same.
Eventually, things began to grow normal again. The fire was extinguished, he thought, and the crowds had gone. Caroline’s gleaming headstone with its malachite pressings was visible at last. A ray of flooding sunshine parted the rainclouds. It seemed to shine directly on dear Caro.
She wouldn’t let him be alone at such a time as this. He was a friend, and she was good to her friends. Not even death could stop that.
Ian smiled faintly and dried his face.
“What about that, huh?” He turned at the sound of Chris’ voice, to see the Governor pushing his way between the throngs. “I wasn’t expecting it all to be so beautiful.”
“Beautiful isn’t the word I’d use.”
Chris beckoned him to one side, and reluctantly he followed. “There’s some kind of power in the flames, there must be. They’re so mesmerising.”
“I just think it’s a little barbaric.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “You made your standing quite plain, Ian, but capital sentences are codified in law.”
“Unity law. We’re not in the Unity, as you’re so keen to remind people.”
“Keep your voice down.” He didn’t realise he’d raised it in the first place, but it had attracted a few stares. Some of Skerrett’s tear-stained followers were grouped beside a large rock nearby, among them Tim Fawley, his nose still bleeding gently. Each of them stared. “Ian, I hope this isn’t the last time you and I meet. When is it you leave for the Hive? Tomorrow?”
“At first light,” Ian confirmed.
Chris nodded. “Well, there’s nothing now for me to say except that I hope you return. You’ve always been a good friend, Ian, and I know Caroline felt the same way. I’m going to miss you.”
Ian turned away. “Goodbye, Governor.”
Unconscious step carried Ian to the heart of town, his mind set firm, and he found himself at Snyder’s Dressmaker’s as the afternoon sun tried to poke out behind the clouds. When was the last time he’d been into a dressmaker’s? Elise dressed cheaply, and kept to herself as she bought. He hadn’t accompanied her since her mother’s funeral, when she’d wanted help to find the right attire.
Snyder’s wasn’t close to being as stuffy as that last one had been. Daylight streamed through huge windows, and the walls were painted in bright colours. Racks of clothes were kept a distance apart. The furthest wall was filled with square cuttings of all sorts of different fabrics, in every colour there was.
The woman herself, Mistress Mary Snyder, was stood by this wall, dressed brightly in a gown with a pleated skirt that billowed well below her knees. Her hair was waving tresses of spun gold, and her lips were painted a blushing pink. In her day she must have been beautiful. She still was beautiful, as a matter of fact, even if her face was lined and the skin stretched thin. She smiled politely at Ian, and radiated grace from that smile. “How can I help you, Master Fitzhenry?” she purred.
“I’m here for Millie.”
Mistress Snyder nodded. “You’ll find her in the back room.”
Ian hesitated. “You don’t want to accompany me?”
“Good Mother, no. If anything goes missing, I’ll know exactly who to moan to. Let’s have a bit of trust.”
The back room was much more drab in its decor, but somehow just as airy. Millie was sat at a wooden spindle, humming softly to herself.
“So this is where you weave your magic,” said Ian.
Millie jumped. “I don’t really weave,” she said, standing. “Ian, what are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you,” he told her. He gestured at her spindle. “Haven’t they invented machines for that?”
“Mistress Snyder prefers the old way,” said Millie. “And really I like it better. I get to put more of me into what I make.”
He beckoned her to one side, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “This is goodbye, Millie,” he said. “I’m not coming back from the Hive.”
“What?”
“I can’t. Not after today. This isn’t a place for me, that’s been made clear. It’s on me for taking so long to realise.”
“But you said... Where will you go?”
Ian shrugged. “It’s a big universe. I’ll find somewhere suitable.”
Millie grimaced. “I can wait for you,” she offered. “In case you decide to come back one day.”
He stroked her face. “Don’t be silly,” he said, pressing his face close to hers. “Millie, you’re young still. There are so many years for you to build a life. You mustn’t waste them on a vain hope. It’ll only leave you bitter, when you’re old and full of regret.”
“What is there to regret? I got to love you.”
“No, Millie, don’t tell yourself this was love. There was never love here. Passion, yes—but this was just physical. Just sex. It didn’t mean anything more. I’m a married man, and you’re half my age.”
Millie frowned. “You don’t have to lie for the sake of my feelings.”
“I’m not lying,” Ian insisted. “Believe me, I’ve enjoyed our little trysts. You’ve shown me that life can still be fun. But how can you call it love? Do you even know what love is?”
She nodded, determination on her face. “This is love. Ian, I’m not a child. I know my own heart.”
He sighed. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but she needed to understand. Somehow his words weren’t getting through to her. “I loved a girl when I was a teenager,” he said. “She was my best friend, and I’d have given anything to make her my wife. But she didn’t love me. She had her eyes on somebody else.” He closed his eyes to steel himself. Ten seconds time, and Millie would hate him. As she should. “I killed, Millie. I took a young woman and drowned her in the lake, so the girl I loved would be free to marry the man of her dreams. That’s love.”
His words had the expected effect. Millie froze. The tension suddenly pressing on every muscle was palpable. She pulled away from him, her eyes firm. “You should go. It’s a long way to the Hive.”
“I’m not walking there,” said Ian. “The ship leaves first thing tomorrow.”
“Then go and prepare for it.” There was a coldness to Millie now, the likes of which Ian hadn’t seen before. “Go on. I have spinning to do.”
She returned to her spindle and began to work. All of a sudden he felt the need to defend himself.
“I should have said something before now,” said Ian.
“Yes, you should have.” Millie didn’t look up from her spinning.
“It’s not me. I’ve moved past that, I’m a different person.”
“So why won’t you say her name?”
Ian paused, blinked. “I... come again?”
“Her name,” said Millie. “Say it.”
“Millie—”
“How can you expect me to believe you?” She finally looked up. “You tell me you’ve changed. So tell me who she was.”
He sighed. “Her name was Dani Carrigan.”
A beat. “I’ve heard the name before,” said Millie. “You got angry with me when I asked you who she was. If you’d really moved past it, you wouldn’t have been ashamed to say her name to me. You’re a killer.”
“No.”
“You’ll kill again. I can’t take the chance of it being me.”
He shook his head. “Millie, I am not a killer. It was a mistake, one adolescent mistake. And it’s not as if I’ve ever been able to forget. I still see her ghost everywhere I go. I wish I’d never been the man I was that day.”
Millie pulled a face. “Like I said, I’ve got spinning to do. When you come back, we’ll talk again.”
“I’m not coming back, Millie,” he said. “I already told you that.”
She turned to him. “Then we won’t ever talk again. That’s up to you.”
Millie didn’t say another word. Ian stood for a while, until the silence became unbearable and the awkwardness palpable. Then, without a word, he took his leave. His departure was underscored by the sound of Millie’s spinning wheel, and the sad tune she was humming.
He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t return to the Eia, and his chambers. Instead, he headed north-east. The cobbles leading the way to the Lord Constable’s Tower were still wet even as the sun warmed those same stones. His shoes squeaked on the ground as he walked.
There was nobody keeping guard outside the tower. They were probably all inside, or else drinking themselves silly at the Tavern in celebration of an immolation well done. Ian didn’t need anybody. He climbed the wide steps and followed the path around the tower, and soon enough he was in the hidden shelter of the grove there. The pool gleamed as a light breeze lapped at the water, and he sat on the rocks beside it.
And for some reason, he spoke. “We need you, Caroline. We needed you today.” Somehow he felt as though she was there. It was just as Chris had said. Caroline’s presence was here, with him, listening. Hers was a benevolent spectre, and he knew she must be sad. “The world’s gone insane since you died.”
In a secret crook of his memory, something was stirring. Caroline’s grandmother, the grey siren with the sharpest wit of any woman he’d ever met, had talked about the Gods and their favourites. They liked to send their chosen into the world, and with them hold back the encroaching darkness. The story chilled Ian. Everyone knew that the Gods held dominion. It was what made them Gods. The darkness was theirs.
But if it had to be held back, that meant it wasn’t theirs.
And what force could bring the Gods to fear?
The shadows seemed to have grown longer all through the grove, deeper and darker. The air was cold.
He looked around. There was a tall willow at the heart of the grove—one of the trees the place had been built around. The sunlight caught on the leaves, shone just right, and there beneath the creaking branches was a glow of ghostly pale. “Is that your ghost? I can’t see you, not through the curtain, but I can talk to you. Do you mind if I talk a while?”
Caroline’s ghost gave no word of protest.
“Could I have saved everybody? If I’d drowned myself in the water, Dani would still be alive. You would too. Caro, I’d do it.” He smiled a sad smile. “Do you remember when we stole Tessa’s circlet? Good Mother, you must have been six? Seven? And you had to be the one to do the deed. That’s courage, Caro. I could do with some courage. Look, if you’re there—if you’re watching me—please show me you’ve heard. Tell me it’s okay to go backwards. All I’ve ever done is run forward.” He paused. Held his breath, lest he miss the whispered voice of a spectre. The starfires in their beds fluttered idly in the breeze, but so did the bushes at the edge of the grove. No ghostly woman answered.
Ian stood again. “You rest easy, Caroline. Don’t watch for me to visit. I’ll be gone by tomorrow—I’ll leave you to Chris.”
With the voice of the breeze, Caroline replied.
Ian breathed out the burdens of Essegena and made his way out of the grove. He crept unseen around the Lord Constable’s Tower, and before he knew it he was back in the plaza. The Tavern was alive and bustling in the afternoon sunlight. People were spilling out of the doors laden with tankards that looked so golden and delicious, and he could smell the cider heavy in his nose, calling him in.
And why not? The day was still bright. There was plenty of time for one more drink.