word in different languages and styles of lettering: traitor. His mouth was partly open, and his teeth had been inscribed with whorls and Celtic design, then stained with something dark and brown, turning his mouth into living scrimshaw.
His entire body, in fact, was adorned with either tattoos or artistic, ritually applied scars. He was held to the plank with seven lengths of slender silken cord, but his emaciated limbs looked like they would never have the strength to overcome even those frail bonds.
He was weeping, sobbing softly, the sound of it more like an animal in horrible pain than anything human.
“Jesus,” I said, and looked away from him.
“I am somewhat proud of this,” Mab’s cold voice said. “To be sure, the White Christ never suffered so long or so terribly as did this traitor. Three days on a tree. Hardly enough time for a prelude. When it came to visiting agony, the Romans were hobbyists.”
The servitors slid the plank up onto the stone table, positioning Slate in its center. Then they bowed toward Mab and retreated in measured silence. For a moment, the only sounds were those of a cold, gentle wind and Slate’s sobs.
“For a time, I was contented to torment him to the edge of sanity. Then I set out to see how far over the edge a mortal could go.” Her eyes glittered merrily in the shadows. “A pity that so little was left. And yet, he is the Winter Knight, young wizard. The vessel of my power amidst mortals, and consort to the Queens of Winter. He betrayed me. See where it has taken him.”
The thing that used to be Lloyd Slate made quiet, hopeless sounds.
I trembled, afraid.
The dark shape came closer, and a pale hand emerged from the folds of cloth. Something glittered coldly in the strange light and landed in the thick grass at my feet. I bent to take it up and found an ancient, ancient knife with a simple leaf-blade design, set into a wooden handle and wrapped with cord and leather. It was, I thought, made of bronze. Its double edge had a wickedly sharp shine to it, and its needle point looked hungry, somehow.
Energy surged through the little blade, power that was unfettered and wild, that mocked limits and scoffed at restraint. Not evil, as such—but hungry and filled with the desire to partake in its portion of the cycle of life and death. It thirsted for bloodshed.
“While Lloyd Slate lives and breathes, he is my Knight,” said Mab’s voice. “Take Medea’s bodkin, wizard. Take his life’s blood.”
I stood there holding the knife and looking at Lloyd Slate. The last time I’d heard him speak, he had begged me to kill him. I didn’t think he’d be capable of even that much now.
“If you would be my Knight, then this is the first death I desire of you,” Mab said, her voice almost gentle. She faced me across the Stone Table. “Send his power back to me. And I will render it unto thee.”
I stood in the cold wind, not moving.
What I did with the next moments would determine the course of the rest of my life.
“You know this man,” Mab continued, her voice still gentle. “You saw his victims. He was a murderer. A rapist. A thief. A monster in mortal flesh. He has more than earned his death.”
“That isn’t for me to judge,” I whispered quietly. Indeed not. I was tempted to hide behind that rationale, just for a moment—just until it was done. Lie to myself, tell myself that I was his lawful, rightful executioner.
But I wasn’t.
I could have told myself that I was ending his pain. That I was putting him out of his hideous misery in an act of compassion. Necessarily an act of bloodshed, but it would be quick and clean. Nothing should suffer as much as Lloyd Slate had. I could have sold myself that story.
But I didn’t.
I was a man seeking power. For good reasons, maybe. But I wasn’t going to lie to myself or anyone else about my actions. If I killed him, I would be taking a life, something that was not mine to take. I would be committing deliberate, calculated murder.
It was the least evil path, I told myself. Whatever else I might have done would have turned me into a monster in truth. Because of Lloyd Slate, I knew that whatever Mab might say, she did not control her Knight completely. Slate had defied her power and influence.
And