around his neck, dangling for all to gawk at. She instinctively turned away. It was an awful site, a reminder of her brother’s villainy. She felt she could not escape his reach, wherever she turned. It was odd to think that just the day before she had been talking to Firth—and now he hung here. She couldn’t help but feel that death was closing in all around her, and was coming for her, too.
As much as Gwen wanted to turn away, to choose another route, she knew that heading through the square was the most direct way, and she would not shirk from her fears; she forced herself to march right past the beam, right past the hanging body in her way. As she did, she was surprised to see the royal executioner, dressed in black robes, blocking her way.
At first she thought he was going to kill her, too—until he bowed.
“My lady,” he said humbly, lowering his head in deference. “Royal orders have not yet been given as to what to do with the body. I have not been instructed whether to give him a proper burial or throw him in a mass pauper’s grave.”
Gwen stopped, annoyed that this should fall on her shoulders; Akorth and Fulton stopped right beside her. She looked up, squinted in the sun, looking at the body dangling just feet from her, and she was about to move on and ignore the man, when something occurred to her. She wanted justice for her father.
“Throw him in a mass grave,” she said. “Unmarked. Give him no special rites of burial. I want his name forgotten from the annals of history.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment, and she felt a small sense of vindication. After all, this man had been the one who had actually killed her father. While she hated displays of violence, she shed no tears for Firth. She could feel her father’s spirit with her now, stronger than ever, and felt a sense of peace from him.
“And one more thing,” she added, stopping the executioner. “Take down the body now.”
“Now, my lady?” the executioner asked. “But the king gave orders for it to hang indefinitely.”
Gwen shook her head.
“Now,” she repeated. “Those are his new orders,” she lied.
The executioner bowed and hurried off to cut down the corpse.
Gwen felt another small sense of vindication. She had no doubt that Gareth was checking on Firth’s body out his window throughout the day—its removal would vex him, would serve as a reminder that things would not always go as he planned.
Gwen was about to go when she heard a distinctive screech; she stopped and turned, and up high, perched on the beam, she saw Estopheles. She raised her hand to her eye to shield the sun, trying to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. Estopheles screeched again and opened her wings, then closed them.
Gwen could feel the bird bore the spirit of her father. His soul, so restless, was one step closer to peace.
Gwen suddenly had an idea; she whistled and held out one arm, and Estopheles swooped down off her perch and landed on Gwen’s wrist. The weight of the bird was heavy, and her claws dug into Gwen’s skin.
“Go to Thor,” she whispered to the bird. “Find him on the battlefield. Protect him. GO!” she screamed, lifting her arm.
She watched as Estopheles flapped her wings and soared, higher and higher into the sky. She prayed it would work. There was something mysterious about that bird, especially its connection to Thor, and Gwen knew that anything was possible.
Gwen continued on, hurrying through the winding streets towards the healer’s cottage. They passed through one of several arched gates heading out of the city, and she moved as fast as she could, praying that Godfrey hung in there long enough for them to get help.
The second sun dipped lower in the sky by the time they climbed a small hill on the outskirts of King’s Court and the healer’s cottage came into view. It was a simple, one-room cottage, its white walls made of clay, with one small window on each side and a small, arched oak door in front. Hanging from its roof were plants of every color and variety, framing the cottage—which was also surrounded by a sprawling herb garden, flowers of every color and size making the cottage look as if it were dropped into the midst of a greenhouse.
Gwen ran to the door, slammed the knocker several times. The door