And now all I could think about was a name I didn’t know.
The drums stopped as I reached the block and lowered the axe to the straw. King Edvarg joined me at the block. Tall as a mountain and thin as a river on a map. He’d been king for a few days, yet he still wore the gray robes of the Holy Order of the Undergod—now edged in royal silver and king’s bronze. A tight silver crown traced his brow, pressing down the sacred cowl of the high priesthood. He always seemed sickly to me, with his face lined in shadows. He raised his spindly fingers to the crowd circled about the platform. They silenced.
“It grieves me to meet on this dark night.” His soft voice rumbled like a distant thunder. “My brother’s treason has led to this, and here this sad business will end. Our god will be appeased, and his justice will rain on those heathen Savak who stole the best of us with their vile lies.”
The crowd cheered. He spat on the dark cobblestones and I drew backward. To King Edvarg, heathen meant anyone who didn’t worship the Undergod. To anyone else it was only an insult, but from King Edvarg it was a holy judgment of damnation.
“We will not betray our god,” King Edvarg’s voice echoed. “We will not give in to my brother’s blasphemy and cowardice. When the Savak try to claim our lands, we will show them our swords are mightier than any traitorous contract. Our fight against the Savak begins tonight, with one death. A death I mourn already.”
The torches flickered. I caught a whiff of burnt oil.
A crowd of men dressed in long black robes lined with raven feathers moved to the edge of the platform, holding back the crowd with their silent presence and sharp gaze. Historians. I couldn’t look them in the eye. Even behind their carved silver masks, the Historians’ vision was too sharp. My brother had told me it was best to stay away from their notice.
They were watching me now.
I slouched and tried to hide beneath the thick black robes. I was only doing this at the king’s command. It was the king’s kill, not mine. He didn’t even know who the Executioner was. No one did. They should be focused on him.
A bell tolled, and the lanterns sputtered. I heard the footsteps first, the first hint of the life I would take. The crowd roared as the prisoner walked forward, chains linked around his wrists, his eyes and mouth tied with filthy coverings.
I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw. My hands would not settle.
Not Prince Ryo.
Any name but his. My brother would never forgive me for this.
The crowd circling the platform spread down the long roads. They only avoided the Executioner’s wall. With the bewitched gloves, I could press the wall open and reach my father’s tunnel. That would be my escape. If it came to that.
But there was no way out for Ryo.
I stared at Prince Ryo like I had the night of my first ball, like he was the only person in a crowded room. Except this time, Ryo marched toward his death in bare feet, dressed in a poor shirt, made dusty red from dirt, sweat, and blood. He’d hate that. He was always so meticulous with his clothing, so concerned with the way his people saw him. The crowd quieted, for this, even in rags, was the prince whose birth sparked a three-week festival, the prince we waved to when he was a small boy, sitting high on his father’s shoulders as he grinned from the castle balcony. He’d grown handsome as he aged, with his strong jaw and intelligent eyes. It seemed like god spent more time designing him than others. I knew the details of his face, the scar above his eyebrow, the curve of his lips, the halo of black hair, which seemed a crown. We all did.
He was ours.
And he’d betrayed us.
I should have seen it coming.
No one hated him more than I did. That first ball I’d thought him handsome, and when Grigfen introduced us, he looked me up and down, his lips curved in an appraising dismissal as though he thought me plain. No one danced with me the whole evening. The other girls mocked my ribbons and the boys shoved me to the back of the ballroom. I cried myself to sleep that night, and every other