Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...
Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...
Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...
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His will could only watch from far away while his mouth dug his grave. They knew everything. The more<br />
he'd told, the more intrigued they'd got. "Now you know how Shkai'ra felt when you truth-drugged her,"<br />
they'd laughed.<br />
Now they pulled him up <strong>by</strong> his arms, <strong>and</strong> led him out of the cell. He didn't resist, his limbs numb.<br />
Suddenly he became too aware of everything, flames too bright, noise too loud; he could feel every hair<br />
at the back of his neck, all of a sudden, where the blade of the axe would first touch as it blurred down.<br />
He found himself imagining it, heavy black steel, the edge shining, whetted razor-keen—or dull,<br />
depending on how many people it had eaten since it was last sharpened—the block with its curved<br />
neck-rest <strong>and</strong> old blackened gore. He swallowed, felt his throat close; that would soon be parted, the<br />
blood that now throbbed in the arteries spraying out free.<br />
His legs were water, his guts felt as if they wanted to fall out.No, I won't feel the sharpness or dullness<br />
of the edge , he thought;they say wounds that severe don't hurt. It will just be a strange, blunt<br />
impact. Will I see the block spin for a moment as my head tips off? And then … A too-vividly<br />
written passage from an old book came to him, of a kindly executioner asking the condemned whether he<br />
cared how he looked; if so, he should relieve himself first, for the body voids at the moment of<br />
beheading. He didn't care, he decided, whether he sprayed the heathen whoresons all over with shit. But<br />
the thought brought no relief. Iguess I didn't want to die for my country , he thought.I guess in the end<br />
I'm a coward. Probably most people are .<br />
They took him upstairs, the corridors turning brighter <strong>and</strong> more ornate as they rose. A public execution?<br />
He marveled at the richness that had been before, clear from what was left.All theirs now , he thought.<br />
They led him through doors that had been glass but were now only frames or hinges, with pairs of<br />
curly-haired sentries whose dark eyes followed him.<br />
They took him to a room with a thick oaken door, pulled it open, led him through an anteroom, another<br />
door. An office; an ebony <strong>and</strong> gold filigree desk open at both ends for two to work across it, with some<br />
Yeoli behind it; the wool of hismarya looked rough <strong>and</strong> upcountry in this place, the shape under it too<br />
rugged for an office. Yet there was something in the man's presence… he looked at his face.<br />
He'd seen engravings in thePages , before that in the Watcher, the posters, paintings, mosaics. Strange,<br />
to see a sight so familiar looking more alive than his remembrance of it, because his remembrance came<br />
only from its images. Now those hard, scarred features framed <strong>by</strong> the famous halo of black curls faced<br />
him, those notorious piercing dark eyes with their touch of sadness fixed on his—living, seeing. He<br />
recognized the glearning swatch of gold hanging against the rough-knit wool: the Imperial seals, fastened<br />
to a neck-chain.<br />
He threw himself into the prostration, trying to do it as gracefully as he'd imagined it could be done.No<br />
one instructed me , he thought.No one even searched me. They never did; I could be carrying a<br />
knife . "Rise." He felt too weak to lift himself, but did, <strong>and</strong> tip-toed to the chair offered him, keeping his<br />
eyes lowered.<br />
Silence stretched to what seemed a day. Shefenkas called in Yeoli, <strong>and</strong> rattled off orders to the servant<br />
who appeared—or squire, <strong>by</strong> his manner; there was no obsequiousness in it at all. He caught only the<br />
word "Saekrberk." A glass appeared before him, was filled, the green liquid swirling. Its scent haunted<br />
him with memories. "Drink up, Matthas." Shefenkas spoke Arken, superior-to-inferior but only one step<br />
down.Poison? No, he wouldn't waste it on me. Does he mean to torture me with hope ? "You need<br />
it, I can see. Go on.Komkai ." He'd never imagined a conquering king could have such a quiet voice.