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