“There's work being done at the forum,” she said. “It looks like a disturbed hive of bees when you walk past it. Digging, hammering, and cutting. One of the clerks has a brother working there. They've been told to built a wall between the seats and forum floor to go around the entire forum. You'd have to sit four rows up to see anything going on inside the enclosure.”
Serovek pictured what she described. A ribbon of nausea encircled his stomach. Had the king decided his fate without waiting for judgment from the tribunal? And if so, was his execution something more epic than a quick beheading or the slower but ubiquitous hanging?
He thanked the dame for her help, the supplies and the use of the small brazier.
“I will tithe at Yalda's altar in your name, Lord Pangion,” she said. “And pray that he may look favorably on you.”
“I'll take any prayer you can you spare, Madam.” He bowed to her, watching as her stately, narrow figure disappeared from view. Then he began to pace and hadn't stopped since.
He did pause when he caught a glimpse of one of the guards out of the corner of his eye. The man had been slouched against the wall, half asleep at his post. He abruptly straightened, snapping to attention at the sound of footsteps. Serovek recognized the tread's. The Zela's warden.
Serovek's heart jumped a beat at the jangle of keys. He stepped back to the center of the room, waiting while the warden unlocked the cell door and opened it wide. Behind him, the previously slumbering guard kept a steady aim on him with a loaded crossbow.
“It seems your stay with us at the Zela is at an end, Lord Pangion,” the warden announced. “Though you aren't free.” He raised two sets of shackles. “Hands out first, and then we'll deal with your ankles.” He stood to one side as a second guard shackled Serovek's wrists, then looped a connecting chain to the ones encircling his ankles. Even if he thought to try something stupid like running, the irons made it impossible. His normally long stride was reduced by a third and he followed the warden down the hallway, descending the stairwell at a careful shuffle. Guards hemmed him in on all sides. He might be on his way to his death, but he muttered “Thank the gods,” once he stepped outside into cold, open air and morning sunlight.
Grown used to the Zela's gloom, he closed his eyes for a moment, opening them only when one of the guards nudged him toward a cart with planks built for seating on either side. Iron rings were fastened to the side boards and the floor. He stepped into the cart and sat down, watching as his escort attached the chains to two of the rings. A guard sat on either side of him with enough distance to keep out of reach. Two more sat across from him. The warden nodded once to him and then to the cart's driver who gave a sharp whistle. The pair of horses harnessed to the cart lurched forward, and they were on their way to the palace.
Serovek didn't look down or look away from the citizens of Timsiora as they watched the prison wagon roll past. If Rodan thought to humiliate his margrave by parading him down the main avenue in chains, then he would be sorely disappointed. Serovek was a prisoner, but he wasn't guilty of the crimes laid against him. There was no reason to hang his head in shame.
As they rolled closer to the palace, the streets grew even more crowded until the wagon came to a standstill. The driver cracked his whip over the heads of those in front of him, and the horses rattled their traces as they stomped their hooves and tossed their heads. The crowd didn't budge until one of Serovek's guards stood up and bellowed “Make way for the lord of High Salure.”
He might as well have uttered an invocation because the wall of people surrounding the cart shifted back and out of the way in a massive ripple, and the transport lurched forward once more. Serovek suspected his expression was as round-eyed and amazed as those who watched him from the crowds, though for different reasons.
The people had obeyed the guard's shouted command as if he announced the passage of the king himself. Unless he'd missed a coronation someone forgot to inform him about, Serovek didn't think he'd just succeeded Rodan as monarch of Belawat. So why the deference? He'd expected the curiosity. Trials, beheadings, and hangings always drew a crowd who found entertainment in death and bloodletting. He'd seen that in several faces, but something else as well, a fever-pitch excitement that audibly hummed in the air.
His unease grew when the cart turned off the boulevard leading to the palace onto the one leading to the amphitheater known as the forum. Public events of all kinds were held there: events for the festival of Delyalda, plays, exhibition games and displays of martial prowess such as wrestling, archery, sword-fighting and horseback riding. Colloquies between justiciars and defendants over petty crimes were held in the forum once a week as well. All of these drew crowds, but he'd never seen a turnout as large as this one.
Serovek's thoughts raced. Tribunals for imprisoned noblemen like him weren't typically held in the forum but in the palace itself in one of the larger chambers reserved for matters of state. All executions took place in another part of the city. So why was he brought here?
The forum came into view, unchanged from the outside, with its high curved walls and three sets of gates through which long lines of people waited to pass and find seats on one of three tiers. Another larger gate meant for those who worked at the forum or participated in any of the events held there lay on the opposite side where Serovek couldn't see. The driver guided the cart there, cracking the whip in warning to clear the way. They finally rolled through the fourth entrance, its towering arch soaring over them, the horses' hooves making loud echoes as they trotted across brick and stone and finally stopped close to an alcove.
“You get out here, Lord Pangion,” one of the guards next to him said.
He shook off the offers to help. “I'm a prisoner,” he said, “not an invalid,” and jumped to the ground with a rattle of iron. He was glad they hadn't dragged him out of the cart, but there was a difference between deference and coddling. He'd been a prisoner twice in the past month, and the two experiences stood out in marked contrast in his mind. Chamtivos's minions had beaten him badly enough that it had taken the skill and magic of the Nazim monks to heal him, while the guards and the warden who served the Beladine king treated him with a wary respect. They would stand by and watch him die if it came to that, but at least they wouldn't spit on his tomb when it was done.
They led him toward the alcove which, from this new angle, revealed a short flight of stairs that led upward and out of sight. A private stairwell for the select few to reach the more expensive seats on the second floor without having to mingle with the common crowds jostling each other in the cloisters open to the public. Serovek recognized it. He'd been here twice before as a guest of the king for a play and a mock battle. The hall he shuffled down now was lined with torches, the wooden floors covered in rugs at intermittent spaces to soften the footfall. Not as crowded as the corridors on the lower floors, it was hardly empty. Servants raced to and fro doing the bidding of their noble masters, arms full of furs, blankets, and pillows, or carrying trays of food and drink.
Serovek's mouth thinned. King Rodan was hosting a public spectacle of some type, and Serovek doubted he'd been brought here as a guest of the event. Part of the spectacle most likely, one which no doubt involved blood, violence, and his imminent death. He wondered what wild creature the king planned to feed him to.
He emerged from the cloisters into a large box decadently outfitted for maximum comfort. In its center a small throne draped in furs had been elevated on a dais. This was the monarch's private space in the forum—high enough for the best view and far enough away from any dangers or the blood that sometimes splattered those occupying the lowers. Smaller, less opulent boxes on either side of Rodan's were filled with the nobility who stared at Serovek as he entered the royal enclosure and turned to face his king.
Rodan wore the intense look of a hawk that had spotted prey and waited for just the right moment to swoop down and smash the creature into the ground with its talons. His faded eyes burned with a dark glee that ignited even more at the sight of Serovek in shackles. “Welcome, Lord Pangion.” His smile was merely a baring of yellow teeth.
Serovek was tempted to return the expression in a like manner but thought better of it. For now. Instead he genuflected, mastering his balance under the shackles' weighty restrictions. “Your Majesty,” he said. Behind him the noise of the crowd grew in volume. “Is there to be no trial? Only an execution epic enough to make it a spectacle?” His question carried the edge of contemptuous insolence.
The nobility watching the exchange gave a collective gasp. Serovek didn't apologize or drop his eyes. He had never liked Rodan, considering him too mercurial at times and plagued by a suspicious nature that only grew worse as he grew older. The monarch had left the governance of his eastern borders to Serovek with little interference, and Serovek had served in that capacity to the best of his abilities. It had been a beneficial exchange until the margrave of High Salure had joined Brishen of Bast-Haradis to become a Wraith king and save a world. People loved heroes and hero kings even more. Rodan wasn't a hero king and everyone in Belawat knew it. His margrave had become a threat to the throne.
While the nobles shifted uneasily at Serovek's question, Rodan's features didn't change. He even chuckled at the question as if he and Serovek shared some favorite joke. “Oh, there will be a trial, margrave. I've simply chosen a more public venue to have it so that all may participate after a fashion and enjoy the day.” He motioned to one of his servants standing next to a drape of cloth that hid another entrance to the side and behind the throne. The servant twitched the curtain aside, said something Serovek couldn't hear and shoved the curtain fully aside.
Serovek's breath locked in his lungs when Anhuset strode through, beautiful, proud, her features set and her eyes the palest yellow, signaling her anger. He doubted anyone else in this space could translate the message in that citrine gaze like him. He wished he could tell them she was likely imagining how they'd all look with their heads on pikes.
The tiniest pause in her step told him she'd spotted him standing there, though she didn't turn to look directly at him. Instead, she stopped where the servant indicated and saluted the king. “Your Majesty.”
Serovek consumed her with one slow, sweeping gaze. She was taller than everyone in the king's box except him, towering over the servant standing nearby who eyed her claws and backed away by incremental degrees. Dressed in armor with her hair scraped back hard and wrapped in a knot so tight it stretched the skin at the corners of her eyes and lent a sharpness to her already prominent cheekbones, her presence loomed large. Even the king looked as if he shrank a little in his chair until he remembered himself and snapped straight-backed once more. He lost that avid gleam in his eyes, only to have it replaced by the shadows of dislike and distaste as he stared at her.
“Anhuset,” he said, and Serovek started a little at the absence of her title ofsha. “I've taken all that you said into consideration. I think you'd be a very suitable wife for Serovek Pangion.”
Had the king suddenly sprouted wings, he couldn't have stunned the witnesses to this tableau any more. Serovek was thankful for Anhuset's earlier enigmatic warning. Only he and she didn't gape at the king as if he'd grown a second head from his shoulders. What in the gods' names had she negotiated with the king? Not that he was complaining. If an arranged marriage with the woman who haunted his dreams was the punishment for his supposed crimes, he was more than happy to proclaim himself guilty.