Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh Page B

that name, Confessor. It belongs to someone with the ear of our King and I will recount all that I have witnessed here today and the law you are about to break if you do not end this procedure now. Our King would not permit you to step beyond the legal boundaries.
    The trial is over. Let her die.”
    Celimus stepped in, the ever-present grin across his mouth, and was about to take charge of proceedings when something dangerous in Wyl’s glare stopped him.
    “Your highness,” Wyl said. “With respect, I believe it undermines your status to witness these proceedings any further. As your protector I insist we get you away from this place.” Celimus was shocked as Wyl knew he would be. All eyes were on the Prince now. If he remained he would certainly appear the sadistic royal voyeur—as Wyl had cleverly insinuated. He could not risk that.
    “Of course, you are right, thank you, Thirsk. I had no idea it would be so ugly,” he lied, a murderous look in his eyes. “Lymbert, do as he says: bring her down. Incidentally, let me introduce General Thirsk of Morgravia.”
    “But…but he is a mere lad, sire,” Lymbert spat.
    “Young, yes,” Wyl countered, not allowing Celimus to answer on his behalf. “But my name carries weight where yours never will unless you consider ‘traveling butcher’ a memorable title. Do as your Prince commands. Lower her!”
    It was an audacious order coming from the red-headed youth. Watchers muttered to one another but none challenged him outwardly as it was obvious the lad was with the Prince.
    As Myrren was lowered, Celimus shouldered his way through the onlookers but not before whispering to Wyl: “There will be a reckoning for this.”
    It was as he expected and Wyl sighed, pushing the Prince’s threat from his mind, for the woman needed him. Wyl watched the Prince leave and then to Lymbert’s disgust he demanded a cup of water be poured from a pitcher. He knelt by Myrren and after gently lifting her head he dribbled a trickle of it into her throat. Her lids fluttered open and somehow she mustered a smile that touched her oddly colored eyes.
    “I’m Wyl” was all he could say.
    “I know.” she croaked through her cracked lips, bleeding from where she had bitten them. “I shall return your kindness with a gift, Wyl. It will avenge me.” Her voice was no more than a whisper.
    What could you possibly give me ? he thought as her eyes closed once again.
    “She’s for the flames now, Thirsk,” one of the dungeoners growled.
    He had no choice but to let them drag her limp body away.
    “When?” Wyl demanded of Lymbert. He had decided the man deserved no courtesies.
    “No time like the present,” the Confessor replied and rediscovered his thin smile.

Chapter 4
    The column of people scrambled out of the city to get a good view of the Witch Post on the hillock where they held the burnings. Some remembered the last burning, but most of the youngsters had no idea of the horror they would witness. Public executions in Morgravia were usually swift. This was a people forged from a tough, warring background and they had no need for theatrics. Any noble sentenced to death had head and body separated by a quick-falling sword; those of lower caste fell to the axe.
    Criminals convicted of a crime lesser than murder or treason were hung, and in such cases the King favored the drop method. It was brutal but merciful. He did not believe in death as an entertainment.
    Unfortunately, the very rarity of a witch-burning turned it into a public spectacle.
    Traditionally, the Zerques had promoted a festival atmosphere for a burning and although the open celebration of death had long been wiped out there remained a strong sense of theater. Lymbert’s Witch Stalkers deliberately played off the harmless superstitions of the people, making warding signs as they led the procession up the hill. Many onlookers were bemused to realize that gestures they often performed without thinking—such as crossing