The Execution (51 page)

“
Yes my lady, but there
will be details to be attended to.” He gestured towards the
bloodied wreckage hidden beneath the throw.

“
Good—of course, but the
meeting cannot wait.” She said it almost perfunctory and pressed
on. “I wish to repeal the harvest tax and set aside an emergency
supply of barley, for years of pestilence.” She continued before
Moulin could interrupt. “I assume we have enough gold for such a
thing?”

He nodded. “Yes, my lady, I believe we
do, but the scribes will know better. I—I don’t believe my lord has
ever met with them.”

“
Mmm, of course not. Pity,
isn’t it? We will have to change that now, won’t we?” She looked
from her dead husband to Moulin, and her face brightened. “Well,
all right then. Let’s be done with this mess, shall we?” She
continued, almost cheerfully. “Can you clean this up? And move me
to a southern exposure suite, please. I wish to see the southern
sky from my new room.”

He nodded.

“
And Moulin?”

It was the first time he had ever
heard her say his name. “Yes, my lady?”

“
Seal this chamber. Seal
it from the light of day, and—leave him there.” She continued
despite the look of dismay on Moulin’s face. “Any who take vexation
with this can speak to me. This is no longer the Bourbon Dynasty,
do you understand? It is now the Ravan Dynasty, and it belongs to
me.”

There was nothing Nicolette could do
for Ravan; he was a prisoner of the state and his fate would become
his own. She could, however, martyr his memory for the sake of
their child.

“
Make that announcement
immediately. And, I wish for you to stay on as my personal
castellan.” She lifted her chin as she finished.

His face lit up with the prospect of
such an obligation. “Yes, my lady.” He bowed deeply before
following her, leaving the murder bed and the legacy that was
Adorno behind them.

CHAPTER FORTY

†

The Dungeon: Six a.m.

They sat in silence, sagging warmly
into each other as the chill of very early morning settled about
them. Even the rats seemed to have succumbed to the long night and
quiet fell all around.

Their stories told, a somber peace
enveloped them. So unlikely, such polar opposite fates, and finally
the circle was complete. The words had run out as their hearts had
slowly filled. There was a certain exhausting finality about it, as
though the symphony was finished, resplendent with sad
ending.

Neither had ever told their story
before; they had kept it hidden, splintered and secret. Until now,
they had not known the other, nor the why of the missing piece of
their hearts. There was finally an answer to an unspoken
question.

“
I’m glad to have met you,
to know that you are like me,” one murmured.

“
It is truly my honor to
have you as my brother. I say this from my heart,” the other
replied.

Both were overcome with the moment,
and as the stars in the high overhead window started to fade, the
warmth of their short time together did not, for they each had a
brother, a twin, and that brother’s story was worthy and noble.
Such a splendid discovery it was, and it disavowed mortal
life.

D’ata turned. “I have
brandy.”

“
You bring brandy? And you
just now disclose this?” Ravan’s face lit up visibly at the thought
of a draft of brandy at this, the coldest and longest hour of the
night.

“
I keep it, for those who
suffer pain. Tonight, I want you to have it...”

Ravan accepted the warm gift. “So
kind, thank you, brother.”

D’ata smiled and passed the
flask.

Before long, they leaned quietly
against each other and dozed for a while, one more deeply than the
other. It would not be long now...

THE EXECUTION

†

Prisoners began to stir, those who
lived. Light barely reached them, or the depths of their despair,
but the intrinsic metabolic clock which is humanity roused those
who would, or could, be wakened.

Soon, the guards would make their
rounds, remove the dead, toss bread if they were so inclined, and
take those to torture who must be tortured, but this would only
happen after midmorning. Persecution most often occurred only after
dinner, when those who tortured cast a pitiless stomach for it. The
butchery of man is best dealt with in later hours, as is lust,
debauchery and murder. So, for now, the condemned only moaned their
appreciation, or despair, for their last moments.

It was nearly two hours later when the
young priest, dressed in the clothes of a mercenary, climbed the
steps of the gallows. A crowd had thronged for the event, having
heard of the terrible man, the infamous murderer, kidnapper,
rapist—mercenary. They had all heard of his remarkable last stand,
of the mass killing he’d accomplished. He was feared, and his death
would be one of necessity; destroy the beast, before it can destroy
you! Consequently, the crowd was more solemn than usual, although
there were jeers, calls, and curses from a foolish few.

D’ata climbed slowly. The scaffolding
seemed so much higher than it needed to be. The sun had failed him
today, as it had so often, it seemed. The seasons didn’t even seem
right as of late. Perhaps it fit his life, he thought to
himself.

He watched his own feet as he climbed,
unfamiliar with the boots he now wore. He wondered if the dark
blotches were bloodstains, wondered about the miles his brother had
walked in these shoes. It gave him peace to walk in Ravan’s boots
and to know that a righteous man would be free. Not only would he
be free, his book would be unwritten. His brother could start anew
as though he had never been born. This gave D’ata
solace.

Ravan had argued with him, had refused
to make the switch. But, after a while, he slept deeply from the
opium. The Brandy had cut the bitters well enough, and Ravan had
drunk most of the small flask. D’ata ordinarily brought it for
those who suffered physical pain from their tortures. Tonight, it
had served its purpose and eventually Ravan had
succumbed.

D’ata left his sleeping brother draped
in the robes of a holy and righteous man and pulled straw over him.
The same guard hadn’t even noticed, not even remembering, for his
drunken stupor, when a priest had knocked on the castle door the
evening before.

By the time Ravan would awaken, it
would be too late. His brother would be upon the
gallows.

D’ata wavered a bit, unsteady with the
height of the narrow stairs, the long night, and the harrowing
moment at hand. He thought briefly of Joan d’Arc. She'd refused to
compromise her beliefs, and they had burned her. That would be a
horrible death, he thought to himself. Hanging was better, perhaps
like drowning, and it was reserved for commoners. Only condemned
royalty and nobility received the mercy of the block and the
executioner’s blade.

A guard grasped his elbow to steady
him. Their eyes met briefly and there was a second of hesitation
when D’ata almost felt he would be discovered, but then the man
just looked away, as though he could not hold the glance of one
such as this. If he'd looked more closely, he would've seen beyond
the disguise. The bruises were simply charcoal, smeared from the
long burned out torch in the cell. If the guard had lingered even a
moment longer, he might have seen the eyes of the priest who had
broken communion for him just three days before. D’ata’s disguise
held.

He thought of Julianne. It wouldn’t be
long now. “I’m coming, my love,” he murmured, only loud enough so
that he could hear it. He was calmed and quieted by his own words.
His conviction remained and there was no regret for his
decision.

The constable started reading, but
D’ata didn’t hear the words. It was as though the world had gone
mute. Everything was oddly silent as he looked peacefully across
the crowd, beyond the town square, past the shops, taverns and
homes.

His gaze followed the meadows beyond
the town, saw the chill mist roll up from the sea. He imagined he
could hear her whisper from the fog-bank that she was waiting and
would be there to greet him—with their child.

There was no fear in his heart. There
was no remorse, either. All was forgiven and amends were made.
D’ata had prayed for days, weeks, months and years for just this
moment, for God to allow him to die. His prayer had been answered.
This morning, as he’d taken the clothes from the mercenary, his
brother, he’d never been as sure of anything in his life as he was
of this choice. Ravan had unknowingly given to him a gift so
precious, and D’ata could not imagine a price more fitting than his
own death.

The Constable seemed to have stopped
reading. Now the charges would be read. D'ata knew that after each
one, they would toll a bell. He saw the Constable’s mouth move, saw
the expressions of shock and outrage on the faces of those
gathered, but thought it strange, for even this was silent to the
young priest’s ears.

It was a peculiar deafness, and D’ata
became quickly aware of the beating of two hearts. He glanced
across the mass of faces and recognized no one. Silence prevailed,
a deafening muted silence. He heard only the beating hearts and
they seemed to get louder and louder.

D’ata glanced about himself, wondering
if the others felt the strange electricity in the air that now made
his hair stand on end.

The reading of the charges continued;
they were unconscionable—allegations of treason, theft, kidnapping,
rape, and murder. It was a horrible list and the count of murder
exceeded one hundred, for the soldiers Ravan had slain in his final
battle on the cliff. D’ata had no concern for the charges. He was
preoccupied.

Evidently, the masses could not hear
the slow ka-thump, ka-thump, as it trotted along in pairs. It was
oddly familiar to him, though he’d never heard it
before.

“
Do you hear that?” D’ata
glanced at the faces of the guards standing upon the gallows,
looked to see if they noticed the strange and sudden cold on their
skin, as he did. They ignored him, as though they could not hear
him.

Suddenly, there was a voice, hollow
and cold. “And so it is—you give your life willingly, off the whim
of a story, the fleeting fancy of a tale.”

There was something terribly familiar
about it; something he thought he'd heard in the moans of the wind,
down the hallway between the cells last night. It occurred to him
that he’d heard this voice before, on his darkest of days. It had
scoffed at him in his blackest of moments—and he knew to what it
belonged.

D’ata was stunned. “Who are you?” He
spoke only in his mind, but could hear his own voice, as clearly as
if he shouted across the mob below.

“
Who am I?” the voice
countered. There was a terrible laugh, a sickening scree. “I am the
one who watches, as you—a holy man, does the
unthinkable.”

“
Why do you say this? I do
this for Ravan!” D’ata insisted, fear unexpectedly clawing at the
peace he only moments ago enjoyed.

No one else seemed to hear or notice
the bizarre conversation taking place. The constable continued to
silently mouth the announcements, oblivious of the
dialogue.

Sneering, the voice said, “You do this
for yourself! You do the unthinkable! A holy man commits
suicide!”

The guard bound D’ata’s hands behind
his back, so that should his head not float he could not sustain
himself on the rope.

Lucifer continued, “You will be cast
into the seventh ring of hell, past the minotaur, and there you
will stay forever with those others who commit such a crime against
themselves.”

“
No,” D’ata replied, a
sudden bolt of terror striking his soul. It was not the thought of
purgatory which struck fear in his heart; it was because he knew
Julianne would not be there.

“
You shall be eternally
fed upon as your roots take shallow hold and your branches bear no
fruit, and this shall amuse me greatly and eternally, for I am now
your Master!” the voice persisted. It did not need to define itself
at this point. D’ata knew what it was. It was evil. It was death
without absolution or reconciliation. It was abandonment, sorrow
and pain. It was—worst of all, solitude from love, especially of
one.

“
No...” D’ata spoke aloud,
if only a whisper.

“
Yes!” The voice hissed,
“Yes—it was for you to choose! You chose the abomination against
yourself, and in Hell you will spend eternity! My prize, my
conquest!”

“
I don’t commit this
atrocity! I give my life for him—for Ravan!” D’ata screamed, bent
over with rage. “It is a sacrifice, for him!” he appealed to the
onlookers, but the crowd seemed not to notice, and the reading of
the conviction began.

The voice taunted him, unable to
contain its glee. “Not for him, no, not for him! He is ever such a
convenient excuse for you, but you die because of yourself! You
choose this because you are selfish—it is a coward’s
choice!”

“
My brother, he...” D’ata
began, now questioning his own motives.