Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Face forward, missus. Please.”
I immediately comply, hoping he’ll view the deference as—
“He is alive, missus, but gravely injured. Further, he has been found guilty of trespass with intent to disarm the court in the Old Laws.”
I don’t have to feign the weeping that overtakes me, and only the smallest part of what I feel is relief that Merc survived the bullet.
The consequences of the charge are obvious in the guard’s tone.
“And w-what happens now?”
“He will be executed in the square tomorrow morning at first light.”
I spin around, focusing on the low rank insignia on his lapels. “May I see him, please. Before he—”
“That is enough, missus.” The guard puts his hand down to a sidearm that’s the same as the officer’s. “Face ahead and continue to walk. Now.”
“Please.” I want to grab him and shake him. “He’s all I have—”
“Do not make me hurt you, missus. You must keep walking.”
He’s not cruel, not like the soldier. But he is very serious, and I remind myself that if I get myself killed here and now, I’m no help to Merc—and I also don’t get my chance with the sadistic soldier. I turn back around and keep limping. The rest of the procession through this lower level is a blur as my head spins with all kinds of bargains, some with fate, some with the man behind me, some with that woman with the white plaited hair. But then we are mounting steps and coming to a double door that seems near the size of the gate that opened for us after the mist.
The guard barks a command or a password, and both sides are opened—
I recoil at the brightness, bringing my hands up.
“Go forward, then, missus.”
He doesn’t prod me physically, and his voice is surprisingly gentle, as if he feels sorry for me. I am determined to use this to my advantage when I can. If I can.
As soon as my eyes adjust, I continue forth into the blinding illumination, and promptly lose my stride. We’ve entered the head of a marble colonnade that seems to stretch as far as the eye can see to the left. Towering columns that taper to ornate headers hold up a lofty ceiling, and there are gold flourishes everywhere. Guards, too: Pairs of uniformed sentries are posted at regular stations all the way down the impossibly long expanse. Meanwhile, off to the right, there is a beautiful landscaped garden and then a high, high wall that clearly is intended to keep people out.
Torches are everywhere, and it is their flames that beat back the night, the fuel they use burning sweetly.
Or perhaps it’s all the flowers in the garden.
“This way then, missus.”
The guard yet again extends an arm over my shoulder and points down the colonnade. As we proceed, we pass by many doors guarded by many pairs of men, and my mind wanders to all kind of priorities, a positive catalogue of things I urgently need to know: Where is the compass. Where is Lavante. Where is Merc.
Then it dawns on me that I should be keeping count of the doorways. Glancing behind, I catch up thanks to the number of guard pairs we’ve passed. Five it would be, and we’re approaching the sixth. I tilt my head back and check the ceiling for any markings that can orientate me. The roof is so high that the lanterns which dangle from golden chains are like suns in the sky, and coupled with the ones mounted by the sentries, their number seems more than I can count—
Six.
Beneath my feet, the marble tiles are so clean, I wonder if anybody has ever walked this way before. In other circumstances, I’d have been amazed at the scale of this building, and marveled at the ornate carved headers on the columns—
Seven.
Finally, an end appears, still quite a ways off, but there’s definitely a wall that terminates this grand and glorious promenade. Statues are lined up down there, and in their graceful poses, they remind me of smaller versions of the goddess in the ruins. The female forms are depicted in draped gowns that fall elegantly to their bare feet, and they appear to be carrying different objects—
Eight.
A lute. A book. Something I don’t recognize, but I guess is another instrument given the strings. The faces seem to be different, the individual features becoming clearer to me as I close in.
We finally reach the wall with the statuary after fourteen pairs of guards, and I’m surprised at the mammoth size of the female forms. They are twice my height, and the carving of the marble is expert to say the least.
“To the left, missus,” my escort tells me as he once again points over my shoulder.
I swallow another gasp. The lineup of statues continues down a long expanse; there must be fifty of the female forms—or maybe it’s even more. And unlike before, there is just one set of sentries up ahead, at a pair of golden doors mounted halfway down the processional. Unlike all the other men, these guards are dressed in red and there are two on both sides.