Unworthy of the Wind
This time, though, Irid seemed even more frightened than Elona. She dropped hastily to her knees and bowed, burying the unease in her eyes.
"Lord Sindar, I beg you, take back such a jest. I have never once entertained so insolent a thought!"
"And yet, in context, it could hardly have sounded like anything else."
Elona went rigid at the sound of his footsteps coming up behind her. She was staring at the ground when Kazan's large hand closed over her bare shoulder. She flinched, and he looked down at Irid and spoke quietly.
"Irid Padisha, you've gone and frightened my slave. I would rather you left the pleasure of taming her to me alone."
"Forgive me, Lord Sindar. I beg your pardon."
Kazan walked on, leaving Irid kneeling where she was. Caught in his grip, Elona followed as if it were the most natural thing in the world and stole a glance back. Irid's cheek twitched, as if the slight had cut her.
He led Elona up toward the king's high seat at the head of the banquet hall. From that lofty dais, set far apart from the crowd, the scale of the hall was staggering.
Beneath the soaring ceiling, dozens of nobles mingled, eating, drinking, and talking among themselves. Massive columns lined the edges and held the roof aloft, and with no walls between the hall and the rear garden, the place was all but an open-air feast. In the central space that would have been a ballroom for everyone in Parsion, only the dancing girls were in motion.
"Sit in your place."
Beside the king's seat lay the familiar black cushion, all by itself. Elona lowered herself onto it, ill at ease. A long, low table stood before Kazan and half-concealed him, but before Elona there was nothing at all.
When she looked down, her eyes met those of the guests. They took in her revealing clothes, pointed, and laughed. The women sneered at her pale, slender body; the men seemed to be trading lewd jokes. Shame dragged her head down, and in that instant Kazan rose.
He lifted a hand, and silence swept the hall at once. Across that wide space, where not so much as the click of a dish could be heard, let alone music, his heavy voice rolled out.
Kazan raised his cup, and every soul in the hall raised theirs with him. He added, briefly,
"An offering to our god."
All of them drank as he drank and set their cups down. The dancers who had been kneeling at the center of the hall withdrew in a rush, and the musicians began to beat the drums. Elona felt her heart hammer in time with them as she looked toward the entrance.
What came in next were three prisoners bound in rope. They were filthy, steeped in grime, and yet their skin was white, their hair blond or red.
Men of Parsion.
"They were the dogs of Antonio, the last king of Parsion!"
Kazan’s cry jolted her back to herself. Looking more closely, she recognized two of the three. They were royal knights who had served King Antonio, her elder brother. Jake. Hawthorn. You were both alive. The two of them, six or seven years older than Elona, were men she had known since childhood. They had lived in the castle from their days as squires, and in her memory both were gentle and bright-tempered. More than once they had looked after her as a little girl, even when it meant defying Antonio’s command.
Then red-haired Jake lifted his head and met her eyes. He stared for a long while at the woman seated beside the Sindar King, and the moment he understood who she was, his eyes flew wide. His lips seemed to shape the word Princess. Elona, unable to bear the shame of it, looked away—and it was then that Kazan’s voice, cold beyond measure, reached her ear.
"Are they worthy to be taken into Sindar's embrace?"
"They are not!"
The shout rose from every throat in the hall, loud as the voices of devotees in a frenzy. Kazan asked again, his tone severe.
"If they cannot be given to the wind, where must they go?"
"To the earth! Deep beneath the earth!"
Were they going to bury them alive? Elona went ashen as she looked at the knights she knew. As if they had already foreseen their fate, they closed their eyes and let their tears fall. But what awaited them was far harsher than she had imagined.
The words had barely left him when a wooden cart was rolled into the hall. Soldiers moved the prisoners onto it and chained their shackles to the floor. While the prisoners trembled in dread, another cart came rumbling in.
It was heaped with great stones.
"Carry out the sentence."
The soldiers took up the stones one by one. Before she knew what she was doing, Elona seized the hem of Kazan's robe.
"No—what are you doing!"
But his hand rose without mercy and hurried their fate along. Unable to watch what followed, Elona squeezed her eyes shut.
"Aaaagh!"
"Nnh—aaagh!"
Stones hurled with terrible force slammed into the prisoners' bodies. The sound of living bone breaking and flesh being crushed rang through the hall, and in an instant the stench of blood was everywhere. Great stones struck flesh and dropped onto the cart with dull, heavy thuds, and Elona's mind reeled.
It was like the stoning she used to hear from inside a wagon.
"S-stop. Why… why go this far…."
The cruelty of the execution terrified her, and tears spilled down her face. She looked up at him with wretched, pleading eyes, but Kazan did not so much as stir. Clutching his robe, she hung from him in misery and begged.
"Please, stop. If you're going to torture them like that, just kill them with one stroke of the blade. This is too cruel!"
Kazan only watched the execution cart, where blood and flesh were flying, and answered with perfect calm.
"If you knew what they had done, you would see that even this much suffering falls short."
"What are you talking about? Jake and Hawthorn were diligent, good men. You wouldn't know, but—"
"You're the one who knows nothing, Elona."
Kazan looked down at her, his gaze ice-cold.
"You probably think Antonio was the only one who bought slaves and killed them. But the knights of Parsion who followed him were no different. They, too, made a sport of killing the slaves he threw to them. Those three in particular slaughtered dozens. The women were raped. The children had their hands and feet cut off."
"Th-that can't be…."
"Accept the truth. The suffering of Ashatra's people existed where your eyes never reached."
Impossible. Elona could not bring herself to accept a word of it. The knights who had kindly brought her flowers and taught her how to handle a horse could never have done anything so hideous. She had believed such evil belonged to her brother Antonio alone.
But if what he said was true?
The strength ebbed slowly from the hand still clenched in Kazan's collar. He spoke coldly into her confusion.
"And that is not so different from the way I killed Antonio. Will you say that, too, went too far?"
His voice had sunk low, and fear took hold of her. Even so, trembling, she answered clearly.
"I know how much you hated my brother. But you were too cruel. He was cruel, yes—but you… you were no less cruel than he was."
Seeing her begin to sob, Kazan smiled, bleak and empty. Through the prisoners' death cries, growing sparse now, his low murmur reached her.
"You could never understand."
Elona wept as if the knights' pain were her own. Kazan stared at her for a moment, then turned his gaze to the prisoners. A quiet fury welled in his red eyes.
"Enough."
At that single quiet word, the stoning stopped. Into the silent hall spread the blood-choked coughs and groans of prisoners who were not yet dead.
Is he going to let them live? A thread of hope stirred in her as she looked—and in that moment Kazan left her side and started down from the dais. His back was poised and proud, yet a nameless dread closed over her.
What she longed for would never come to pass.
"Strange. Their breath should have failed long ago, and yet they hold on this long."
The king walked with a steady tread toward the blood-soaked prisoners. Mangled by the stones, they lifted blood-wet eyes to him.
"Kalima seems unwilling to take you for an offering. What, then, shall be done with you?"
One of them murmured.
"Mercy… please…."
As if in answer, the king drew a dagger. A flicker of déjà vu made Elona bite her lip. He meant to kill with his own hand again, as cruelly as he had murdered Antonio.
But the blade was not aimed at the prisoners' napes. It was aimed at his own left hand. With a light motion he drew it in one long stroke across his palm. The carelessness of the gesture shocked her so badly that she nearly cried out his name. She had only just clamped a hand over her mouth when red blood began to run down his strong forearm.
What in the world is he doing? Flustered, Elona searched the faces of the soldiers and the nobles. The king had opened his own hand, and yet they were calm to an astonishing degree. They only watched his every movement, steadfast in their silence.