Iltis bared his teeth at Al Hestian in a disgusted snarl before exiting the cell, leaving the heavy door ajar and standing with his back turned.
“They call this the Traitor’s Nook,” Lyrna told Al Hestian, moving to the only window, a narrow gap in the thick stone wall through which a patch of sky could be glimpsed. There were faint marks on the stone, some ancient inscription scratched by desperate hands long ago.
“Last occupied by Artis Al Sendahl on the eve of his execution,” she went on, turning back to Al Hestian. “It speaks much for our enemies that, for all the destruction wrought on this city, they left our dungeons intact.”
Al Hestian gave the faintest of shrugs, his shackles sounding a dull clink. “Artis Al Sendahl was given no trial,” she continued. “Simply waking one morning to find a brace of guards at his door holding a King’s Warrant. A week later he was dead.”
“Whilst I am afforded only two days,” Al Hestian said, his voice a toneless croak. “And also no trial.”
“Then let this be your trial, my lord.” She raised her hands, gesturing at the surrounding walls. “And I witness and judge both, eager for your testimony.”
“My testimony is redundant. My reasons plain.” He turned his gaze from her, resting his head against the wall. “I make no defence or appeal for clemency, save that the matter be settled with all dispatch.”
She had known this man since childhood and never with any fondness, finding perhaps too clear a reflection in his naked ambition. But the sons with whom she had played as a child had never faltered in loving him, for all his flaws. “Alucius will be honoured for all time in this Realm,” she said. “Your house is partially cleansed of dishonour by his sacrifice.”
“A dead son has no need of honour. And I have two to face in the Beyond if you would do me the favour of sending me there.”
Her gaze went back to the scratches on the wall, finding two words legible in the scrawl sufficient to divine the meaning of the rest. Death is but gateway to the Beyond . . . The Catechism of Faith, upon which so much had been built, and also destroyed. To her it had always been empty words, devoid of interest when there was so much genuine wisdom to be read.
“I have no mercy for you, my lord,” she told him. “Only more punishment. Lord Iltis!”
The Lord Protector returned, standing at stiff readiness as she pointed to the shackles on Al Hestian’s ankles. “Remove those and bring him.”
Darnel’s former knights and huntsmen stood blinking in the courtyard outside the cavernous vaults that served as the city’s dungeons. They numbered perhaps three dozen men, stripped of all armour and possessions save for threadbare clothing, surrounded on all sides by Lord Adal’s North Guard, chosen for the strength of their discipline; the Realm Guard were likely to commit massacre when faced with those who had betrayed them at the first fateful clash with the Volarians. Lyrna led Al Hestian to a walkway looking down on the assembled prisoners, finding most too cowed to meet her gaze, though some stared up in silent entreaty.
“You know these men, I believe?” Lyrna asked him.
Al Hestian looked down at the captives, his impassive mask unchanged. “Not well enough to grieve their passing, if it is Your Highness’s intention to have me witness their murder.”
She moved away from him and stepped closer to the edge of the walkway, raising her voice. “You all stand guilty of treason and worthy of immediate execution. Many of you will no doubt make a defence of loyalty, service to an oath binding for life. I tell you now this is no defence, an oath sworn to a traitorous madman is worthless, to be set aside by men of reason or true knightly honour. You have shown yourselves possessed of neither.” She paused to glance at Al Hestian, finding him meeting her gaze with grim understanding.
“However,” she spoke on, “the Faith teaches us the value of forgiveness for acts truly regretted. And this Realm stands in need of all hands fit to hold a sword. For these reasons alone I offer you the chance to swear another oath, an oath to your queen. Swear your service to me and I will spare your lives. But know that your sentence is not commuted, condemned you stand and condemned you remain until the day battle claims you. You will be the Dead Company. Any who do not wish to swear this oath, speak now.”
She waited, watching them tremble and sag in relief. One man, a great broad-chested fellow of knightly bearing, wept openly whilst beside him a scrawny man, probably a hunter, stood shuddering, with urine flowing down both legs. She waited for a full minute but no voices were raised.
“My lord,” she turned to Al Hestian, gesturing at the men below. “Your new command awaits, if you’ll accept it.”