“For the ordinary Saroese who refuse to live where we now rule, exile. Those who do not fear us are welcome to remain and call themselves Efean. That is my judgment. There now only remains the question of the royal palace and what will become of the surviving members of the royal family.”
Ro brings forward a cup of juice and she drinks. All clan heads and Garon women and officials are pushed back, leaving Gargaron and the last three descendants of the first Kliatemnos and Serenissima: Berenise, Meno?, and Kalliarkos alone before the god.
Both women have been given stools to sit on but Kal has remained standing throughout the trial. He’s fixed his hands behind his back as at parade rest but there is nothing relaxed or withdrawn about his aspect. He watches everything; he hears every word; he sees all reactions.
Mother turns first to Princess Berenise. “To you, Honored Dame, I offer the respect due to the elderly. To you, I offer exile.”
Princess Berenise has the inhospitable eyes of a woman who has survived all the reversals and hairbreadth escapes of the ugliest Fives trial there is. She does not deign to reply but a flicker of cunning animates her haughty face.
“To you, Lady Meno?—”
“I am queen and you may address me as Your Gracious Majesty, although in truth no Commoner ought to be speaking to me at all.”
Her words are like flies to be swatted away.
“To you, Lady Meno?, I offer the respect due to a pregnant woman, even though I did not receive such respect myself. To you, I offer exile.”
“Does it bother you that I carry his son? The son you could not give him?”
Wenru catches my eye and gives a sour frown.
Mother says nothing.
Her dignified silence goads Meno? on. “My son will return to take back the throne that is rightfully his!”
“Given Esladas’s history, I think it more likely you will give birth to a daughter. A precious gift she will be to you, for I cannot find it in me to begrudge any person a safe delivery and a healthy child. I hope you will cherish her as she deserves, because daughters are the life of the land.”
“Meno?,” says Princess Berenise like the lash of a whip. “Remember who you are.”
Meno? releases a long and shuddering breath, trembling as she retreats to her grandmother. Berenise clasps her hand in comfort, and when Kal’s gaze flashes to them I see that these two women—the grandmother and the granddaughter—have always shared a connection that he was adjunct to. They love him but not enough to protect him.
“But all this comes upon one condition.” Mother faces the only person left who has not received the hammer of judgment. She too has her part to play in my plan. “I have this to say to Lord Kalliarkos. You placed yourself on the throne of Kliatemnos the First. You accepted the mantle of your ancestors’ legacy.”
“I did.” He stares not at me, not at his family, and not even at Mother but rather at the massive statue of the god. His cheeks are pale, and his eyes bear the strain of the choices he has made, but he does not waver as Mother goes on.
“I have been told that, according to the custom of old Saro, in times of trouble and wickedness when the gods are angry and the people wish to repent of their misdeeds, two goats are brought before Seon, the Sun of Justice. They are examined, and the blemished goat is sent into exile, into the wilderness, but the unblemished goat, the good goat, is accepted by the gods as a worthy sacrifice.” She gestures to the statue of Seon, which illustrates her story.
The Honored Custodian inclines her head, so stern and somber that I scarcely recognize her as my loving mother at all. When she looks at me, to make sure I mean her to proceed, I nod. There is only one way out of these Rings that will give me the victory I desire most.
“To you, Lord Kalliarkos, I offer the chance to stand in the place of your people and accept on their behalf the punishment for their crimes. To you I offer death, this one death, to set the seal on the end of your family’s rule.”
Before Kal can reply, a commotion stirs within the huddle of palace women. Lady Adia stumbles forward and throws herself at Mother’s feet.
“I pray you, spare him. Please do not condemn my only son. He is just a boy. Just a puppet in the hands of his grandmother and uncle. Let the mercy of the blessed Hayiyin stay your hand and commute death to exile. Let him come with us. I promise you he will never set foot in Efea again.”
Kal gently raises his mother to her feet. He sets his jaw against the despair of knowing he is the cause of an anguish that will never heal.
He too could get down on his knees and beg for mercy. But he won’t. For one thing Kal is no coward. For another he is too proud. For the last, he knows what Ro has passed on to him. The final spin in my intricate plan is that death is the only way for Kal to become free.
So he hands his mother back to attendants, who bundle her away, and he turns to face the judgment of the Efeans. His gaze flicks to mine and away. We can’t afford to give anything away, but there is a darkness in his eyes that troubles me. There is a grim resonance to his speech that makes me fear I have read these Rings wrong, that the obstacle I’ve so carefully negotiated is about to spin out of my control.
“I accept this burden, my death in exchange for the safe passage of my people into exile.”
33
Every official procession in the city of Saryenia begins at the King’s Hill and descends along the Avenue of Triumphs to the Square of the Moon and the Sun. Our path is no different although everything has changed.
First clank our squad of spiders, their thudding steps and huge metal bodies a barrier to any unexpected attacks. After them marches a cohort of the Lion Guard, tawny ribbons tied to their leather armor and beads adorning their braided and knotted hair. They sing, for our voices announce our arrival, not Saroese trumpets and drums.
We will fight for Efea, and win!
The Efeans who line the avenue join in the song. Here and there Saroese faces peep anxiously over the walls of barricaded compounds but other Saroese stand amid the Efeans as if they have already accepted the change of rulership. For many, of course, the king and queen are merely words that have little to do with the daily round of their lives.
The song fades to silence as the royal carriage rolls into view. Both the king’s and the queen’s seats are empty. The carriage itself is festooned in the manner of a funeral wagon although the corpse of the royal family who walks behind the carriage is not dead.
It is a measure of the respect Kalliarkos earned in the siege that no one cheers or hisses as he walks. Silence is both the curse and the honor offered to the last of the Saroese kings of Efea. Behind him, hands and feet shackled by silken rope, trudges a single shrouded funeral attendant, who must be prodded forward at intervals by soldiers with spears.