The day of his execution Tayschrenn wore the clean linen shirt and trousers provided for him. Stubble now roughened his skull and chin, and though he’d no polished bronze or silver mirror to see in he knew he’d lost weight and must appear rather haggard. As anyone who’d spent weeks contemplating one’s imminent execution would. Especially when a fresh cup of poison is provided alongside each day’s portion of water.
That day, two of the cult Fangs appeared at his cell as escort. When the thick wooden door was pulled open they’d seemed a touch surprised to find him within, and still alive. In the past, many so sentenced had preferred to take their own life rather than face the horror to come. Which was precisely why the priesthood had allowed him to sit so long in solitary reflection on that poison.
And which was precisely why he refused the option. No convenient hidden disappearance that could easily be swept aside and forgotten for him. No, he would go out in full public display and do his best to rub their faces in it.
And so he rose from his meditation, dressed in the clean new clothes, and exited calmly and quietly.
One factor did penetrate his calm, however. It was plain from his cell window that it was the dead of night. As he walked the empty halls, the uneasy suspicion came to him that perhaps they intended to throw him into the Pits unannounced, in the dark, without any witnesses.
The way one might dispose of an embarrassing piece of evidence.
High Priestess Salleen, after all, hadn’t announced the exact time of his execution. Just the sort of oily bureaucratic solution a career functionary might favour.
The suspicion wormed through the wall of calm he’d so carefully built between his fears and his reason, and caused him to check his pace. What then?
One of the Fangs urged him onward and he resumed pacing, thinking, Well, if they go that far then perhaps I need not co-operate after all …
His fears, however, were put to rest when he was delivered to a holding cell at the Civic Pit. Here, he knew, he would sit and wait while the crowd gathered above. It now looked like a noon execution.
The morning’s light grew slanting down in dust-filled rays from high narrow windows. The day’s heat reached his cell. The muted din of conversation slowly swelled. It sounded like a packed crowd. Then came a quiet knock at his door and he cocked a brow. Really? A polite knock?
‘Yes?’
A Fang of D’rek opened the door from without and a white-robed acolyte entered. She held in both hands a small earthenware cup full of a thick dark liquid.
Tayschrenn knew this: D’rek’s Mercy – a numbing potion that would dull the pain to come. Unfortunately, it also numbed the mind. The young woman held out the cup, her head lowered.
He shook his head, then to his surprise found that he had to swallow to speak, and murmured, ‘No.’
She bowed lower, saying, ‘This is not about bravery, Tayschrenn.’
‘I do not wish to go to D’rek with a clouded mind.’
The acolyte nodded. ‘I understand.’ She withdrew to the door, but paused there, trembling almost. ‘I am sorry, Tayschrenn. Not all agree with this.’
He frowned at her. Agree with what? His execution? Tallow’s rise?
One of the Fangs guarding the cell grabbed her arm and pulled her out, slamming the door shut.
He sat in silence, frowning still. Had there been a faction looking to him, after all? Had he, in his inaction, let them down? Yet he had not asked for any of this, nor did he want it.
So he sat while above roars and cheering came and went for the preliminary executions – petty criminals, minor cult offenders and the like – until a single voice, rendered unintelligible by the yards of stone between, spoke at length.
They were announcing him, listing his supposed crimes.
Sure enough, the door opened and the two Fangs of D’rek gestured him out. Rising, he was surprised again by how dry his mouth was and the heat and sweat of his hands. Just the flesh, he reminded himself, dreading impending dissolution. That is all.
He was led up a narrow passage of dressed stone blocks. Cells lining the way held the condemned, and the stink of human excrement, piss and stale sweat hung thick in the enclosed space. Tayschrenn merely noted all this in passing, without discomfort; he knew far worse was to come. In the half-light steaming down from a door ahead he noted messages scrawled upon the faces of the blocks: Tell Herina I love her, Damn the bitch Salleen! and May D’rek forgive them.
The Fang ahead at the door carried a red sash. She waved him closer. ‘Turn round,’ she ordered. Feeling oddly dazed, Tayschrenn complied. His hands were taken and the sash was cinched tight about his wrists.
He gave a light snort of appreciation of the gesture – Tallow, it would seem, was not without a poetic side.
The iron latch of the door clanged, the heavy stone barrier grated as it swung open, and Tayschrenn was pushed out on to the glaringly bright sands of the Civic Pit. He stood blinking for a time, unaccustomed to the light, and a huge roar arose from the stands, a punishing thunder of shouts, applause, catcalls, curses, and cheering.
Squinting around, he saw that the rising circular rings of the coliseum were very nearly full to capacity. A good turnout for Salleen and Tallow.
Dutifully, he walked out towards the centre of the broad circular pit. The dry husks of thousands of shed carapaces crackled beneath his sandalled feet as he went. The sunlight blasted down upon him and he couldn’t even bring his hands out from behind his back to shield his gaze. He damned the heat; already his clothes hung heavy and damp.
Sweating, he noted, distantly and analytically. I am sweating so much because I am … frightened. There. It’s been said. I can admit it. The terror of the unknown. In that at least I share a commonality with the herd that surrounds me.
More or less at the centre he halted and turned to face the main seating platform. In the glare he couldn’t make out any one individual, just a sea of dark robes. Eventually, the roaring calls and jeers died down enough for a single voice to surface above the sullen grumbling.
‘Tayschrenn!’ the voice called – High Priestess Salleen.
He raised his chin with what he hoped signalled defiance and pride. Yet he was panting, his pulse racing in that damned unavoidable fleshly weakness. Deep breaths, he chided himself.
‘Your crimes against the integrity of the cult have been enumerated and suitable punishment has been writ. You have been found guilty of putting your own benefit and selfish desires ahead of the good of the faith of D’rek. Have you any last words before judgement is enacted?’
Strange, he noted, standing before them, blinking, how power-hungry people tend to charge their opponents with the very sins that apply to them. He opened his mouth to speak but found he had no breath for speech. The sun’s glare was making his eyes water – why else would wetness be cold on his cheeks? And the tightness in his chest choking off speech – appalled outrage, surely.