Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [47]
“The Executioner, milord,” Saryon said in a tight voice. “He resides in the Font and serves the catalysts. His robes are gray — the neutrality of justice — and they are marked with the symbols of the Nine Mysteries, to show that justice knows no distinction.”
“I don’t recall. He was impressive. That’s all I remember. A tall man, he towered over the woman he held bound at his side as the stone statues towered over the rest of us. The Bishop — it must have been Vanya, he’s been Bishop for as long as I can remember — made a speech) going over the woman’s crimes. I didn’t listen, I am afraid.” The Prince smiled sadly. “I was bored. I wanted something to happen.
“Anyway, Vanya came to an end. He called upon the Almin to have mercy upon the poor woman’s soul. She had been standing quite still the entire time, listening to the charges with a defiant air. She had fiery red hair and wore it loose, tumbling down her back past her waist. Her robes were blood red, and I remember thinking how alive her hair seemed, glistening in the sun, and how dead her clothes appeared in contrast. But when the Bishop called down the blessing of the Almin, she threw back her head and fell to her knees with a wail that shattered my boyish innocence.
“My father felt me trembling, and understood. He put his arm around me, holding me close against his body. The Executioner grabbed hold of the woman and dragged her to her feet. He motioned, with his robed arm, that she was to walk forward…. My god!” The Prince closed his eyes. “Walk forward into that dreadful fog! The woman took a step toward the swirling mists, then fell to her knees again. Her screams for mercy tore the air. She begged and pleaded. Groveling in the sand, she began to crawl back toward us! Crawling on her hands and knees!”
Garald fell silent, staring into the fire, his mouth a grim, straight line.
“In the end,” he resumed, “the Executioner carried her, kicking and struggling, to the very edges of the Border. The mists curled up about his robes, obscuring both of them from our sight. We heard a last, terrible wail … and then silence. The Executioner returned … alone. And we went back to the palace at Merilon. And I was sick.”
Saryon said nothing. Garald, glancing at him, was alarmed to see that the catalyst had gone deathly white.
“It is nothing, Your Grace,” Saryon said, in response to the Prince’s concerned query. “Only that … I have seen several Banishments myself. The memories haunt me. And it is always the same, as you say. Some walk by themselves, of course. Proud, defiant, heads held high. The Executioner accompanies them to the Border and they step into the mist as though merely walking from one room to another. Yet” — Saryon swallowed — “there is always that last cry, coming from the swirling fog — a cry of horror and despair that is wrenched from even the bravest. I wonder what it is they see —”
“Enough of this!” Garald said, wiping the chill sweat from his face. “We will both have night terrors if we keep on. Return to Joram.”
“Yes, milord. Gladly. Although” — the catalyst shook his head — “his story itself is not conducive to a nights restful sleep. I will not tell you the details of the Turning to Stone. Suffice it to say that the Executioner plays his part and that — if I had my choice of punishments — I would choose that last moment of terror in the mists over a life of living death.”
“Yes,” murmured Garald. “You were speaking of the young man’s mother.”
“Thank you for reminding me, Your Grace. Anja was forced to watch her lover transformed from living man to living rock, and then she was taken back to the Font, where she gave birth to … to their child.”
“Go on,” the Prince prodded, seeing the catalysts face pale, his eyes averted.
“Their child …” Saryon repeated in some confusion. “She … took the … baby and fled the Font, traveling to the outlying districts where she found work as a Field Shaper. In that village, she raised her chil — she