Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [224]
“Nor I,” I said.
“Always and always,” Sidonie said. “I understand more, that’s all.”
“All knowledge is worth having,” I observed. “So on the morrow we watch Astegal die, then sail for home?”
She nodded. “That’s the plan.”
Sixty-Six
We greeted the dawn in the Plaza del Rey.
There was a massive crowd in the main square at the center of Amílcar. Everyone in the city—everyone within ten leagues of the city—wanted to see Astegal of Carthage executed.
A certain macabre enthusiasm pervaded the square. I understood it, although I didn’t share it. Not quite. It wasn’t just that I’d had my surfeit of death. I did want to see Astegal die. He’d earned his death a thousand times over. But I would take no joy in it. As with Amílcar’s hard-won victory, there would be only a grim satisfaction.
It would be done.
Finished.
The skies were still leaden when we assembled. Sidonie and I would be very close to the executioner’s block, standing with Lady Nicola and her husband and son, with the council members and Duke Leopoldo of Tibado, his weathered face seamed by a sword-cut. There were a good many of the walking wounded in that crowd. I myself leaned on a gilt-headed walking stick that the chirurgeon Rachel had procured for me, and I was grateful for its aid.
Dawn broke in the east, streaking the skies with fire. Along the route from the palace’s dungeon, drums began to beat. The crowd chanted.
“As-te-gal! As-te-gal!”
I glanced at Sidonie; her chin lifted, her profile achingly pure. “Are you all right, love?”
She nodded, wordless and pale.
The executioner waited, his heavy broadsword angled over his shoulder. His face was impassive. The wooden block, with a niche for Astegal to lay his neck, sat at his feet. I thought about Berlik kneeling in the swirling snow, baring his neck for my blade. This was different, so different. When all was said and done, I’d understood why Berlik did what he did. Why he’d killed Dorelei, why he’d killed our unborn son. And I had wept for his death.
No one here would weep for Astegal.
The drums continued beating, steady and unrelenting. The blood beat in my veins. A rush of sound in my ears, a bronze clash of wings. I saw Astegal of Carthage drawing near.
His hands were bound behind his back beneath his battle-frayed purple cloak, but his head was high, his eyes glaring. Proud. He was a proud man. The crowd pushed and shoved, clamoring for his blood. Astegal ignored them. There was only one person his gaze sought. As the guards ordered Astegal to halt before the executioner, Sidonie took a step forward.
I would to Elua she hadn’t.
Everyone there knew the tale that lay between them. A hush fell over the crowd. And in that moment, Astegal moved, quick and sure. His shoulders jerked and the ropes binding his wrists parted and snapped. Somehow he’d managed to fray his bonds during his imprisonment and hide his handiwork. Astegal grabbed the executioner’s sword by the blade with his bare hand and wrested it from him, heedless of the wound it inflicted. In two swift strides, he seized Sidonie and held her pinned against him, the blade to her throat.
“Don’t!” Astegal shouted at the surging guards. His face was suffused with rage. “She’ll be dead before you can strike!”
My head rang.
“Hold!” Serafin ordered the guards. He ground his teeth. “What the hell do you think to accomplish, Carthaginian?”
“I am a Prince of the House of Sarkal and I’ll not be executed like some common galley slave,” Astegal spat. “Bring me a horse or I’ll cut her throat.”
I gazed at Sidonie. She wasn’t struggling; he had the blade pressed hard enough to her flesh that a thin line of blood was visible. But she wasn’t frightened, either. She was furious. Our eyes met and the ringing in my head quieted, leaving a strange sense of calm in its wake.
I dropped my walking-stick and stepped forward. “Let her go, Astegal.”
“You!” His eyes widened. “How?”
I’d forgotten Astegal didn’t know. “I’ve been here