Chapter 46

The morning of Baudouin's supposed execution dawned unseasonably hot.

As the royal family and their guests assembled beneath the tented dais in anticipation of the ghastly event, everyone was flushed, their skin damp with sweat, their eyes heavy-lidded.

The servants were doing their best to keep everyone comfortable, passing out folded fans and flavored ices, but the air held too much tension and the desserts were left abandoned, melting into colorful messes that dotted the table linens and drew flies.

"This is barbaric," Bellatrice muttered, flapping her fan near her face with irritation, both to stir a breeze and keep the buzzing insects at bay. "Picnicking while a man is put to death. Look at those people over there…." She snapped her fan shut and jabbed its end toward a cluster of people farther down the hill from us, gathered on spread blankets. "Are they feeding each other roasted chicken?"

Margaux leaned back, silver bracelets clinking against one another as she fluttered her fan. "I feel as though I'm the one roasting."

She looked miserable. The neckline of her dress went all the way up to her chin. Her robes covered every inch of her arms and were long enough to skim her heavy boots. I wondered if such costuming was her own choice or something meant to mark her as the oracle. Several priestesses from the Ivory Temple were in attendance, each wearing diaphanous gowns of lightweight fabric that showed off their sleek limbs and bare feet.

Beside Margaux, Euphemia swayed listlessly. The little princess was hidden away in layers of heavy brocaded satin as dazzling a blue as the sky overhead. Her round cheeks were apple red, and I instructed one of the servants to bring her a fresh goblet, fearing heatstroke. "Why can't we go home?" she whined, taking great gulps of the water when it arrived.

"They can't begin until Papa arrives," Leopold answered, continuing to scan the crowds, searching for any sign of the king.

"Where is he?" she snapped. "My head hurts."

"Drink more water," I instructed, struggling to speak up. The heat had lulled me into a foggy haze, and I longed to unclasp my bodice and fan my chest. "We all ought to be drinking more water."

I wanted to tell them the secret of the day, that all this pomp and ceremony was nothing but a distraction from the real event: The king was going to forgive his brother. He was going to allow Baudouin to live, albeit it far from Martissienes, exiled in a monastery to the south. He'd be confined to a life with the reverents of the Holy First, taking vows of silence, poverty, and servitude. But Marnaigne had made me swear I would not say a word. The element of surprise would be his most powerful asset in helping the public accept this decision. I'd seen him that morning for a quick examination, and he'd paced his chambers, palpable waves of angst and elation rolling off him in equal measure.

When all this was said and done, I was going to prescribe him a very long rest.

"Good fortune and favor be blessed upon you all!" called a great booming voice at the back of the tent.

We all turned to see a new delegation of reverents arriving. Each temple in Chatellerault had sent members of their highest circles to watch the execution from the royal box. They were meant to offer us their spiritual counsel and add a touch of needed gravitas to the event.

"Amandine," I said, rising to welcome the high priestess from the Rift. "It's good to see you once more."

I visited the Rift often, checking in on the orphans and other refugees, offering what services I could while wishing I could mend broken hearts as easily as other wounds. Amandine was always with the children, giving out blankets and meals as freely as she offered hugs and blessings upon their tiny foreheads.

"Oh, Hazel," she greeted me. "What a joyous day, is it not? Triomphe and Victoire rain their blessings upon us. Félicité smiles brightly today." Before she could exclaim another platitude, a figure approached, interrupting the moment.

"Hazel!" exclaimed my brother, pulling me into an embrace. "I didn't expect to see you here today. Such fortunes! Such blessings!"

Over his shoulder, I caught sight of Leopold noticing Bertie's arrival and wondered if he remembered my brother chasing him through the Rift the day he'd come to rescue me.

"I didn't realize the Fractured would be in attendance," I said, pulling back to look at him. It was a struggle to not wince. No amount of time would ever make me accustomed to the scars running across his body. A fresh cut bisected his temple, giving his face the appearance of a shattered mirror.

He smiled broadly. "Oh. Yes. High Priest Théophane wanted me to stop by the royal tent before…well, before it all begins." He nodded toward an older man trying to begin a conversation with Bellatrice. "I've begun my training to take a spot on the high council in the Rift."

"Bertie, that's wonderful," I said, unsure of what it meant.

"Bertrand," he corrected me quickly, his eyes darting toward Théophane. "I'm twenty years old now. A man. The high priest says it's time I gave up my childish nickname. It's taking a bit of time to adjust, but it truly is such a blessing, such a joy."

"That's right," I said, feeling foolish I'd forgotten. "Happy belated birthday." I stood on my toes to press a swift kiss to his scarred cheek. "Many, many happy returns."

"To you as well, little sister." He reached up and pressed two of his fingers to my forehead, offering a blessing I wanted to squirm from. "May Félicité and Gaieté bring you great favor in the comingyear."

Ritual done, he looked around the tent, taking in the pageantry and spectacle. As he caught sight of Margaux—refilling Euphemia's water goblet while also trying to fan the heat-dazed princess—he frowned. Her face was beet red and dripping with sweat.

"Ices," she declared to no one in particular. "I think the princess needs more ices." She hurried from the box.

"Aren't you glad your gods allow you to wear linen?" I asked with a small laugh.

"It does seem Misère is out in force today," Bertie allowed thoughtfully, wiping his own brow before allowing his attention to wander once more. "The prince has returned home."

Leopold quickly looked away as Bertie's gaze met his stare.

"Yes. Yesterday. Just in time for the…ceremony."

"Celebration," Bertie supplied quickly. "It is a celebration, Hazel. Peace has returned to the land. Félicité is well pleased, and Revanche shall have his due. What a day! Such blessings! Such joy!"

I wanted to nod, but it was too hot to make the effort.

Far above, along the walls surrounding Chatellerault, a cannon fired, signaling that something was about to begin.

Bertie nodded toward the older priest before looking at me. His thick, segmented eyebrows were drawn with a look of contrition. "I'm so sorry to run. Our visits are always too short."

"You're not watching from the box?"

He shook his head, his smile twisting with pride. "No. Théophane has given me a different task for the day." He beamed, his eyes bright with a zealous gleam. "A great honor, actually. Such favors! Such good fortunes! I'm to be Revanche's hand of—"

The high priest cleared his throat and my brother flushed.

"I must go, Hazel. But I'll see you later on. After," he promised.

"After," I echoed, feeling confused. "Will you be at the ball tonight?"

Though it seemed an unlikely excursion for a member of the Fractured, he nodded, then hurried off, disappearing into the crowd. I turned my attention back to the stage, more than ready for the whole dreadful affair to be over and done with.

"I can't recall it ever feeling this hot in spring before," Leopold said, suddenly at my side. "Such blessings. Such joys."

I laughed at his monotone delivery, a flicker of flirtation rising in my chest. It was a feeling I'd never expected to experience again, not after Kieron, and certainly not for Leopold. But it shimmered through me anyway, like the furtive darting of a butterfly.

I knew I ought to ignore such feelings, knew Marnaigne wouldn't approve, but they felt too good to push aside so easily.

And besides, the king appeared to be in a most forgiving mood.

"It's terribly crowded here, don't you think? Perhaps there will be better breezes over here," Leopold suggested louder than necessary before taking my elbow to lead me to a quieter corner of the box. "How was Papa, when you saw him this morning? Truly?"

"Very…agitated," I admitted. "His emotions were swaying from one high to another, like a pendulum. He needs to rest after all this is over. His nerves are…frayed."

He nodded.

"And you?" I prodded. "How are you today? Truly?"

If he noticed my echo of his question, he didn't show it.

"I'm…also agitated, I think. Part of me—the one who was on the front for all those months, the one who was in the trenches, in the rain and the muck and the cannon fire—is pleased, knowing a very real and dangerous threat will be put to an end today. The other part of me is sad. Sad for so many reasons."

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tip King Marnaigne's hand and let Leopold know that his father would be choosing mercy. I wanted to say anything to take that terrible look of remorse from his face.

But I'd promised the king.

"Were you two particularly close?"

"No," he reflected. "And now I'm losing the chance to ever get to know him, to have anything to do with him. Papa has so many stories of him before…before he left court. Baudouin is the older of the two, did you know that?"

I shook my head.

"By many years. He was born my grandfather's bastard, but for a time it seemed as though he would someday take the throne. My grandmother…she had quite a lot of trouble conceiving. Baudouin lived at court then. He'd been given a strong education and the finest horses. Grandfather brought in the very best instructors to teach him how to fight and ride, how to strategize and dance. He'd been raised as if he was a prince in his own right. But then Papa came along."

"And that's why Baudouin claimed to have more right to the throne," I realized slowly. "He was first. He'd grown up believing he'd become king." I frowned, thinking of how many innocent people had lost their homes, their families, their very lives, over a slighted brother's wounded rage.

Leopold chewed on the side of his lip thoughtfully. "For a time, they were close. It wasn't until my mother had Bellatrice that the cracks began to show. Grandfather was still alive then, but unwell. I suppose seeing how close Papa was to inheriting the throne, seeing him start a family, seeing the next generation of heirs that would push him farther down the line of succession…it was just too much. He and Papa quarreled, and then he was…gone. Till now."

"I think…I think today will surprise you," I said, allowing myself to hint at the turn to come. "Perhaps Miséricorde will have a chance to shine."

He smiled faintly. "I think you've been among the Fractured for too long. Or perhaps all this heat has finally gotten to you. Should I get you one of Phemie's ices?"

I offered him a shy smile. "I think I'd prefer a spiced cake."

I was pleased to see his eyes twinkle and his dimples wink as he grinned. "Was it everything you imagined it would be?"

A roll of drums broke our conversation and drew everyone's attention to the citadel.

Baudouin emerged from the gated portico, flanked by a stronghold of guards. His wrists were in heavy iron shackles. He wore a shift of ivory linen, the mark of a condemned man, the mark of one destined to meet the executioner.

The soldiers marched him across the cobblestones and up the stairs to a platform dominating the middle of the courtyard. It was such an innocuously plain structure, like a stage hastily built for a group of traveling players.

Baudouin had been sentenced to death by beheading, and he shook visibly when he spotted the dark walnut block at the center of the platform.

Beside me, Leopold took a deep breath. He flinched and our knuckles brushed. I waited for him to jerk his hand away and fumble for an apology.

He didn't.

Neither did I.

Slowly, as if pulled by the gentle but persistent current of a stream, our eyes met.

He took a deep breath.

I took another.

All around us, the crowd began to cheer as Marnaigne and the executioner stepped into the courtyard.

The king looked resplendent, dressed in full imperial regalia, including an ermine-lined cloak, despite the oppressive heat broiling the afternoon. He stood tall and straight. He made his way through the crowd, nodding to several merchants and pausing as a line of little girls curtsied before him. It was the first time I'd ever seen him wear his crown, and I was struck by how well it suited him. It boasted countless rubies, emeralds, and diamonds along a lustrous gold circle. In direct sunlight, the crown was enough to almost blindme.

Dots of color danced over my eyes as the king spoke, reciting the long list of Baudouin's crimes and reading the formal statement of sentencing.

I shifted from one foot to the other, only partially listening to the proceedings. I understood that the king wished to drum up the moment of forgiveness, to turn it into the day's production, but Leopold was right: the heat was getting to me. I longed to be out of the heavy costuming, away from the crowds and back in the blessed coolness of my chambers.

Down on the stage, Marnaigne asked for his brother's repentance, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The moment had come. This would all be over soon.

Despite the fear holding claim on Baudouin's body, tensing his muscles into ripples of trepidation, he shook his head and spat at his brother. The king went rigid, nostrils flaring, and I could feel the crackle of his rising temper all the way from the royal box.

My heart hammered an odd cadence in my chest.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

That wasn't going to—

"I had hoped you would come to see reason," Marnaigne began, his voice booming over the crowd, a seasoned actor performing before the largest audience of his life.

I cringed, sensing the impending explosion.

"I had hoped you would repent and we could end this in reconciliation."

I could not make out Baudouin's response, but the twin dots of anger burning across Marnaigne's cheeks indicated it was not what he wished to hear.

"I know now it is not meant to be. It will never be, as long as you and your line are allowed to traverse the earth. Guards!" He snapped, and a cadre of uniformed soldiers marched from the citadel. They brought out other prisoners, a middle-aged woman and a young boy, flanking them as if the captives might run. It seemed an unnecessary precaution.

I'd never before seen a set of more pitiful people. They'd not been treated well during their confinement. Iron shackles had left welts ringing their wrists and ankles. The wounds had broken open and were festering with pus and bits of hay, and I couldn't begin to guess at the last time they'd been allowed to bathe.

When the woman spotted Baudouin on the stage, she all but collapsed and had to be carried up the steps, howling her despair.

"No!" Baudouin shouted, bucking at his guards as he tried to break free. "Unhand her, René. She had no part in this. My son had no part in this!"

A strangled gasp escaped me as I put the scene together. The prisoners—wearing a matching set of ivory shifts—were Baudouin's wife and child.

My mind couldn't take in what I was seeing. Baudouin's family had been here for months. They'd been dressed for execution all along.

Marnaigne hadn't ever been ready to offer his brother clemency.

He had always intended to put him to death.

And the family…

With a terrible nod, Marnaigne ordered the ceremony to begin, and the crowd jeered, tossing clods of earth and the remains of their lunches at the disgraced duke and his family.

The soldiers manhandled Baudouin to the block, positioning his head in the curved recess and locking his shackles to the hooks bolted to the platform. The duke thrashed, squirming against any amount of slack he could manage, an animal caged in confines far too small. "Stop this madness! Show them mercy! Brother, please !"

Marnaigne froze and a flicker of hesitation wavered on his face. "Wait!" he called, struggling to be heard over the shouts of the crowd. "Stop this now!"

The guards froze, listening for their king's orders. Baudouin stopped his struggles, brightening with painful hope.

"Unlock the shackles. Unlock the chains."

A murmur of confusion swept over the gathered, stilling the courtyard to a hush.

Marnaigne studied his brother, and I could see the range of emotions ripple over his face: compassion and sorrow, pity and forgiveness. He looked down, as if about to cry, and swallowed hard. When he straightened, his eyes were full of fury and scorn.

"The boy should go first," he decided, raising his voice so that all might hear his horrible decree. "Let his father see the fruits of his labors."

"No," Leopold murmured, so softly I wasn't even certain he'd spoken. "Don't do this, Papa!"

Before anyone could protest, before anyone could think to stop him, to stop them, to stop this horror from unfolding, the executioner sprang into action, and I gasped.

Certain he would not be needed, I'd not noticed him until this very moment. Now he dominated the platform. His two-toned tunic fluttered in the breeze, and bronze bracelets laden with holy charms tinkled against one another as his scarred arms flexed, picking up the large curved axe.

Without a thought, I grabbed Leopold's hand as Bertie took that weapon and swung it high over his head, aiming it directly at Baudouin's son.