“I can’t lose him too.”
“Look at me.” Tristan lifted her chin. “We will not lose him. We won’t let that happen.”
She nodded, allowing herself to believe those words.
The stable hand brought out Kaja’s horse, passing over the reins.
“All right.” Aloisia pushed down the panic which threatened to choke her. “Let’s just get there. I’d feel better if I were already in the square.”
“Then let’s go.” Tristan squeezed her arm.
She swung up into the saddle, arranging her skirts around her. Until now, she hadn’t noticed she was still wearing the clothes from the night before. Brighde’s clothes. She ignored the pang in her chest at the thought, holding out a hand to Tristan and helping him into the saddle behind her.
Aloisia focused on the steady rhythm of the mares’ hooves as they made their way to Execution Square. When she had stood before the tree that morning, she hadn’t imagined she would be back there so soon.
A crowd had already gathered. Word travelled fast in Littlewatch. Aloisia helped Tristan down from her horse and dismounted. She tied the reins to a nearby post and gave Jem a pat on the nose before picking her way through the mass of people. Finding a spot near the front, she looked amongst the horde for Ma. Part of her hoped she wouldn’t be here to witness whatever would unfold. But her hopes were dashed when she spotted her towards the back of the square, accompanied by Brighde’s family.
Aloisia turned away, not ready to face any of them yet. Instead, she took to pacing back and forth between Kaja and Tristan.
“How long until they bring him out?” she asked.
Tristan shrugged. “Could be awhile yet.
Minutes ticked by, painfully long and drawn out by her anxiety. She didn’t know how long they had been there when the gates to Magistrate Asmund Vester’s estate opened. Three figures, flanked by guards, emerged from the gates. The crowd parted for them, forging a path to the platform beneath the hanging tree. Whispers rippled through the gathering as they passed, and Aloisia craned her neck to see who accompanied Magistrate Vester.
“What is she doing here?” Tristan murmured, almost to himself.
Aloisia frowned. “Who?”
The trio moved into her line of sight. Magistrate Asmund Vester strode at the centre of the group, identifiable by his vibrant purple doublet. Over his breast, the symbol of the Father’s Guild was emblazoned in silver: a set of scales weighed evenly. The burnished bronze of his skin contrasted with the sharp violet of his uniform. His dark curls were gathered at the nape of his neck, his beard shot with grey. He held his chin angled upwards.
To one side of Magistrate Vester was the High Priest of Littlewatch, one Silas Larsen. As to be expected. The Temple always had a hand in justice. He wore his white robes, tied at the waist with a golden belt. His face was sombre, his jaw set. As with most priests, he wore his pale brown hair cropped short. Like Magistrate Vester, the grey peppering his hair and beard showed his age, as well as the lines which crinkled the corners of his eyes.
But to the magistrate’s other side was a woman Aloisia had never seen before. The pure white of her dress matched High Priest Silas’s robes, though it was embroidered with gold symbols of the Nine Divines. Her pale blonde hair was pulled back into a braided twist. A simple golden band donned her brow, from which a translucent white veil draped down her back. She joined Magistrate Vester and High Priest Silas upon the platform.
“Who is she?” Aloisia asked, leaning in towards Tristan.
“I have only seen her once before,” Tristan whispered. “She’s the Modäiti, the Head of the Temple. She’s the living representation of the Mother Herself. And she’s the younger sister of Queen Odalis of Teneria.”
Aloisia gaped at her. Why would the Modäiti be here? How did she get here in time? It was a five-hour ride from the capital, Ephroditia.
As a hush settled upon the crowd, Magistrate Asmund Vester stepped forth. “In the light of the Father, this day we hope to shed light upon a terrible crime. We seek truth and justice, in His name.”
“Last night,” High Priest Silas said, “one of our own was welcomed into the embrace of the Mother. Unfortunately, she did not go peacefully.”
Tristan brushed his fingers against Aloisia’s, and she gripped his hand as if he were the only thing anchoring her to the world.
“Murder and witchcraft.” The Modäiti’s voice rang like a bell, clear through the square. “Those are the charges this man stands accused of. Both heinous crimes. Both punishable by death.”
A strangled noise escaped Aloisia and the Modäiti’s eyes found her in the crowd, her amber gaze piercing and steady.
“This day shall mark the start of the trial of Fynn Smith,” she continued, her attention never leaving Aloisia. “We trust the Father will aid us in finding truth and justice.” She turned her gaze back to the horde, a serene smile upon her face.
“Truth and justice,” the crowd replied, as was tradition.
Tristan squeezed her hand. “It’s just the beginning. There won’t be a verdict today.”
Aloisia hoped he was right.
