“Bastard!”the crowd shouted.“The Bastard Girl of Soreia!”
Another lash.
“You have no name,” the queen said.
Skin, torn away from Sonara’s muscles.
“You have no kingdom.”
Muscles, torn away from her bones.
And then the sentence came.
“Tonight,” the queen said, as silence swept across the throne room, “you will die.”
In her mind, Sonara escaped to thoughts of the girl Soahm had once spoken of: the She-Devil, the dream she should have grabbed ahold of when they’d thought it up together in the stables. She should have run far, far away.
Her other half-siblings, the princes and princesses of Soreia, stood with their arms crossed on the dais, the fringes of their robes flecked with her blood. They watched, unwavering as their mother beat Sonara to the end of breathing.
They left just enough life in her to perform the Leaping.
At dusk, Sonara was placed on an open wagon and carted to the edge of the kingdom in full view,so that the watching crowd could gaze upon the fate of a kingdom’s traitor.
They gathered and grew and followed to the edge of Cradle’s Cliff. It towered so high the clouds kissed it, moistened the earth like it had been covered in a blanket of winter’s breath. The ocean raged against the rocks below, sea-spray erupting in the air where it was picked up by the wind.
The salt air stung as it landed on Sonara’s open back. Her vision flitted from dark to light as the cart wheels groaned to a stop, and strong hands lifted her ruined body.
She could scarcely hold open her eyes as the crowd chanted.
But one sound broke above it all.
A cry. A mighty, beastly screech that forced her eyes open.
Duran.
Her heart sank. There he was, the beast that had becomehers,fighting for freedom at the edge of the cliff. Two trainers held a rope, their feet scrambling for purchase against the moist earth as Duran reared and threw his mighty head about, trying in vain to escape.
They made her watch as they bound him, man by man, ropes on his legs, ropes slung around his strong neck. His red eyes were ablaze, sides heaving as he stood there, a captive.
He washers.
And that made him as good as dead.
Fight,Sonara wanted to tell him, as she was lifted from the cart by strong soldier hands. She hung between two men as they dragged her towards Duran, feet scraping the earth.Oh, goddesses, just keep fighting.
But in her presence, at her touch, the mighty steed calmed.He allowed Sonara to be placed upon him, those very ropes used to bind them both together as the guards slung her on his back.
She knew this death: the Leaping.
A death reserved for a traitor. A coward. A deserter, tied to the back of their own steed, forced to ride over the edge of the abyss.
The crowd cheered, as Sonara slumped forward on Duran. They made a path, two sides that closed in, the nearer they got to the edge.
“Over the edge,” the queen said. “To a death that has no peace. No silence.No end.”
The trainers released the ropes, cracking the whip over Duran’s back as they commanded him forward.
His nostrils flared. But he steeled himself and did not move.
