Prologue
Someone was goingto burn.
Logan Chastain watched the executioner’s platform through the open door of his apothecary, his thoughts distant as he molded medicinal tablets. The little spheres of herbs and honey became irregular as his concentration broke. Just outside the guild hall, in the center of the town square, a crew of men were assembling a pyre.
Ordinarily when an execution was scheduled in Finn’s Hollow, Logan set aside a draught for the condemned. Extracting the values of opium, hemlock, and henbane, he’d draw a lethal tincture that numbed its user to all pain. Sometimes the criminal would choose to go without, wishing to feel those final moments of life. More often than not, they begged for the mercy of anesthetics. It was public knowledge that the Chastains provided such a service, so Logan had come to know the executioner well over the years, and he was given exclusive access to the prisoners just before they set foot on that marble platform.
This time was different. He’d been given permission to see the prisoner, but she was guilty of witchcraft, and giving comfort to condemned witches was itself considered a crime. As volunteers erected the stake at the center of the pyre, Logan wondered who in their right mind would risk such a visitation. Even if it were legal to do so, associating with a witch was dangerous on its own.
He closed up shop at sunset. His neighbors remained outside the guild hall, gossiping with quiet intrigue. Connor Millthorne, the tailor, perked up at the sight of Logan and crossed over to him. The dirt square was bustling as people loitered outside of market stalls and colorful shops, gathering as if a festival was about to begin.
Connor eyed the stake. “I thought burnings were outlawed.”
“For traitors, you are correct,” Logan replied. He rubbed the back of his neck, skin prickling from the subject. “The laws regarding witches haven’t changed.”
“A witch? You can’t mean they’ve finally captured Laetitia?”
Logan gave a grim look. “If by ‘they’, you mean Taran Banewight.”
There weren’t many witches left in Gallae, but the few who existed were hunted relentlessly. Fewer still were their pursuers, the Banewights, a skilled order of supernatural huntsmen. Laetitia had evaded capture for some time, roaming in the woods and residing solely in temporary structures. Finding her must have been quite the feat for Taran; it was said she left no footprints when she walked, and that she was capable of changing her face so that no one alive knew her true form. Logan wondered whether the disguise would melt away in the flames, then chastised himself for the macabre idea.
“Logan!”
The call came from Sieur Aron, a former knight of the realm who couldn’t seem to retire from the act of killing. He was a hulking mass with a long grey beard that still had life and copper in its tips. That same vibrancy was absent in his eyes. Logan had never seen anything but darkness in the executioner’s steeled gaze.
Logan crossed the dirt yard and braced a foot on the marble. “You summoned me, Sieur?”
“Have you gone to see Laetitia?” asked Sieur Aron. “It’s time.”
“I won’t be risking it. Besides, what am I to do? Taunt her? I can give her nothing.”
Sieur Aron exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t sure, either.”
Logan frowned and turned his eyes to the pyre. The executioner tracked his focus.
“She’s a foul woman, Logan. People have died. Children…”
Logan averted his gaze. His wife, Petra, was pregnant; so the subject carried extra weight. “I know. Perhaps I should go home… I’d rather not watch. As a man of medicine, it is difficult to endure the suffering of others, witch or not.”
Sieur Aron grunted. To him, justice meant a punishment befitting the crime, and sometimes that meant people burned.
Just as Logan turned to leave, the square fell quiet, its inhabitants giving a wide berth to the arriving procession. A pair of hooded priestesses walked at either side of Laetitia, whose arms were bound tight to her back. She was a pretty thing, with hair of silver-blonde and fair, unblemished skin, but she wore an unmistakable fear in her eyes when she beheld the pyre, and her focus shifted quickly to Logan.
He’d seen this woman before. She was a frequent customer, often stopping for herbs that were harder to forage, but he’d never known her to be a witch.
Behind her walked the Banewight. His fearsome reputation painted a different picture than what now entered the square; by the tales alone, Logan half-expected to see a giant standing there. Instead, he saw a shorter fellow of stocky build, one who was grazing the edge of manhood, though there was a strange gravity to his step and a sinister aura about him.
They proceeded to the stage, passing Logan on their way to the pyre. While the priestesses bound Laetitia to the stake, she spoke out to him directly.
“Master Chastain! Finally, a good man,” she said, her voice shaking beneath a calm façade. “Please, sir, as a last favor to a longtime customer, won’t you go and fetch me something for the pain?”
He could feel the eyes of the village on him and remained still. Even the Banewight had turned his attention to him.
Laetitia parted her lips, then tried again. “Goodman, they’ll burn me alive.”
Logan took a breath, an unnatural tightness squeezing at his throat. “I know.”
The witch trembled against her bindings. “I am but a terrified woman, Master Chastain. Please, have mercy.”
