The crowds thickened the closer she drew to the center of town. The stench of smoke and fear rose thick in the air, choking the skies. The dachas around them were jagged against the night, reflecting the color of blood from the torches that blazed.
Ana turned and the town square of Novo Mynsk unfolded before her.
The entire town seemed to have gathered. Torches were staked in the ground, the square awash in crimson and shadows. And in the very center of it all, a wooden scaffolding had been set up, lit in the light of the torches surrounding it. On the cobblestone ground, Imperial Patrols formed a ring around the stage, the whites of their cloaks tinted red from the flames. About half wore the lighter gray of the Inquisitors’ uniform.
Fluttering above it all in the middle of the scaffold was the silver-blue flag of Cyrilia, now bearing Morganya’s sigil. And chained to its pole, shivering in nightclothes, was a group of civilians.
The image cut through Ana’s exhaustion, bright and sharp.
A hush rippled through the square as a Whitecloak made his way to the center of the platform. His breastplate bore the new insignia of the crown and the Deys’krug, labeling him as an Inquisitor. As he unfurled a scroll and began to speak, the prisoners tied to the pole behind him shivered in the cold.
“Citizens of Cyrilia, we are gathered here today in the spirit of Kolst Imperatorya Morganya, our Glorious Empress, to dispense justice upon the land and carry out the will of the Deities.”
The ashes of Ana’s anger stirred, deep inside.
“These prisoners gathered before you today have been accused of heinous crimes against the Empire and Her Glorious Empress,” the Inquisitor continued, and as he spoke, there was movement on the stage.
Two Whitecloaks dragged a woman onto the scaffold. She was dressed in a silk nightgown, one sleeve torn, her hair falling out of a disheveled bun. She was crying and clutching a bundle to her chest.
One Whitecloak shoved her to the ground. The woman cried out, but her body curled around the small bundle. Protecting it.
From inside the layers of cloth came a thin, high-pitched keening.
A baby,Ana thought. Her head grew light with horror. There was nothing in what she had seen tonight that indicated justice, not in the way that Cyrilia had always enforced it: with a court, with a trial, and with evidence.
No, this was uninhibited cruelty, dictated by a monarch who now served as judge, jury, and executioner.
“All those who oppose our Glorious Empress oppose divine goodness and rightful justice and must be punished.” The Inquisitor looked up, his eyes burning fever-bright. “We will purge this empire of unholy beings and criminals. From theroot!” His voice rose into a shout.
Cold crept up Ana’s veins. She could see what these Whitecloaks were doing, using words such asdivine goodnessandrightful justiceto justify Morganya’s actions. Morganya was using the Imperial Inquisition to steel her rule with an iron fist, and to spread the message that her will represented the Deities’ will.
In Cyrilia, the emperors sought the blessing of the Deities before each coronation. But none had ever dared to equate their actions with the wishes of the gods.
Seyin’s voice whispered to her again.The people have suffered for too long under the theory of a benevolent ruler.
Sweat slicked Ana’s palms. Onstage, one of the Whitecloaks crouched and began to drag the woman by her hair. The other wrapped his silver-gloved hands around the tiny bundle.
“No!” In the utter silence, the mother’s scream was jarring. She lurched back, shielding her child with her body. Her pleas echoed through the square. “Please, mesyr, I beg you, my baby is innocent—we are both innocent—”
“You would deny that you kept indentured Affinites in your household?” the Inquisitor roared.
“Employed, mesyr, we gave them wages and food and boarding—”
“Under a criminal contract!” the Inquisitor shouted, drawing his sword. It sliced through the air, flashing red in the torchlight. “You and your family are condemned to death for these crimes.”
“Not my baby, mesyr, please—spare my baby—”
The Whitecloak began to pull the bundle away, but the woman clung on, dragging herself from the floor, her dress ripping as the other Whitecloak grasped at her feet. From inside the bundle came the thinnest keening noise, threading through the crackle of the torches and the commotion onstage.
It happened so quickly.
The Whitecloak gave another pull and slammed his boot into the woman’s stomach. She slipped.
The sound of her fall cracked across the square like the whip of a lash. Blood seeped crimson across the platform, twisting serpentine through Ana’s Affinity. The woman’s body lay motionless.
Across the silent square, there was only the wailing sound of the baby as the Whitecloak carried it away.
Ana closed her eyes. Her thoughts were fragmenting, splintered by the blood of the dead mother and the cries of the child.
