She wishes she could unleash her rage and grief onto something that will affect the outcome of this eclipse day.
Now she understands why people pray.
Amaranth arrives, her face striped in thick black lines, and Lyric seems surprised to see her. Garnet even makes a slight comment to Sidoné, for Her Glory has never attended the Final Mercy executions before. Sidoné merely grimaces at the griffons above. But room is made among the Seal guards, attendants, and handful of miran of high enough rank to observe from Lyric’s side. Beremé mé Adora tries to maneuver herself next toAmaranth, but Her Glory stands with Iriset and takes her other hand, making herself, along with her brother, into royal buttresses holding Iriset up.
The Moon-Eater’s Mistress came for Iriset.
How dare she? Iriset carefully tugs away.
There’s little fanfare to the execution, as it’s a performance of justice. The moment the sun touches the eastern edge of the moon, priests stationed at each cardinal point surrounding the venue begin force-prayers, calling on the crowd to join them in summoning a balanced song. Because of where the royal stage is positioned, the Vertex Seal’s party joins in with the falling principle, following Lyric’s lead in a soothing melody that slides back and forth between four notes, between major and minor chords. Iriset remains quiet.
The song fades and Seal guards escort four prisoners onto the pavilion. Three men and one woman are bound with prepared linen to the crystal pillars. Isidor the Little Cat is given the position at the forefront, the tip of the death diamond.
The light of the summer sun fades into a cooler blue.
Where is Bittor? Did he not act before Isidor was on the stage because her security map was rendered useless?
Miran lower their palm fans and umbrellas to let the eclipse light reach their faces. Iriset lifts her chin. She imagines how the wavering blue sunlight catches the ghost writing on her forehead. What will her father see? Rays of rainbow light, mimicking a mask? Will it dazzle him? She is so far away, but she can see his face, see that he turns in her direction.
This is the end. Iriset feels so much it is like feeling nothing at all. All four forces crashing together so strongly they negate.
The rumble of conversation lifts, though nobody cheers or cries out either eagerly or in protest. It’s not Silent, but neitheris it fraught. Beremé murmurs something to Amaranth. One of the Seal guards on the royal platform coughs.
Iriset barely breathes.
Priests of Aharté, in their dark red robes and silver masks, bring out the unraveling collars, affixing them to the prisoners in pairs. Each collar is wrought of four echo coins and threads of force gathered in long, narrow webs like ladder rope. They settle over the shoulders of the criminals.
Iriset stares hard at her father, memorizing him like he’s the last sunset she’ll ever see. His shorn hair is slicked back as if wet, his beard shaved away. He’s clean, wearing a simple robe and trousers, no shoes. They’ve painted something onto his forehead and chin, and maybe his hands, but she can’t see well enough from her distance.
When a thrum of unexpected falling force slinks beneath Iriset’s slippered feet, she’s startled into glancing down. Above her the griffon queenscreams.
Miran cry out, some flinging hands to shade their eyes as they stare back at the griffon. There’s a moment of echoing silence, then Amaranth gasps and Seal guards leap into action. But Lyric stares at the same thing Iriset sees: Arcing across the sky to the southeast are filaments of light like fireworks. They burst in the air, reaching for one another, forming sky graffiti that spells out a prayer in the sacred calligraphy of Silence:
Silk is Syr
Heir of Aharté
As the filaments fall, rippling toward the crowd, they twist and flip, sparkling with black and gold ecstatic charges. Then a voice rings out across the space via design amplification:
“Yesterday rebellion dropped from the moon, but today it rises from beneath our feet!”
It’s Bittor’s voice.
Iriset stops breathing.
On the Mercy Pavilion, the Little Cat struggles against the pillar, shaking his head, mouth moving but she can’t hear.
Another burst of light, but instead of graffiti, it’s only fireworks, ecstatic color spiraling in every direction: beautiful and harmless. Distraction.
It’s all a distraction. Bittor made his own. Iriset almost laughs in sheer relief.
Sudden movement and the shifting of the crowd draws Iriset’s attention in the other direction: A man has leapt high, and he’s running over the crowd’s ambient forces like dashing over the surface of a lake. He couldn’t use the map to rescue the Little Cat quietly, so he’s making a spectacle.
Gasps, shock, shrieks, and the vibration of force-blades ping against Iriset’s attention, but she can’t look away. It’s Bittor; she knows his shape and motion. She knows how he’s performing this trick: tension soles, a boot-net she played with alongside Dalal, for escaping over water. Its purpose is reacting against the power imbued in the force-threads, in ambient forces, not infiltrating them! Genius!
Nobody can stop Bittor as he runs his jagged path. They can’t shoot him without aiming into the crowd. She leans forward, eager. Someone grasps her elbow. The miran stare up, pointing and shying away from the ripples of force shocking out from his every step. It’s their own security Bittor is bouncing off, and overhead more fireworks explode.
But Bittor suddenly veers away from the Mercy Pavilion. Away from the Little Cat. Running directly at Iriset instead.
