Brail couldn’t help but frown, even as city folk waved to him or reached out to touch him, as if he were some sort of hero. He could understand the importance of punishing a traitor, particularly one as dangerous as Grigor. But he found the fevered behavior of the throng unsettling.

“You’ve seen many executions, my lord?” Fetnalla asked.

“I’ve seen a few. I wouldn’t say many.”

“Do the condemned always maintain their innocence to the very end?”

He glanced at her. She was watching him, looking surprisingly young.

“Some do, most really. Not all. Why?”

The woman shrugged, facing forward again. “The duke seems determined to accuse his brothers, though he has nothing to gain from this anymore.”

“You think him innocent?”

“I haven’t before today. I just expected him to relent. Faced with… with this, I thought he would confess and make peace with the gods.”

“You can’t expect this man to behave as you or I would, Minister. He’s a murderer and a traitor. Perhaps you heard that an Eibitharian spy was found in Solkara a few days ago.”

“Yes, my lord, I had heard.”

“All along we’ve wondered if there might have been more to what happened in the queen’s chamber than we realized. I think it’s clear now that there was, though not as we thought at first. Grigor wasn’t working with the Qirsi conspiracy, but rather with our enemies to the north.”

“Has Grigor admitted this?”

Brail turned once more. Tebeo’s first minister was watching him with widened eyes.

“No,” the duke told her. “He hasn’t.”

“Have the soldiers found the… the spies yet?” she asked.

Again, Brail shook his head. “Not yet. But I’m confident that they will.”

Evanthya nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

It seemed to the duke that Tebeo’s Qirsi was disappointed, that she wanted Grigor to be in league with the conspiracy rather than the Eibitharlans, as if one were any better than the other. He couldn’t imagine why she might feel this way, but he no longer pretended to understand any of the white-hairs, even his own. In recent days he had come to believe once again that Fetnalla was loyal to him, though he remained wary. Beyond that, as far as he was concerned, they were unfathomable, an unfortunate necessity in a land whose courts had come to rely too heavily on magic and dubious visions of the future.

“The point is, Fetnalla,” he said, turning his attention back to his minister, “we can’t hope to understand a man like Grigor. It may be that he still holds out hope of redemption. Perhaps he believes, by some perverse logic, that his acts are justified and that the gods will reward him for his defiance. Whatever his reasoning, I’m certain that the land will be safer after he’s dead.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They continued toward the marketplace in silence. Well before they reached the first of the peddler’s carts, Brail saw the gallows standing on a broad wooden platform and towering over the crowded lanes and stalls. It looked solid, if crudely fashioned, the warm tones of the fresh wood a stark contrast to the cold grey sky. Hordes awaited them there, chanting for the traitor’s death and cheering loudly at their first glimpse of the queen and her child.

Soldiers rushed forward to clear a path though the throng for Chofya, Kalyi, and the dukes. They were also forced to beat back the city folk, who, catching sight of Grigor, attempted to drag the man away from his escort.

It took some time, but at last, Pronjed, the castle prelate, and the four guards led Grigor up a long flight of wooden steps to the gallows. Amid screams from the people below, the prelate offered the traitor a final opportunity to confess. When he refused, tight-lipped and ashen, the crowd jeered him lustily and shouted for his death.

The executioner, a tall, burly man in a brown hooded robe, climbed slowly to the platform, and as he did the soldiers tied Grigor’s hands behind his back and slipped the noose around his neck. The cheers grew louder.

Fetnalla turned away.

“An execution can be difficult to watch,” Brail told her, “particularly the first one. But none of the people here is likely to forget this. Other traitors will think twice before taking on the royal house, and those who seek vengeance for what was done to their queen and the Council of Dukes will leave here satisfied that justice was done.”

The Qirsi offered no response.

At the base of the gallows, the executioner grabbed hold of the rope and, with a quick glance toward Pronjed, who nodded once, gave a mighty pull. Grigor was lifted off the platform, to the roared approval of the crowd. The traitor kicked his feet several times, his body swinging back and forth, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth bared. The executioner left him up there for some time, until his features started to slacken. Only then, when the man was broken, but not yet dead, did the executioner lower him again, removing the noose and cutting the bonds that held his hands. They laid him down on the bare wood platform, and brought forth the knives.

Even Brail had to look away after that, though from the shouting, and the cries of some, he knew that they were disemboweling him. At last he heard the executioner call out the ritual words, “See in my hand, the heart of a traitor.” It was nearly over.

In another few moments, the guards descended the steps again, each one of them bearing part of the man’s body. The executioner followed, carrying Grigor’s head on a pike. The horsemen who were to bear the traitor’s body to the four corners of the kingdom waited just beyond the mass of people, and already some were leaving the marketplace for the castle, so that they might see the man’s head mounted there.

“Justice,” it was said, “is both patient and swift, curative and cruel, equitable and absolute.”

Never had Brail thought the words more apt that they were this day.

With the execution ended, Brail and Fetnalla followed Chofya back to the castle. There, just after midday, in the queen’s presence chamber, the Council of Dukes met for the first time since the poisoning.

Chofya was there, of course, as were her daughter and Grigor’s two surviving brothers. Henthas, Brail was disturbed to see, wore the red, black, and gold of Solkara and took a seat at the table with the rest of the dukes. Numar stood at the head of the table with the queen, Pronjed, and Kalyi.

When all the dukes and their ministers had arrived and were seated, Chofya stood. “After the darkness of the past several days,” she began, “I am pleased to have tidings of a different sort. Numar, marquess of Renbrere, youngest brother of my husband the king, has agreed to serve as regent to my daughter Kalyi when she is invested as queen of Aneira.”

Brail glanced at Tebeo, who was already looking his way, relief written plainly on his round face.

“He has agreed to accept Carden’s archminister, Pronjed jal Drenthe, as his archminister, and he has already sent word to his home in Renbrere to have his possessions brought here so that he might live in the royal city.”

She stepped to the side as Numar stood, a smile on his face.

“I am honored that Queen Chofya has deemed me worthy to serve as regent to her daughter until our new queen is old enough to rule Aneira on her own. With all that’s happened since we first arrived for my brother’s funeral, it would have been only natural for this council to turn away from House Solkara and toward the uncertainty and dangers of civil war. I’m grateful to all of you for your patience and your commitment to peace. I hope that I prove myself worthy of your trust.”

“Forgive me, Lord Renbrere,” the duke of Rassor interrupted, “but I must ask why your brother is here. We bear you no ill will, but Henthas has always been at Grigor’s right hand. He has no place in this council.”

Several of the others nodded in agreement, including both Ansis and Tebeo.