Beast of Stone

  “GOT HIM!”

  Raffa turned to see Jayney holding a javelancer, the tip of which was prodding his side. On Jayney’s face was an expression of cruel triumph. Four armed guards flanked him.

  “Move,” Jayney said, jerking his head and his lancer toward the clearing.

  Both Raffa and Fitzer immediately sat down on the ground.

  “Quake’s sake! Not again,” muttered one of the other guards.

  A brief moment of satisfaction: Clearly, the other Afters had followed their squad leaders’ orders.

  The guards wasted no time. On Jayney’s orders, Raffa’s and Fitzer’s hands were bound with rope. Then one guard lifted Raffa under his arms and another grabbed his feet. Two more guards did the same to Fitzer; Raffa heard him stifle a cry of pain.

  They were half-dragged, half-carried along the path into the clearing. Raffa saw row after row of Afters sitting on the ground, with their hands behind their heads. Guards stood among them, weapons threatening.

  As he and Fitzer were dumped near the pavilion, Raffa heard a voice he knew too well.

  “Young Santana! I’m so pleased to see you again.”

  It was the Chancellor. She stood on the dais at the front of the pavilion, her silver hair gleaming like a helmet.

  At her side was Uncle Ansel.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  RAFFA refused to meet his uncle’s gaze. He turned his head away to search the pavilion. Where was Garith? And Jimble, and Kuma? Was Jimble all right?

  Most pressing of all, Where was the Advocate?

  A cadre of guards was marching toward the pavilion.

  “Mannum Trubb,” the Chancellor called, “please escort young Santana to the dais. I would like him to welcome our guests with me.”

  Raffa was always amazed at how normal the Chancellor sounded when she spoke. He thought grimly that it would be much easier to tell who the enemy was if they would at least look or sound evil. But they don’t. They look and sound like anyone else.

  Trubb stepped down from the dais. Raffa remembered seeing him in Gilden months earlier: a tall, pale, stringy man who worked for Senior Jayney.

  “On your feet,” Trubb said, his voice high-pitched and snivelly, as if he had a perpetual cold. He prodded Raffa’s leg with his toe.

  Raffa didn’t move.

  “I said, on your feet!” Trubb screeched.

  “Never mind,” the Chancellor said. “I believe young Santana will join us of his own accord.”

  With a sweep of her arm, she indicated the group of guards who had nearly reached the dais. Now Raffa could see that the guards were clustered around two people who wore hooded cloaks. Their hands were tied in front of them.

  Prisoners, Raffa thought, and he shivered from a sudden chill.

  As the guards moved aside, the Chancellor stepped down from the dais. She herself pulled back the hood of one prisoner and then the other.

  Raffa’s mother, Salima, was one of the prisoners. The other was Trixin.

  Raffa was on his feet with a wordless cry. Trubb and one of the guards pinioned his arms and dragged him forward.

  “Mam . . . ,” he whispered.

  She was too far away to hear him, but he knew that she heard anyway. She was looking at him, a smile on her lips and in her eyes, and he was smiling back at her. Even here, in the midst of this desperate struggle, just seeing his mother again made his heart feel like it was singing.

  “Now, then,” the Chancellor said as she returned to her place on the dais, “we can get started. There’s work to be done here!” She smiled brightly at Raffa and then at Salima and Trixin. “The leadership of this pitiful collective—where are they?”

  She scanned the crowd before her. None of the Afters moved. Raffa had not seen any of the council members other than Fitzer; he made a conscious effort not to move either his head or his eyes. He didn’t want to inadvertently give any of them away.

  “Really!” the Chancellor said. “You must not imagine that we are unjust or unfair. We only want what’s best for Obsidia. None of the Afters will be punished for this insurrection. You will be allowed to leave with your families.” She swept one arm through the air in a gesture of grand graciousness.

  “But we must maintain the rule of law, for the safety and security of our citizens. We must deal with the leadership of this rebellion ruthlessly, to show that no one is above the law. No person may put their individual desires above the good of Obsidia.”

  Pause, while she surveyed the crowd again.

  “Are they cowards, your leaders? Would they hide behind you—use you as human shields?”

  Someone in the crowd stood, his hands raised above his head. He had long straight black hair tied back in a tail, dark eyes, and tan skin.

  “My name is Sy,” he said, in a strong, ringing voice. “I am head of the council here.”

  Raffa swallowed his gasp of surprise. He had never met this man, Sy.

  He’s lying, to protect the real council!

  Raffa’s heart filled with pride and admiration.

  The Chancellor nodded. “So there is a true leader among you,” she said, “one brave enough to take responsibility for his grievous error. Guards?”

  Two guards made their way toward Sy. They took him by the arms, one on each side. Sy went limp and bent his knees, so he was hanging from their hands.

  Raffa saw the Chancellor’s face tighten in anger. “You may delay justice, but you will not deny it!” she shouted.

  “Take him yonder,” she said to the guards as she pointed behind her, toward the stream. “And one of you come back—with his hand.”

  The crowd gasped; a few people cried out.

  Raffa saw Elson and Quellin stand at the same time. Haddie and Missum Abdul and Fitzer stood, too.

  “Ah,” the Chancellor said, her face and voice smooth again. “At last, the truth. Won’t you join us, please?” She beckoned them in a ghastly mock-welcome.

  Soon there were nine people lined up in front of the dais: the five council members, Raffa, Salima, Trixin, and Sy. The other captives deliberately bumped into one another and their guards, creating a space of confusion that enabled Raffa to end up next to his mother.

  Salima raised her bound hands over his head. He slipped under her arms. Since his own hands were bound as well, he could not hug her back, but he pressed his face against her shoulder and wished for that moment to last forever.

  “You’re taller,” she murmured into his ear, “and that is the most dreadful haircut I have ever seen.”

  He had to laugh even as tears were rolling down his cheeks. Several days earlier Jimble had given him a haircut, using Raffa’s knife. Raffa had in fact not even seen the results himself—he hadn’t wanted to.

  “The Advocate?” he whispered.

  The light in her eyes dimmed a little. “I don’t know—”

  Before she could finish what she was saying, guards yanked them apart and forced him to stand at the other end of the line.

  “Nine . . . ,” the Chancellor was saying. She strode down the length of the dais, passing each one in turn. “I realize that a few are missing, but this is very satisfactory, to have gathered most of you together so easily. Nine, to pay the price for the sins of hundreds—it’s more than generous of us, don’t you think?”

  Pay the price? What does she mean by that?

  “And as a further mark of our generosity, I hereby order that the executions be swift and merciful,” the Chancellor said.

  A wave of horror rolled over the crowd of Afters. Raffa could hear gasps and moans; some people began to sob.

  “No,” Haddie said, her voice firm. She raised her hands to point at Raffa, then Trixin. “You’ll not execute children. Not even you would be so cruel.”

  “Of course not,” the Chancellor said. “Nor will I banish them with the others. I’ve decided that they will take up residence at the Garrison. For the rest of their lives.”

  Raffa had not even begun to take in the dread of what s
he had been saying when someone else spoke.

  “Chancellor, your pardon?”

  Raffa’s head snapped in the direction of the voice. A voice he had known since the day he was born.

  Uncle Ansel.

  “I—I don’t mean to speak out of turn,” he said. He was clearly nervous, his eyes darting about, hands clasped but fingers fidgeting. “But I thought we—that is, earlier you and I spoke—that my sister might be spared . . . both she and my nephew could well be useful to us—”

  The Chancellor stared at Ansel, obviously displeased with him. Her anger made her seem taller.

  “I said I would consider your request, Senior Vale,” she said. “I made you no promise. Do you recollect that now? Or are you calling me a liar?”

  Ansel seemed to shrivel at her words. “Y-y-yes, Chancellor. No, of—of course not.” He bowed his head in silence.

  Then an anguished voice shattered the stillness. “DA!” Garith shouted. “Da, you can’t still be with her!”

  Ansel’s head jerked up. Garith was standing at the edge of the pavilion. He stretched out one arm toward his father. Raffa watched as his cousin and uncle stared at each other.

  Ansel put his face in his hands in utter dismay—but did not move from the Chancellor’s side.

  Garith held his arm out for a moment longer. It seemed to take forever for him to lower it to his side.

  Raffa felt a corner of his heart break away, a wound that he knew would not heal. Uncle Ansel, whom he had loved like a second father. He would always love the man of his memories, but he could only pity the one here now, for the choices he had made and for being too weak to renounce them.

  And as Raffa looked at Garith, he sensed that his beloved cousin would never be free from the pain of this moment.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  TWO guards brought Garith to the dais and shoved him into the line of prisoners. Raffa saw that Garith’s face was streaked with tears.

  “Senior Jayney,” the Chancellor said, “the six adult prisoners are to be taken one at a time to the stream, and executed as the captain of the guards sees fit. The others will remain in sight of everyone here, until it is their turn.”

  Some of the Afters could no longer contain themselves.

  “Savagery!”

  “Murder!”

  “What about their right to be Deemed?”

  The crowd was now simmering with restlessness. More angry voices filled the air. At that moment, with the guards and the Chancellor focused on the crowd, Raffa felt a familiar whump on his shoulder.

  “Echo!” he whispered as quietly as he could. “Get under my tunic, quickly!”

  The bat obeyed, but before he disappeared from sight, he squeaked out a few words.

  “Not Mam horse,” Echo said. “Da horse.”

  Da!

  Da was on his way here! He had somehow escaped from the Garrison!

  His heart nearly bursting from his chest, Raffa lowered his chin and spoke into his neckline. He had to find out if Da was bringing the Advocate with him.

  “Echo, was there someone with Da? Another man?”

  “Da horse,” Echo repeated.

  Raffa held his breath to keep from blubbering in distress. And fear, too: The Advocate isn’t with him. He mustn’t come here! He’ll be caught and executed along with the rest!

  “Man horse man horse,” Echo chirped.

  The world stopped. Raffa forced himself to speak calmly.

  “What did you say, Echo?”

  “Da horse. Man horse man horse.”

  Raffa closed his eyes for a long moment. He had never known Echo to count any higher than two.

  Da, with at least two other people. The Advocate . . . But who else?

  Callian!

  Raffa opened his eyes. He craned his neck, looking down the line of prisoners at Salima. He saw her glance in the direction of the path into the clearing—not once, but twice.

  She’s looking for them! She’s thinking—hoping—that they’re going to get here at any moment!

  But it was no longer a matter of the Advocate arriving in time to free the Afters.

  Now it was a question of saving the lives of seven people.

  Including Mam.

  The noise from the crowd grew louder. The Chancellor stepped forward, her eyes narrowed. She raised a closed fist in the air over her head. All the guards immediately brandished their weapons.

  The protests subsided, except for a murmur of voices in a far corner of the pavilion. Then a single voice was heard over the others.

  “Hoy there! I need to speak to the Chancellor!”

  Kuma!

  Panic stampeded through Raffa’s gut. No no no—get away, get back to the Forest! They’ll put you in the Garrison, too! For someone like Kuma, who loved being outdoors and spent most of her life there, being locked up in the Garrison would be worse than dying.

  The Chancellor looked up and out over the crowd. Kuma was hurrying through the clearing toward the pavilion. Two guards rushed to meet her; she raised her hands above her head and continued to walk toward the dais.

  She stopped within arm’s length of the Chancellor, her back straight, her body steady.

  “Roo is somewhere out there, in the trees,” she said. “All I have to do is call her, and she will come to my aid. She will rip and claw and tear anyone she thinks is hurting me. And look where I am—standing right next to you.”

  Raffa couldn’t believe his ears. Kuma was threatening to use Roo as a weapon, the very thing she had sworn never to do!

  The Chancellor went very still. “The bear would never get to me,” she said. “My guards would lance it on sight.”

  Kuma lifted her chin. “You’ve seen her. You know how big she is. She could take a dozen lancers before she went down, and I doubt you have a dozen guards brave enough to face her. If she thinks I’m in danger, nothing in the world will stop her.”

  The Chancellor hesitated.

  Kuma went on, “Let them go”—she gestured to the nine captives—“and order your guards to put their weapons down.”

  Chancellor Leeds pressed her lips together for a moment. Then— “Guards!” she shouted. “Silence her!”

  Kuma responded calmly as a javelancer was thrust dangerously near her face. “I wouldn’t do that,” she said. “I don’t actually need to make a single sound. Roo can smell me—she can even smell my fear. If I’m in distress, she will know it in an instant.”

  The Chancellor turned to Jayney. “Have some of the guards defend against the bear,” she ordered.

  Jayney seemed to falter for the merest moment, then turned to look out at the guards, who stood menacingly over the Afters seated on the ground. Every last guard suddenly focused on their charges, prodding the Afters with their weapons or barking orders. Raffa snorted in derision: It was obvious that not one of them wanted to be chosen to face Roo.

  “One from each platoon!” Jayney shouted.

  The guards only increased their efforts to look occupied.

  Jayney took a step forward and raised his lancer. “Platoon leaders! Choose someone now, or come forward yourself!”

  More shouts followed. The platoon leaders issued orders, but had to resort to threats and coercion before any of the guards would obey. Both Jayney and the Chancellor looked furious.

  Finally fifteen men and women took up defensive positions around the dais. They muttered amongst themselves, plainly unhappy—and afraid.

  They’re not with her, Raffa thought. They’re following orders because it’s their job—not because they believe in what she’s doing. Most of them, anyway.

  The Chancellor sneered at Kuma. “Go ahead,” she said. “Let us hear you scream.”

  Raffa’s eyes widened as he stared at Kuma. She opened her mouth . . . for what seemed like a very long moment.

  But no sound came out.

  Slowly she closed her mouth as she lowered her head.

  She can’t do it. She was bluffing. He let out his breath; he
hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. For a moment, he couldn’t decide if he was dismayed or relieved. Then she looked at him, and he gave her a firm nod.

  It’s okay, Kuma. You did the right thing.

  A smile spread across the Chancellor’s face. Again, Raffa was struck by how . . . how normal she looked. If I didn’t know what I know, I would have said that she has a nice smile.

  “Apparently we are going to be able to proceed without interruption,” she said. “Guards, please see that our latest guest is properly welcomed.”

  A guard tied Kuma’s hands and forced her into the line of prisoners.

  “At last we’re ready,” the Chancellor said. Her gaze raked over the prisoners, now ten of them. Then she looked again at Salima.

  “You”—she nodded—“you will serve as our first example, as your act of treason is the gravest. It is one thing to commit a crime. It is another to betray those who have trusted you. Guards?”

  Two guards grabbed Salima by the arms. She folded her body limply, which angered one of them.

  “Filthy wobbler,” the guard said. He struck Salima across her back with the shaft of his lancer.

  Raffa cried out at the crack of wood on flesh. He couldn’t see his mother; she was at the other end of the dais.

  “I’m all right, Raffa,” Salima called to him, her voice steady upon solid.

  They’re going to execute her. They’re going . . . to KILL her.

  Raffa’s stomach roiled in such fear that the foul, burning taste of bile rose in his throat. He swallowed, almost gagging.

  Where was the Advocate? If Echo had seen him, it meant he was on this side of the river. How much longer before he arrived?

  “Captain, what is the matter with your charges?” the Chancellor demanded. “Are they always so slow to respond to orders?”

  The guards had pulled Salima forward, so now Raffa could see her. She was looking at him, her eyes on his face as if she were holding him, as if she would never let go.

  He wanted to shriek and wail and bawl like an infant. He tightened every muscle in his body to stop himself.

  Crying won’t help her! Think—THINK!

  How could he distract the Chancellor? It would have to be something big, something that would totally command her attention. . . .