“I could detail more of her behavior,” Spark said. “But it’s all similar. She’s grown brazen and wicked.” His face paled. “She will bring evil here if we don’t protect ourselves.”
His fear dismayed Ginger. He genuinely believed she had enraged the Dragon-Sun. All of them did.
The Elder turned to the Archivist. “And you?”
“If you need more testimony, I can provide that for the record,” she said. “It is all of a similar nature.”
“Very well.” Tajman turned to Ginger and spoke with pain. “I have known you all your life, since when you were a charming if unruly child, throughout your years as an acolyte and then as priestess. You’ve been well-liked, Ginger, and you’ve served well. But some folk have raised concerns. In the past, I have let my fondness for you overrule my judgment. I must not let that happen now. The severity of your behavior demands we respond.” He took a breath as if to steady himself. “If you have anything to say you may speak.”
She struggled to restrain the explosion of words within her. “I deeply regret if anything I have done has appeared inappropriate in thought, word or deed. Please know, all of you, I would never seek harm against anyone.” She turned to the Archivist. “Jalla is dear to me. I would never hurt her.”
“You speak your lies so convincingly,” the Archivist said.
“I sought to save a life. Kindle can tell you.” Ginger looked at the hall behind her with its empty benches. Dirk was watching her, his gaze implacable. Rattled, she turned back to the Elder. “Why is no one here to speak for me?”
“You mean Kindle?” He looked disappointed, as if he had hoped she wouldn’t bring up the Flame Sentinel. “We cannot allow you to sway a good man into falsely taking blame on himself so you can avoid justice.”
“If you won’t hear those who would speak in my defense,” she said angrily, “the Dragon-Sun will know. He’ll punish you.”
The Archivist jumped to her feet. “How dare you invoke the name of the dragon you have dishonored. You’re an abomination!”
“I have done nothing wrong!” Ginger cried.
Spark was on his feet now, too. “You’re lewd and wicked!”
“Stop it!” The Elder stood between them, his face red. “Silence, both of you!” He raked his hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on Ginger. “Do you repent your actions?”
“Yes,” she said, desperate. “I swear, I do.”
“She lies!” Spark said.
The Archivist spoke. “We cannot endanger the village by keeping among us someone who has so angered the sun, he brought down a mountain in retribution.”
Watching Tajman, Ginger realized even he believed what the Archivist said. Her voice trembled. “What must I do to convince you I mean no harm?”
The Archivist spoke severely. “If you are genuinely true to the Dragon-Sun, it will be impossible for you to burn, for he protects his priestesses from the inferno of his power.”
Ginger felt as if the room were whirling around her. “From the fire of the sun. Not the fire of man.”
The Elder narrowed his gaze at her. “You would reinterpret the ancient scrolls for your own benefit?”
Ginger felt as if she couldn’t say anything right. She had spent her life avoiding speeches, and now she had no compelling phrases to roll off her tongue. She struggled for the words. “The fire referred to in those scrolls is symbolic.”
“The scrolls say fire,” the Archivist said flatly. “Not ‘fire as a symbol’ for the convenience of blasphemous priestesses.”
“I would never speak blasphemy against the dragon!”
The Elder pushed his hand through his hair, moving as if he carried a great weight. “I have heard the evidence, Ginger. I do not want to believe. But it is damning. We cannot ignore it, not after the dragon himself has smote the land.” He pulled himself up straighter. “But the Dragon-Sun has also heard your claim of repentance. If you speak truly, he will grant you mercy. We must leave it in his hands.” Still looking at Ginger, he said, “Archivist, do you have the sentence?”
The Archivist picked up the other scroll in front of her. She unrolled the aged parchment, taking care with its frayed edges. “In the last trial with such charges, the sentence was thus.” Holding the ancient document with both hands, she read, “For lewd and licentious behavior, the accused is sentenced to twenty lashes. For the charge of witchery, she will be bound to a stake at sunset, the time where both the Dragon and Goddess reign. Peat, brush and desiccated fire-lily vines shall be piled around the stake. They shall be put to flame with three torches. If the Dragon-Sun so wishes to punish the witch for her misdeeds, she will burn.”
“You can’t do this!” Ginger cried. She stepped toward the table. “Tajman, surely you can’t mean this!”
Dirk pulled her back. “Stay away from them, witch.”
“No, let me go!” She tried to wrench out of his grip. As he caught her around the waist, she twisted in his hold to face the others. “If you go through with this, you’re murderers.”
“Silence her!” the Archivist shouted. She looked panicked. “Before the Dragon-Sun brings this hall down on all of us!”
As Ginger struggled, Dirk shoved a cloth in her mouth and tied another around her head in a gag. Spark came down from the platform and strode over to her. He took one of her upper arms while Dirk held the other, and they swung her around to face the table where the Elder and the Archivist stood.
“Take her to the cellar with the riding gear,” Tajman said. He looked as if he were ill. “We must be quick. It’s almost sunset.”
Ginger struggled as they pulled her to a door behind the platform and onto a landing with one candle burning in a niche there. Tajman lifted a torch off the wall and lit it with the candle. Holding the torch high, he descended the cracked stone steps. Ginger planted her feet on the ground and resisted when Spark and Dirk tried to pull her forward. Even if she hadn’t balked, her wrap would have kept her from descending the stairs as fast as they were trying to go. They finally lifted her by her arms and carried her down the stairs, her toes just barely hitting the stone.
At the bottom, despite her struggles, they dragged her down a tunnel with crumbling walls. The smell of wine permeated the air. They stopped at a stone door braced by strips of black iron, and the Archivist heaved it open. In the cellar beyond, kegs of ale stood in front of racks that held wine bottles. Big copper serving plates hung on the far wall. Closer by, bridles, saddles, ropes and riding quirts dangled on pegs.
When Ginger saw the Elder take a quirt off the wall, panic swept over her. Instead of fighting, she suddenly let herself go limp. It caught Spark and Dirk off guard, and their grip loosened. Wrenching free, she lunged for the door. She could have raced upstairs ahead of them if only she had been wearing her leggings. But she tripped in the wrap, and Dirk easily caught her.
Spark and Dirk dragged her to a table and bent her over it, face down. When Spark unbound her wrists, for one heady moment she thought she could wrest free. Then he pulled her arms over her head, ripping her sleeves, and he and the Elder held her down. In the copper plate on the wall to one side, she glimpsed Dirk’s face. The hunger in his expression terrified her. He grabbed her wrap where it stretched across her back and yanked. It ripped to her waist, leaving only scraps of cloth and the wires that held it in place over her breasts. The Archivist stayed in the corner, watching. Ginger saw her fear, but also her satisfaction that they were dealing with the threat she thought Ginger posed to Sky Flames.
Ginger cried when Dirk lashed her. The leather shredded her back, and the pain was unbearable. By the time he finished, she was sobbing. They pulled her to her feet, and the Elder wrapped a shawl around the tatters of her wrap. Tears poured down her cheeks as she stared up at him. He looked as if he had aged twenty years. She hoped this gave him screaming nightmares for the rest of his godforsaken life.
She could barely walk. Her ears rang as if thunder had crashed too close, and her back was on fire. No, no
t fire! Anything but fire. She hurt too much to struggle, and she knew then the purpose of the lashes. Whipping someone they were about to execute made little sense in terms of justice, but it served them well by decreasing her ability to resist. If only she had her opal! She would blast them with fire the moment the sun went down. She was becoming exactly what they feared, and she dreaded that knowledge, but if she could have attacked them, she would have done so in an instant.
They exited the Tender’s Hall into an alley. Brackish water ran down the center of the lane. The strip of sky above them was darkening; they had timed her trial so they could carry out the sentence immediately. Did they fear she would have more chance to fight back if they didn’t finish this as fast as possible? They were right. Except she had never formed a spell without the opal. Had she not given it to Darz, they would have taken it away. Gods, she hoped they hadn’t also sentenced him to die.
The alley ended at a pavilion that shaded the village water-well. The central square lay beyond the well, but she was hidden from the view of anyone there by columns that held up the pavilion roof. She heard a buzz of voices. The people might not know they were about to see their priestess burned, but they surely realized something was about to happen.
Dirk and Spark leaned her over the retaining wall so she was staring down into the well. Moist air wafted up, and she caught a faint splash of water. The Elder and Archivist were standing in front of the well, blocking Ginger’s view of the plaza. She knew why they were hiding her: to minimize the chance anyone could interfere in their plans.
With a strength driven by desperation, Ginger twisted with a great heave and jerked free. The gag muffled her cries, but she made enough noise to rise above the hum of voices beyond the well. Spark and Dirk caught her, and she cried out when Dirk’s hand scraped the lacerations on her back.
Tajman groaned. “By the dragon, let’s get this terrible business over with.”
Dirk dragged her from behind the well—and she inhaled sharply. People filled the plaza. Sunset wasn’t normally a busy time; by now the buildings of commerce here were empty and most everyone had headed home. But it took very little to start rumors. Word must have spread that something was happening, for the square was as crowded as midday, though twilight was descending. Some people held torches. The smoky glow barely chased away the encroaching night, and it lit their faces with inconstant flares of light.
It was too much. She couldn’t handle it all. When she sagged, Dark and Spark lifted her up until her feet barely touched the ground, so they were practically carrying her. At the edge of the crowd, two cowled figures stood watching, tall in their charcoal-gray robes. Peaked hoods covered their heads and gray scarves wrapped around their faces. Nothing showed except their dark gazes, which followed Ginger as Dirk and Spark dragged her past them.
Then she saw what had drawn the onlookers. A platform stood in front of one of the buildings that bordered the plaza. Constructed from uneven boards, the stage had the unfinished look of a structure thrown together too fast.
In its center, stood a stake.
The pole was taller than Ginger and as thick as a tree. A base and supports held it in place, and coils of rope lay beside it. Two women were climbing the stairs of the platform, their arms loaded with stripped branches and dried fire-lily vines.
The sight jolted Ginger out of her shock. She renewed her struggles with such vehemence, Dirk and Spark had to stop. Spark swore vividly under his breath. “Why won’t she give up?”
Ginger had no intention of making it easier for them. She would never give up as long as she could breathe. They believed that because she was tender, she must also be weak, but if they thought she would go to her death without protest, they were mad.
She kept fighting as they took her to the platform. Dusk was spreading, and ruddy torchlight lit the plaza. Her shawl caught on the top step and dragged off her shoulders, flapping in the rising night wind. A multitude of faces were turned up to watch her, and rumbles of shock stirred among the crowd. It may have been the harsh, wavering light, but the people seemed avid to Ginger, hungry for the gruesome spectacle.
The stake loomed before her. Several villagers now were piling firewood around the base, and a man came to help Dirk and Spark pull her forward. No one would meet her frantic gaze. They forced her to stand with her back to the stake so she faced the crowd. She moaned as the wood scraped her wounds. They tied her wrists behind the thick pole and bound her ankles to the bottom.
Please, Ginger thought. Stop, please. Did Harjan know what was happening? Tanner? Her brother was gone. This had happened so fast, most townsfolk wouldn’t learn until tomorrow that the elders had executed their priestess. Heath would come home to find his sister dead.
The crowd fell quiet. For one heart-stopping instant she thought someone had come to light the firewood at her feet. The acrid smell of torches, with their oils and cinders, saturated her senses, making her ill. But no, too many people were on the platform. They couldn’t light the flames yet, because when they did, this entire structure would burn.
Elder Tajman walked into view, to the front of the platform, and she understood then why everyone had fallen silent. They were waiting to hear what explanation he could possibly offer for this atrocity.
He spoke in the resonant voice that had earned him such renown as an orator. His words rolled across the plaza. “Good people, listen well!” Wind blew his silvered hair back from his face, accenting his sculpted profile. “You all know the Dragon-Sun brought down his Claw. He toppled a tower that has stood sentinel over our people for thousands of years!” He turned and stretched his arm out to point at Ginger. “He has smote this witch for her sacrilege! His wrath came down, and so will it come down on us all if we cannot appease him.”
Cries rose from the crowd, and Ginger knew then she had no hope. Until this moment, she hadn’t really believed Tajman would go through with it. Deep inside, she had trusted him. She was a fool. She had trusted them all, assuming the gratitude they expressed for her work meant she had their goodwill. She had been so achingly naïve, and learning that truth hurt at a level so deep, she felt as if she broke inside.
They were afraid. In a village this small, the tale would have circled a hundred times, embellished and twisted until she no longer recognized herself. The malevolent sorceress, the temptress who committed unspeakable evils and lured men to their deaths. They believed the Dragon-Sun would strike Sky Flames as he had struck his Claw, and that only her death would satisfy the angry god.
13
Flames of Glass
A chill wind buffeted Ginger, and the torchlight wavered. With dread, she realized Tajman and everyone else was leaving the platform—except two men and a woman who held torches. The Archivist’s words came back to her: The wood shall be put to flame with three torches. Nothing was going to stop them, no protests, no sudden rain, no clemency from the dragon.
If only she had the opal. If only she could bring water out of the air. But that drizzle she made would never put out the inferno they were preparing. She had neither the means to create a spell nor the calm to focus on even a small one, let alone downpour the size of what she needed.
Tears streamed down her face. Dragon-Sun, don’t let me die this way. If I have offended you, give me a chance to make it right. But if he heard her plea, he gave no sign. The fiery colors of his setting were gone from the sky.
As the torch bearers came forward, Ginger stared over the crowd, trying to distance her mind from her body. The Arch-Tower stood across the square, the tallest building in Sky Flames. It had the only stained glass window in the village proper, a large circle depicting a black-wing hawk soaring through the sky. Set under the bulb of the tower, the glass caught torchlight and glowed red, as if it were on fire. Gazing at its round shape, she willed her mind to recede from the flaring torches.
A spell stirred within Ginger.
The torch bearers stopped in front of her. They blocked her view of the tower, dousing
her spell, and she was suddenly more aware of the pain in the gashes and welts on her back, especially where her skin pressed into the pole. Had she imagined the spell in her desperation? The trio with the torches watched her with fear. She tried to speak, to entreat them to stop, but her cries were lost to the gag and the rumble of voices below. The smell of burning hemp and the oil that soaked the torches nauseated her. Ashes twirled in the air, and an ember singed her bared shoulder.
Together, in a single motion, they dropped their torches into the firewood around the stake.
“NO!” Ginger screamed.
The torches crackled at her feet, and the trio backed away as if she had cursed them. They strode from the platform, out of her view, and their feet thudded on the stairs.
Ginger could see the clock window again, and she stared at it, struggling for a spell, any spell, while the torches burned at her feet. With a whoosh, dried branches caught fire, and flames jumped in the wood piled around her. Heat licked her legs. It would only be moments before the fire caught her clothes.
As the flames rose, so did the cries of the crowd. Yells came from somewhere, but the lurid torchlight left too many shadows for her to see who was shouting, and the crackle of the flames drowned out whatever they were yelling at her. She focused on the window—
And a heat spell rose within her.
The window was glass, not opal, but it was so much larger. It stoked her spell. In a strike of insight that came far too late, she realized it wasn’t the opal that catalyzed her spells, but its shape. The circle couldn’t do it as well, but it worked.
For one incredible moment Ginger thought she could bring rain. But that spell was beyond her reach. She inhaled smoke instead of air and choked for breath. She had no time to focus, none of the calm she needed; she was heat, terrible, terrible heat. In the past, she had created spells of comfort and light to honor the dragon, but now he had deserted her. Flame seared her legs, and she screamed. In this terrible moment, as she burned alive, she grasped the roiling power within her and let a spell surge out, huge and wild, driven by fear, with no control.