the bars, as if barely able to stand.
Jostled to and fro by the crowd as it pressed forward to see the prisoners, Klervie almost lost hold of Maela.
Her mother was staring at one of the men. Bruises and blood-crusted cuts marred his face; one eye was half-closed with a swollen, purpled lid. And there seemed to be something wrong with his legs; he was supporting himself by pulling himself up by the bars.
“Maela,” he called, his voice gratingly hoarse. “Maela, what are you doing here? For God’s sake, take the child away.”
Only then did Klervie recognize this gaunt, haggard man as her own father. She reached out, trying to clutch the grimy, blood-streaked hand between her own.
“Papa?”
For a moment, the gaunt face softened. “Klervie, look after your mother. For my sake.” The fingers tried to extend farther to touch her hair but the effort seemed too great and she saw a grimace of pain twist his features.
“No communication with the prisoners.” A soldier grabbed Maela by the arm and tried to pull her away.
“A few minutes with my husband. I was promised. I sold my ring—my wedding ring—to pay for it.” Klervie heard Maela’s voice break as though her heart were breaking too. The soldier tugged at her arm, less gently this time.
“Let her go!” shrieked Klervie.
“We were betrayed,” said Papa. “Look, Maela. Everyone is here—all save one. Where is Kaspar Linnaius?”
“I can’t believe Magister Linnaius would do such a thing.” As the cart moved slowly on, Maela hurried alongside, Klervie following.
“We created a great invention together.” Papa’s bruised, swollen mouth twisted and contorted as he tried to enunciate the words. “An invention that would have made our fortunes. Yet here I am, condemned to die—and
where is Linnaius
?”
“He will come for us,” cried another magister in a faint, cracked voice. “He can twist the winds to his will. He will come. You’ll see.”
One by one, the learned scholars ascended the pyre: lean-faced, kindly Madoc, gazing bemusedly around as if walking in his sleep; softly spoken Goustan de Rhuys, who used to make Klervie laugh by mysteriously plucking little treasures from behind her ear or under her chin—a tiny finch, a spotted butterfly, a barley sugar; venerable, white-haired Magister Gonery, so frail and broken that he had to be carried by the soldiers.
“That one’s nothing but a boy,” a woman said as Deniel was dragged up by four Guerriers. “You’d think they’d have spared the lad. Look at him; he’s trembling so much he can hardly stand.”
“Call yourselves mages!” jeered a man in the crowd. “Why don’t you save yourselves?”
“Show us your magic tricks,” called out another mockingly.
“Magisters of Karantec.” A harsh voice rang out across the crowded square. A tall man in flowing robes had climbed up onto a platform. “You have been tried before God by His inquisitors and found guilty of practicing the Forbidden Arts.”
“Who is that man?” Klervie quavered.
“His name is Alois Visant.” Maman’s voice had dwindled to a whisper. “Never forget that name, Klervie. He is a cruel, vindictive man.”
“You are all condemned to burn at the stake. May God have mercy on your souls.”
“Come away, child. This is no place for you.” Maman caught Klervie up in her arms and began to carry her away as the crowd surged forward. Klervie saw the avid looks in their eyes. And then she smelled smoke. Maela battled on against the tide of people; Klervie clung to her, afraid they would both be crushed in the throng.
Maman was sick. She lay on the bed, sometimes plucking feebly at the dirty sheet, sometimes murmuring disjointed words or phrases that Klervie could not understand.
“The wards…why did the wards fail?”
Klervie anxiously patted Maman’s sweat-damp hand.
“Thirsty,” Maman whispered. There was still a little cold camomile tisane in the
Jostled to and fro by the crowd as it pressed forward to see the prisoners, Klervie almost lost hold of Maela.
Her mother was staring at one of the men. Bruises and blood-crusted cuts marred his face; one eye was half-closed with a swollen, purpled lid. And there seemed to be something wrong with his legs; he was supporting himself by pulling himself up by the bars.
“Maela,” he called, his voice gratingly hoarse. “Maela, what are you doing here? For God’s sake, take the child away.”
Only then did Klervie recognize this gaunt, haggard man as her own father. She reached out, trying to clutch the grimy, blood-streaked hand between her own.
“Papa?”
For a moment, the gaunt face softened. “Klervie, look after your mother. For my sake.” The fingers tried to extend farther to touch her hair but the effort seemed too great and she saw a grimace of pain twist his features.
“No communication with the prisoners.” A soldier grabbed Maela by the arm and tried to pull her away.
“A few minutes with my husband. I was promised. I sold my ring—my wedding ring—to pay for it.” Klervie heard Maela’s voice break as though her heart were breaking too. The soldier tugged at her arm, less gently this time.
“Let her go!” shrieked Klervie.
“We were betrayed,” said Papa. “Look, Maela. Everyone is here—all save one. Where is Kaspar Linnaius?”
“I can’t believe Magister Linnaius would do such a thing.” As the cart moved slowly on, Maela hurried alongside, Klervie following.
“We created a great invention together.” Papa’s bruised, swollen mouth twisted and contorted as he tried to enunciate the words. “An invention that would have made our fortunes. Yet here I am, condemned to die—and
where is Linnaius
?”
“He will come for us,” cried another magister in a faint, cracked voice. “He can twist the winds to his will. He will come. You’ll see.”
One by one, the learned scholars ascended the pyre: lean-faced, kindly Madoc, gazing bemusedly around as if walking in his sleep; softly spoken Goustan de Rhuys, who used to make Klervie laugh by mysteriously plucking little treasures from behind her ear or under her chin—a tiny finch, a spotted butterfly, a barley sugar; venerable, white-haired Magister Gonery, so frail and broken that he had to be carried by the soldiers.
“That one’s nothing but a boy,” a woman said as Deniel was dragged up by four Guerriers. “You’d think they’d have spared the lad. Look at him; he’s trembling so much he can hardly stand.”
“Call yourselves mages!” jeered a man in the crowd. “Why don’t you save yourselves?”
“Show us your magic tricks,” called out another mockingly.
“Magisters of Karantec.” A harsh voice rang out across the crowded square. A tall man in flowing robes had climbed up onto a platform. “You have been tried before God by His inquisitors and found guilty of practicing the Forbidden Arts.”
“Who is that man?” Klervie quavered.
“His name is Alois Visant.” Maman’s voice had dwindled to a whisper. “Never forget that name, Klervie. He is a cruel, vindictive man.”
“You are all condemned to burn at the stake. May God have mercy on your souls.”
“Come away, child. This is no place for you.” Maman caught Klervie up in her arms and began to carry her away as the crowd surged forward. Klervie saw the avid looks in their eyes. And then she smelled smoke. Maela battled on against the tide of people; Klervie clung to her, afraid they would both be crushed in the throng.
Maman was sick. She lay on the bed, sometimes plucking feebly at the dirty sheet, sometimes murmuring disjointed words or phrases that Klervie could not understand.
“The wards…why did the wards fail?”
Klervie anxiously patted Maman’s sweat-damp hand.
“Thirsty,” Maman whispered. There was still a little cold camomile tisane in the
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