Joles sat with back to cold stone, facing a heavy wooden door. A thin bed of mold-rank straw lay beneath him. Set within the door, a high slot at about eye-level for a man of guard height, and another a low square one, just large enough to pass in a pot of foul pottage— or draw out one fouler still. From these two portals leaked the cell’s only dull light, and with it the reek of sour air. Joles kept his face within the meagre beam, lest his sight fade wholly into blindness.

  There was no measure of time in that pit. The guards spoke no words; their presence known only by the jangle of their keys, the clatter of iron, and the thunder of their fists pounding on doors. The dung-wretches, prisoners spared the depths for base labor, came and went in silence, exchanging vessels of sustenance for vessels of filth. At intervals came sudden cries, rupturing the inhuman silence. And always there was the buzz of flies and the scurrying of hidden rats.

  At last, the fists pounded upon Joles’s door. The eye slot darkened. Keys jangled. The lock clinked. The door swung open, and three guards gestured him forth. Joles hauled himself upright, struggled to his feet and stepped forward from the cell, submitting his wrists and ankles to iron.

  They led him through the corridor, its torches burning with acrid pitch. Then through an iron gate and up a narrow stair, its stones worn into hollows by a century of shackled footfalls.

  At the stairs’ crown, daylight reflected off the walls beyond and through the bars of the last gate. The sentry unlocked it, and the guards escorted Joles through and down the wider corridor that brightened as it opened into a courtyard.

  There stood the warden with four more guards, two sworn to Gruen and two to Dregrove, beside a scaffold fashioned of two upright trunk posts and a cross member. Near it stood Una, flanked by Cerenid, Gedain, and Olian. To the other side were three hooded figures. One held a hammer and the other two held a long broad saw with deep teeth.

  The warden spoke. “Joles of Peelgrain, thou were taken in the act of high treason, of seeking the life of thy rex. By the old law, the penalty thereof is death by sawing torment.”

  Joles’s shackles were struck away. His garments were stripped and he was borne to the scaffold and laid upon his back, his limbs bound fast with leather thongs drawn through iron rings. With measured heaves, two guards hoisted him, suspending him inverted between the posts. Pine planks were then nailed into place at hip and flank, then again at chest and shoulder, until his body was held rigid and unmoving. The hooded men set their saw upon a notch in the upper beam, resting the cold steel teeth on Joles’s exposed flesh. They did not yet draw.

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  Una stepped forward. “By the law, sawing is the doom for any who raise hand against the crown. Upon the rex’s mark, the blade shall move.”

  The warden continued, his voice without mercy. “The blade is wrought for timber, not flesh. It doth not cut clean but rendeth. Thou shalt remain alive long, blood pooling in your head, leaving thy senses unbroken while cutting through your bones and tearing out your entrails. Hast thou aught to say before sentence is carried forth?”

  Joles feigned bravery but his eyes betrayed the terror gnawing within. They darted from the warden to Una, finally fixing upon Cerenid.

  “My Lord, I beg thee for thy mercy.”

  Cerenid answered, his voice firmer than in the days before. “I will grant thee mercy, the mercy of swift death.”

  Joles shuddered.

  “But thou must purchase it.”

  “My Lord, I’ve told you all I know, already.”

  “We…,” the rex corrected himself, “I want Menek. Where hath he fled?”

  Joles steadied his breath, forcing calm. “He informed me he would wait for me by the spring beyond the south gate, where the road could be watched and escape if needed. I presume he rode away since no word reached him.”

  “Rode away to where?”

  Joles faltered.

  Una raised her hand. “Proceed!”

  The executioners tightened their grip on the saw handles, tensing as they prepared the first pull of the blade.

  “Wait… wait, My Lord!” Joles pleaded. “I… I know where he hath gone. Please. He spoke of it often, long before…”

  “Speak!”

  “To… to Varenthor, by way of the High Gate. He knew the pass lay open. He always swore he would sell his sword there if Gruen turned upon him. He spoke of it many times.”

  “Proceed!” Una urged again.

  “Wait,” Cerenid ordered, with mercy— or some would say with weakness in his voice. “Take him down.”

  The planks were pried loose. The straps slackened. Joles sagged as he was borne away.

  Cerenid turned to Gedain. “Take five riders,” he commanded. “Go by way of the High Gate to Varenthor. Find Menek. Bring him back, alive. I must know whose hands stain this plot.”

  “And what of Joles, My Lord?” Gedain asked.

  Una’s eyes searched the rex’s countenance for strength. The rex glanced into hers, finding it.

  “If Menek is returned by sixty days, I will have Joles beheaded. If not, he shall be sawn.”