KENSURA SIGHED AS Ugraksh pronounced judgment. As a mother, her heart broke to hear such a sentence. Not because she disagreed. But because she lamented that her son, her flesh and blood, should have brought himself to such a pass. What had she done wrong? Should she have nursed him longer as an infant? Cared for him personally rather than have the daiimaas govern him? Been stricter in her punishments? She was racked with self-doubt, questions, anxieties, guilt . . .
The people suffered from no such dilemma. The roar of approval that greeted Ugraksh’s sentencing made that clear. The enthusiastic cheers and shouts that echoed through the sabha hall, the palace, and the streets below could not be called jubilant—for which kingdom enjoys the execution of its own crown prince?—but it was certainly fraught with relief. Nobody had doubted that justice would be done, but after long years of Tyrak’s atrocities and the ugly disputes, feuds, and other conflicts, the people’s faith in the king had slipped somewhat.
Today, that faith was renewed with vigor.
Shortly after, Kensura stood at the balcony overlooking the courtyard of the palace. As with the sabha hall, every inch of space was packed with eager nobles and citizens wishing to witness the execution of the prince with their own eyes. Never before had such an event occurred. She prayed it never would again.
Beside her stood Ugraksh, discreetly leaning on a royal crook that was not visible to the crowds below: a king had to keep up the appearance of strength, even if he was in truth ailing and frail. Vasurava and Kewri stood with them. Tyrak’s other brothers and sisters and their spouses stood nearby. The atmosphere was grim and heavy, and fraught with a certain tension that she understood: not tension for the event itself but a kind of taut anticipation, awaiting the end of the event, so they could breathe freely again. Even Tyrak’s brothers, blood kin though they were, displayed the same impassive expressions, waiting for the danda to be carried out and the black sheep of the family to be eliminated. Growing up, Tyrak had made enemies of them one and all, and the chief reason Ugraksh had sent them all to govern other regions of the kingdom was to avoid their coming into mortal conflict with Tyrak. Kensura could see no vestige of love or regret on any of their faces, and this made her sad as well.
For the people there was a far larger implication to today’s event. This execution would change the history of the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations forever. It proved that no one was above Auma. It reaffirmed faith in a republic that had been faltering for years.
Kensura forced herself to look down at Tyrak. He had been pressed into a kneeling posture on the execution platform below, his head resting upon a wooden block. The executioner, a giant of a man who was in reality a shepherd of the mountain tribes—the only community that undertook to perform such executions—stood patiently beside him, the large mace leaning against his thigh.
Oddly enough, Tyrak himself had done nothing, said nothing throughout the brief trial and sentencing. He had simply knelt thus, as he knelt now, head bowed, long hair unfettered and falling across his face, concealing any expression or trace of emotion.
She supposed he was filled with remorse for his actions and misdeeds and overcome by guilt and shame. She hoped that was the case. It would have been too terrible to bear had he ranted and raved and called out for mercy or abused his accusers. True, he had the right to do so, but it would only have made people pity him. Weakness among Arrgodi warriors was unforgiveable. They would have mocked him, hated him, scorned him for being unable to accept his death like an Arrgodi. At least this way, he would die honorably, executed by royal danda, punished under Auma. He could even be cremated officially, his ashes scattered into the Jeel as were those of his ancestors. And soon, my ashes will fall into the river as well, she thought, sadness pressing against her heart like a cold fist, for how will I live with the shame of this knowledge?
The magistrate presiding over the execution looked up at the balcony. Ugraksh raised the rajtaru, the signal to begin. The executioner took up his mace, his powerful hands hefting the massive length of iron, dimples appearing in his shoulders and back as he raised it above his head. Unlike the maces carried into battle, this weapon was not plated with steel, silver, gold, or even copper or brass. No filigree work adorned it, no shaping altered its menacing bulk. It was simply a black pillar of iron with a bulbous head thrice as large as any grown man’s, pitted and scored and dented in several places from previous use. She wondered how many condemned men the mace had crushed to death, whose blood would mingle with her own, for the blood that ran through Tyrak’s veins was her blood.
The head of the mace lifted as high as the shepherd’s muscled arms could raise it, the man steadied himself to take careful aim. He was known to accomplish his job in a single blow, and Kensura prayed that he would do so today as well. Make it merciful, make it quick, she prayed. That is my son after all. In the end, whatever he had done, whatever had gone wrong, it all came down to that: Tyrak was her son. And she could not find it in her heart to wish him cruelty even now.
The mace hovered in the air for a moment, then began its terrible descent. A sound rose from the crowd, an instinctive natural sound, a wordless growl, that originated deep in their breasts. As the mace descended, the growl rose to a roar and exploded.
The mace crashed down, hard enough to smash a skull to pulp, to end life instantly, to shatter bone and mash flesh and splatter blood.
The executioner grunted with the effort.
But instead of meeting skull and flesh, the bald-headed mace struck an upraised hand and—
Stalled in midair, an inch above Tyrak’s face.
A gasp rose from the watching crowd. Incredulity. Shock. The executioner himself stared down, baffled. Then he tried to wrench the mace up, intending to smash it down again, this time to do the job properly. Somehow he had not wielded it correctly the first time; it was the only explanation that made sense.
But though the executioner struggled fiercely, his corded arms, shoulders, back, and neck muscles straining until they stood out in etched relief, the mace did not budge.
Then Kensura saw Tyrak’s fingers begin to close upon the head of the mace.
And the iron yielded.
His fingers pressed into the metal like a child’s fingers molding a ball of mud. The executioner lost his grip on the mace and backed away. Nothing in his life experience had prepared him for such an occurrence. People across the courtyard gasped and cried out in shock, pointing.
Tyrak rose to his feet. In his right hand, he held the mace by the head. He looked down at it and slowly closed his fist, crushing the solid iron bulb as easily as the mace itself ought to have crushed his head moments earlier. Then he tossed the mace aside—directly at the executioner. A killing weight of iron struck the man in the chest, shattering him. He fell off the execution platform, landing on his back on the stone courtyard, broken beyond repair. People screamed now, unable to comprehend what was happening. Perhaps the oddest thing of all was the way Tyrak looked at his own hand, flexing the fingers, then looked at the dying executioner with the mace embedded in his chest, as if he were . . . as if he were as shocked at his own feat of strength as everyone else.
Tyrak seemed to accept his newfound strength at last and raised his head, looking around at the watching crowd. His hair fell into his face, concealing most of his features. Only one eye glared out, bulging, red-veined, the pupil reduced to a pinpoint. And brilliant white teeth, flashing in the dark shade of his hair-curtained face. He lifted his squared jaw, looking to the balcony above, and Kensura flinched as his eyes sought out and found her. She thought she saw him grin by way of greeting, then that terrible wild-eyed gaze passed on to find his father, Ugraksh. There it stayed. She sensed Ugraksh standing his ground, neither flinching nor showing any reaction that might give Tyrak satisfaction, but from the trembling of his hand upon the crook that helped support him, she knew that effort cost him dearly.
Tyrak chuckled.
Suddenly, Kensura realized, he had expanded in size. Instead of his normal two yards’ height, Tyrak was a good yard taller now, and growing. She had barely taken her eyes off him for an instant, to glance at her husband, and when she looked down again, he was a head taller. Now he was twice his original height, his width expanding proportionately. Now thrice . . . She heard the platform creak as his weight increased as well. Now four times, then five times—then suddenly he was growing exponentially, rising like a coiled cobra expanding to its full length. The crowd in the courtyard screamed and shouted with terror.
And still Tyrak continued to grow.