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2013-10-29 14:02:56 UTC
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The breeze whipped Cyrene Dangren hair across her into her face.
In a sudden gust of wind her chignon came undone, sending loose auburn tendrils cascading down her back. But it was not the air that pricked her skin to gooseflesh and sent shudders through her spine. Cyrene took her sister and held her close, rubbing her hands over her small shoulders in hopes of warming her. Little Frid was frightened and for good reason, strange men from Cantongen had swarmed their home and all quite suddenly Braegil castle was infested with men of the king and Palaceguards all in black and grey livery with blades at their sides.
“You will be strong, Frid.” Cyrene hugged her sister under her cloak“ Will not let them see you cry.”
Frid nodded but her eyes were already swollen and red rimmed.
As the morning sun rose fingers of mist and light glided up into the sky. Cyrene and her sister watched from their place, flanked by palaceguards, as more men from the royal livery pulled a group of boys out of the tower keep and into the sunlight. There were four in all, two boys from the country side, a squire and one prince of the realm. By noon they would all be dead. Traitors, according to the King. The boys tumbled as they walked, weighed down by chains, sweat and blood pasted their hair to their foreheads. Palaceguards guided them up to the parapets, in full view of everyone and a man in dark leather chaps set them to their knees.
“Bow before your Lord, Afal King of all Gil.” The man in black dropped to one knee as the King entered the gallery, he was surrounded on either side with beautifully dressed men and women and wore blood red vests and robes and the fur of an auburn fox, his was dark hair oiled and combed back. “My Lady,” The palaceguard nearest to her side whispered. “You must now bow before the King.”
Cyrene and her sister melted, in unison, to a curtsy as Afal marched past them, his glittering horde of nobles following in his wake. The boys knelt on a platform in the parapets, the sun made glistening outlines of their bodies as they waited for their fate. The man in black unsheathed a blade and leaned in against it begging forgiveness of the gods, as is tradition for executioners.
“Last words?” He asked.
“Yes,” The boy-prince’s voice cracked with sudden fear or anger, or both. “I die today because Afal the false King commands it, he is damned for his crimes against the ancient religion but he does not have to drag this Kingdom to hell with him. My brother is the rightful-,”
“Shut him up.” Someone in the crowd yelled. The executioner dealt him a swift blow in the ribs to keep him quiet. Cyrene felt her sister tremble as the executioner’s foot meet with their brother’s middle, something had cracked. One of the other boys vomited up bile.
“With your permission M’Lord.” Afal nodded his consent and the executioner lifted his blade.
“Do not look.” Sudden horror filled her as she spoke and Bodica burrowed her head into her waist as the sword fell. The second young prince of Gil was dead.