The Serpentwar Saga. Raymond E. Feist

      Erik had been awake most of the night, falling asleep only a few hours before, wrestling with the same questions. He had never been a religious sort, going to temple on the festival days, joining the vineyard workers in the blessing of the vineyards every year. But he hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like to face Lims-Kragma in her hall. He vaguely knew that every man came to stand before her, to account for his deeds, but he always thought of that as some sort of priest talk, what Owen Greylock had called a ‘metaphor’ where one thing said stood for another. Now he wondered: Would he simply end? When the box was kicked out from under his feet and the rope either snapped his neck or choked the life from him, would it turn all dark and meaningless? Or would he awake in the Hall of the Dead, as the priests claimed, joining the long line of those waiting for Lims-Kragma’s judgment? Those found worthy were sent on to a better life, they said, while those found wanting were sent back to learn those lessons that had eluded them while living. There was talk that at some point those who lived pure lives of harmony and grace were elevated somehow, beyond human understanding, to a higher existence.

      Erik turned his mind away from the question, again; there was no answer he knew, until he actually faced death. Either way, he thought with a silent shrug, it’ll be something interesting or I’ll not mind. He closed his eyes on this thought, finding it strangely comforting.

      The door at the far end of the hall clanked open, iron bands striking cold stone. Two guards with drawn swords led a prisoner into the hallway. Another two guards walked before and after him, holding wooden poles looped through iron rings on a wooden yoke set around his neck. The pressure on the yoke kept the man from being able to reach either guard, and the awkward procession made its way to the door of the death cell.

      The prisoner was otherwise undistinguished. He seemed a young man, little older than Erik or Roo, though this was hard to determine, as his race was alien to the two young men from Ravensburg. He was one of the yellow-skinned men from Kesh, from a province called Isalani. A few had passed through Ravensburg from time to time, but they were still the object of interest to the provincial residence of that town.

      This man was plainly dressed, in a simple robe, with an empty carry-cloth – a large cloth used to carry belongings, in place of a backpack – hung around his neck. His feet were bare, and his head was uncovered, showing a thatch of thick black hair roughly cut above the ears, but falling long in back. Black eyes regarded the unfolding events without expression.

      When the door was reached, the first guard unlocked it and ordered the prisoners to move to the far end of the long cell. Once they had obliged him, he opened the door and the two men with the poles steered the prisoner to the opening. With practiced dexterity, the lead guard unfastened the neck yoke and the two guards slipped the poles out. The collar was removed, and with unnecessary force the remaining guard put his boot to the prisoner’s back and shoved him into the cell.

      The prisoner stumbled one step, but caught himself and stood motionless. The others looked on in curiosity.

      ‘What was that all about?’ asked one man.

      The new prisoner shrugged. ‘I disarmed a few of their guards when they tried to arrest me. They objected to that.’

      You disarmed them?’ said another prisoner. ‘How did you do that?’

      The young man sat down on the vacant stone bench. ‘I took their weapons from them. How else would you imagine I did it?’

      A few of the prisoners asked the newcomer his name, but no conversation was forthcoming, as the new prisoner closed his eyes while remaining seated upright. He crossed his legs before him, each foot resting upon the opposite thigh, and put his hands, palms upward, on his knees.

      The other prisoners looked at him for a few minutes, then returned to sitting and waiting for whatever fate would bring them next.

      An hour later the hall door opened again and a company of soldiers entered. The man Erik had met before, Lord James, walked in. Then the men in the cell began to mutter as a woman entered, followed in turn by a pair of guardsmen. The woman was old, or at least she appeared that way to Erik. Older than his mother, at any rate. Her hair was a startling white and her brows were pale enough for him to think her hair had always been this color. The lines in her face notwithstanding, Erik thought she was nice to look at, and she must have been beautiful when young. Her eyes were an odd blue, almost violet in the darkness of the cell, and she carried herself with the bearing of nobility, despite an expression of sadness on her face.

      Erik wondered what could be the cause of this expression of regret: could she have some sort of feeling about the men who would be tried in the Prince’s chamber this day? She stopped before the bars, and the sullen prisoners were completely silent. For some reason, Erik found himself standing, feeling the urge to touch his forelock, as he would to any lady of quality who passed on the road in her carriage. Roo followed his example and soon the other men were standing as well.

      The woman ignored the filth and wretched stench of the cell as her hands closed upon the bars. She was silent while her eyes searched out every face, and when her gaze at last turned upon Erik, he found himself suddenly afraid. He thought of his mother and Rosalyn, and thinking of Rosalyn made him think of Stefan, and suddenly he was ashamed of himself. He couldn’t look at the lady any longer and lowered his eyes.

      For long minutes the woman stood silently, her rich gown becoming dirtied by contact with the rusty iron of the bars as she leaned against them. Erik glanced up and found that as she looked from man to man, only the new prisoner could return her gaze, and at one point he even smiled slightly. But for several of the men her penetrating gaze was too much, and they began to weep. Then at last her own eyes began to fill with tears and she said, ‘Enough.’

      Lord James nodded curtly once and motioned for the two guards to escort her out of the cell. When they were gone, he said, ‘You men will face trial this afternoon. Kingdom justice is swift; those of you found guilty of capital crimes will be brought back to this cell and in the morning we will hang you. You’ll be given one last meal and time to make your peace with the gods. Priests of the twelve orders will come for those who ask for shriving, and for the rest of you who don’t wish to speak with a priest, well, you can spend time contemplating your sins. If you have an advocate, he will be allowed to speak for you before Prince Nicholas; if you don’t, you must speak for yourself or the Crown will convict you by default. There is no appeal, so make your brief persuasive. The King is the only man who can overrule the Prince, and he’s busy.’

      Without another word, the Duke of Krondor turned and left the cell block. A guard waiting in the connecting hall reached in and pulled the door shut behind him.

      The men stood silently for a long minute, then one, the man called Slippery Tom, said, ‘Something about that witch gave me a chill.’

      ‘It was like having me mum finding me with my brother’s sweets on festival day,’ said another.

      Slowly they sat, and when every man was back in his place, Roo turned to Erik and asked, ‘What was that all about?’

      Erik shrugged. ‘You know as much as I do.’

      ‘She read your minds,’ said the newcomer as he returned to his contemplative pose.

      ‘What?’ came from several of the men. ‘She read our minds?’

      Without opening his eyes, but with a very faint smile, the newcomer said, ‘She was looking for some men.’ Then suddenly his eyes opened and he glanced from face to face. ‘I think she may have found them.’

      His eyes lingered on Erik and he said, ‘Yes, I think she has.’

      The midday meal was plain but filling. The guards brought in a platter of bread loaves and a round of hard cheese, as well as a bucket of a vegetable stew. No knives, forks, or other potential weapons were permitted, but dull-edged wooden bowls were provided for the stew. Finding himself suddenly hungry, Erik shouldered through the press at the bars as the guards handed out the food.

      ‘Here, now!’ shouted a guard. ‘There’s enough for all of you, though why you’d have