The Plaza of Purifying Flames was swelteringly hot as always, but Melisan shivered, clad only in a grey shift, even as he felt the flames' heat ripple across his face. His guards led him here and he knelt before they tried to force him to. He snuck a glance upward, eying the Purist priest that stood before him, in robes of the crimson of flames and the white of purity, trimmed with gold. He recognized the red hair of Cheset of Leogarth, an old classmate from seminary. I always figured you'd be here kneeling while I read your sentence, Cheset, Melisan thought bitterly as he caught the smirk on Cheset's face. You always did seem to be eying the other men.
Public executions always did draw a crowd, and Melisan caught people straining against the anti-arcana wards trying to get a better look at the condemned. Cheset sobered up immediately, and removed a scroll from the basket, broke the wax seal, then read. "Livna of Greenhills, second daughter of Keeper Maer, you are charged with public immorality, impersonating a priest, and treason. The sentence is death. In accord with your previous service to the Theocracy, the method of execution will be by the sword, rather than immolation."
Those are pretty words, Cheset. But you and I both know my crime wasn't any of that. It was living as a male priest for nearly two decades, under the noses of the most paranoid men of Aldea, and the most intrusive psychics, and not having any of you catch on until I was publicly exposed while exposing a spy network that would bring this country to its knees. If I had been some silly near-child student, or a soldier or merchant, or an Aldin envoy, or anyone but a priest, I would be rewarded for exemplarily service to Jarzon, not being put to death.
It was hoarding secrets like Old Kingdom relics, in case I needed to blackmail a nosy person into silence. Wouldn't you like to know what of yours I have, Cheset? His Holiness's Sacred Inquisitorial Adepts did -- they pried the location of all of my treasures right out of my mind. How many visits do you think they will be making as my body turns to ashes on these stones?
Melisan glanced at the sky. It looked like rain. There was a legend among the prisoners -- he had never seen many of his fellow condemned, his jailers deciding that a female prisoner should not be kept with the men, but he heard their jeers and gossip from his cell -- that if it rained hard enough to put out the sacred fires, the priests would take this as a Sign to free an innocent man. Melisan doubted this story -- he had heard whispers of postponing the execution until the weather improved. Even then, it would take something a bit more divine than mere rain to halt it. At this rate, I think an entire pantheon would have to appear to demand my release.
Cheset was speaking again, ordering his jailers to bring forward the prisoner. He spotted his executioner, masked and holding the axe. One of his guards held out a hood. Melisan glared at him. "If you gentlemen are too cowardly to look the face of he who you sentenced to die in the face as you kill him, so be it. But I don't need that."
"So be it," Cheset said. "We thought only to preserve your modesty, dear lady."
"Lie down," one of the guards motioned to the stone slab in front of him. Melisan sat, then reclined, unconsciously drawing the shift around his legs for modesty. Frowning, he let his hands drop.
So, this is it. He found himself thinking of the letters he had hurriedly drafted. Most of the secrets he kept were of people who he found useful, but there were a few he had genuinely liked. I hope Puriel and Donovan could flee Jarzon before they got that out of me -- if it wasn't for those two, I wouldn't have kept my wards up so long. Of course, they might try to rescue him. He wasn't sure if he wanted that or not. So, even my control over my own fate is lost, that I wait for death or deliverance. He turned over, casting his eyes up to the sky, and remembered what it was like to be a child, and a raindrop in the storms of fate.