16 Hoiekol 1865

Public executions rarely happen in Tveshė. Every few years, the blacksmiths on Måra Street who keep the sacred smithing temple receive word from the palace that they must sharpen the guillotine. They scrape rust from its steel frame and assemble the killing machine deep inside the Reclaimed Zone.

Here, the sun sizzles on the pavement and the sky never quite loses an undertone like steel. Those of us who decided to watch the executions assembled early in the day, most with parasols to protect us from the sunlight. I wore red for the first time since mourning Kelis. The entire Execution Square was awash with people in vivid scarlet, hardly any other color represented.

This is an event wholly unlike anything else. No vendors are allowed. No one sells offerings to the gods. The only businesses present are the news crews and the young girls and boys selling water from giant wheeled drums.

From the screen projected up high, we could see vital signs for each of the assembled assassins, whom the guards had placed in a pen beside the execution pedestal. As an adviser, I watched with the others from a special seating area adjacent to the stage. I could see everything.

Advisers Tenes and Kurutwe sat beside me. Adviser Tenes grabbed my hand and squeezed it when they brought Sehutañi up.

Two screens mounted at the front of the Execution Square showed Sehutañi ascend the narrow steps, ler mouth and eyes bound with red fabric. Ler heart beat steady, like a metronome. The other heartbeats raced.

I remembered those moments in bed when I pressed my ear against that torso and lulled myself to sleep with the steadiness of that heartbeat. If le feared death, ler face and comportment didn’t show it, but Sehutañi had a sister who’d died. Sehutañi is following in those footsteps, and there is a certain peace in following family, even when they have done something so heinous and wrong-headed.

The guards kicked Sehutañi’s knees out from under lim. Le fell onto the chopping block.

The deathwatch priestess approached a microphone and began to chant from the Book of Ghosts and Demons, which contains Sabaji chants to be said over those who are dying at the hands of the state. A young apprentice stood beside lim with clapping blocks, which le hit together at each line break.

The Old Tveshi means, In undermining the State, you have sacrificed yourself to the State. Through your sacrilege, you will hold up the sacredness of the office of our ruler. By dying, you give your heartbeats to the ones whom you have wronged.

The blade came down. Ler vital signs stopped.

I thought that I was fine, but when the display flatlined, my cheeks went hot. Tears welled in my eyes.

Adviser Tenes squeezed my hand tightly and whispered, “We can leave if you like. You don’t have to stay.” Le put ler arm around me and hugged me close.

Regent Thassañi was here. All of the advisers were here. This was no trivial execution, and I had a duty. I stayed. They mounted the heads on pikes, and I couldn’t watch. This is standard Sabaji practice.

No one prepared me for what watching this many executions done at the same time would do. Every time I close my eyes, I see those faces. I hear that chanting in my ears even though I cannot understand a word of Old Tveshi. Those faces will haunt my nightmares, most of all Sehutañi’s.

After incineration, the ashes will not go to their families. This is high treason. The ashes will be scattered in the soils that yield grain. I made a special, back-room deal with the Regent to retain those of my former lover. Oaths matter. I am not Sehutañi. I keep my oaths.

But still, O Salus, those faces! What will you do to banish them from your head? How will it be to sit here year after year among the advisers every time something like this happens?

I am only nineteen. I might see many executions. This thought t