Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh

the Confessor responded through gritted teeth. At least his expensive cloak was spared.
    A group of the King’s private soldiers moved briskly toward them on horseback. Amongst them he saw the unmistakable figures of Magnus and Celimus. So that was why Lymbert conceded so fast. Men immediately bowed low and the womenfolk curtsied, taken by surprise that their sovereign was present.
    Magnus said nothing but his face was grim, his jaw clenched.
    If you don’t like it, stop it, my King ! Wyl begged inwardly. But Magnus only nodded once as he and his men continued on. passing by within twenty feet of the crowd. Celimus’s expression was dark with his own anger but he managed a smirk at Wyl. It was Wyl’s only consolation in this disturbing day that Celimus was clearly not going to be permitted to witness the burning. Perhaps his father had forbidden it.
    One could only hope. How these people could watch something like this—and cheer over it—eluded him.
    It made him think of how. as a realm, they poked fun at the Mountain Dwellers, accusing them of being nothing more than barbarians. His father had cautioned him at leveling that tag so loosely.
    We are the barbarians , Wyl thought, to still be persecuting helpless women in this way. Peasants!
    Just like Adana claimed . He looked around at the folk of Pearlis, out for some excitement. There were no nobles present, he was glad to note. Many in the crowd were youngsters, who had never seen a witch-burning before, and so he found it within himself to forgive them their gawking.
    The King’s arrival had broken the spell. People looked suddenly uncomfortable and Lymbert felt himself lose control of his special event. He grimaced as Wyl, rising from his obeisance to his sovereign, walked over to the girl and placed the damp shirt across her body.
    Wyl whispered something again to her and she heard him, raising her face toward the one person who had shown her tenderness.
    “My dog. Knave. Promise me you will keep him,” she croaked.
    “I swear it to you.” Wyl said, bewildered at her concern for a beast when her own life was about to be obliterated.
    At his response she smiled and her torn, twisted body seemed to relax.
    “Farewell, Wyl. Fear not my gift.”
    Wyl nodded once, wondering why he should be afraid of a dog. He returned to stand alongside his companions, feeling that he had done all that he could for this woman.
    Gueryn muttered under his breath, “I see you’re well ahead of the Confessor, boy.”
    “She’s suffered enough,” Wyl murmured back.
    “What are you both talking about?” Alyd whispered, helplessly mesmerized by the torches being lit.
    “You’ll see,” Gueryn replied. “Good work, Wyl.”
    The torches touched the dry kindling. Immediately the twigs began to burn and Wyl saw Lymbert smile, smug in the knowledge that the straw would be a long time in the burning, his plan being that Myrren’s throat would scorch and her insides dry out from inhaling the smoke long before her body would be consumed by the flame.
    He watched the confessor take the comforting cup of wine that one of his assistants had poured from a clay flagon and heard the hateful man complain: “Such thirsty work, this burning.” As Lymbert tipped his head to take a gulp of the wine, his attention was grabbed by the sudden whoosh of flames around Myrren.
    A spark had landed on the shirt Wyl had placed over her to protect her modesty and the tiny flame had caused the linen to ignite. Myrren. her body aflame now, struggled to sit up. Predictably, she failed. Wyl watched for Lymbert to search him out—the cursed boy—now that he realized that Wyl had doused the shirt with lamp oil. Wyl looked away. His eyes were only for Myrren now. Her lovely hair caught alight, shriveling about her as flames reached out to lick at her pretty face and through it all Wyl noticed her eyes…those arresting oddly matched eyes that found his gaze and locked onto it. She began to tremble as her