The Silver Sparrow

Someone to Burn

The crowd wanted to see her burned.

Zahara knew this with the same certainty as she knew her own faith in Ravi. The heavy, distinguishable stench of pent up, barely contained need for violence was in the air as they paraded her down the streets of Rasharwi where men, women, and children had gathered to watch in large numbers. Retribution was needed—you could see it in their eyes, in the tightness of their jaws, the sneer on their faces. The riot had killed many citizens. All that loss and rage had to go somewhere. People anywhere needed someone to punish for their pain, someone convenient, someone not of their own if it could be accommodated. It wasn't even hate. It was simply the need to see someone else's suffering so you could live with your own.

Sangi temple and fortress were to the west of the city. The planned procession was to begin at the base of the Black Tower from its northern gate, then proceed via a longer, circular route around the Tower, passing through the eastern and then southern districts before taking the West Bridge across the Madira. They would make another round there, from north, to east, to south, passing through the poorer districts of the city before reaching the ceremonial square of Sangi temple in the west.

The mob they'd planned and paid for was to attack them on the last street before they reached the square as they left the southern districts. It would require the salar to pass through the most number of streets and alleys should he ride out to get to her. She had no idea where the assassins had been placed along the way. There were said to be many, to make sure he doesn't survive once out of the Tower. They were to shoot him from the rooftop with Zyren on the arrowhead. He would die, for certain, and quickly if he were to come out of the Tower. The mob would then keep her safe waiting for things to quiet down before she was released, Lasura would be freed once Azram was made salar.

That plan, however, had been thrown out the window since last night. He wouldn't come for her, now that he'd decided to let her go. Prince Azram, his mother, and Amelia might have already been arrested by now. For all she knew, the mob couldn't have been called off, not unless the Muradi knew about that too. It was a possibility, given who he was, but one so small only fools would count on to survive. She was not one.

In the event that the mob had been called off, her next problem would be at the temple. Zahara didn't know which of those two she was more afraid of. She had seen and heard of Yakim izr Zahat, the High Priest of Sangi, had noticed the way he looked at her in the past. A woman's intuition wasn't always right, but it was rarely wrong, and Zahara's intuition told her that Yakim would have her on his bed before the night was over if she ever reaches the temple. As of that day, she was no longer protected by the Salar of Rasharwi. What would happen before or after the ceremony was something she had to survive on her own. Muradi had left no instructions that she knew of to any of his men. He'd simply said she was never to return.

Something hit her on the shoulder. Zahara looked down and saw an onion at her foot. The guards turned with her toward the direction from where it came. The small boy who'd thrown it ducked quickly behind his mother who then placed her arm protectively in front of him. The mother and son were waved off by the guards with a small warning before they proceeded forward. Zahara turned to look, saw the woman smiling to her son as she congratulated the boy. He beamed back a smile of a celebrated hero. The crowd smiled, too, at the boy and the mother in approval. Good job, they said with their eyes. Brave boy, someone whispered.

Whispers, of course, could travel faster than any procession as long as there were no gaps in the crowd to break them, and if Muradi had been there he would have had both mother and son whipped in front of the crowd until no one was smiling, right where they were. 'You have to be ready to strike at the flint, not to put out the fire,' had been Muradi's reason when he'd ordered someone executed for defying an officer. 'Or you'd be killing thousands when you only needed to kill one.'