All that Professor Lawson and Riccardo of Sanchia could do was wait. No guards came to fetch them, nor to say that any outcome of the duel had an impact on their dire circumstances. In the hours that passed after the duel, more cries from the streets reached them. Confusion in the shouts mounting. Was it the Prince of Ammar who had fallen in the duel, or Gruffydd?

　　Over and over, their cell door was opened and more people were shoved inside. Merchants and tired-looking wedding guests still dressed in rumpled finery from days before. They crushed up against the others already packed in, forcing every prisoner in the cell to stand. There was a panicked air among these prisoners. They jostled and shouted, trying to resist being crammed into the cell.

　　"I didn`t do anything! I`m not a witch," one of the new prisoners shouted. "I only said it was Gruffydd who got stabbed&"

　　"He can`t burn all of us! Let him try! That pyre can`t even hold half of us! Witches will rise in Ammar!"

　　Professor Lawson felt himself flattened against the wall of the cell. Mercifully he was near the window, where the cold fresh air could reach him. He tried to keep hold of Riccardo`s arm so that he could pull the young man into the air to catch a breath.

　　The day wore on, and the mood in the prison did not improve with each new addition. The guards were becoming more frantic. They raced up and down the halls, narrowly avoiding the reach of arms thrust through the bars. They cursed and clattered in full armor. By noon, they carried poleaxes.

　　Outside the prison, the sounds of the crowd devolved into the roar of a mob.

　　"Let them live! Let them live!"

　　"No witches, no burning!"

　　"Murderers!"

　　Sometime in the late afternoon, when the cell window glowed white sunshine, they heard a thunderous clatter of horse hooves. Professor Lawson strained to look from the window, and caught sight of a long column of riders, all bearing the green and black of Gruffydd. They were heading for the gate at Eastport. Leaving Mahaut. They did not trouble themselves to toss coins as they went.

　　Oh no, Professor Lawson thought.

　　The professor`s mind ran through the possibilities, the variables that could have shifted the balance of power. If the prince were slain, Gruffydd might flee to escape justice& Yet, no bells tolled at the churches as they would have for Prince Anryn`s death. If it had been Gruffydd`s son who had fallen, why flee the city at all? What was there to run from?

　　By evening, the situation in the streets deteriorated. The mob outside the prison was chanting for their release. Urgent, passionate. The harried guards abandoned the hallways of the prison, rushing down to guard the entry. They left no torches burning in any of the halls. Professor Lawson`s cell was plunged into darkness as the sun set. The lack of light made the sounds of the mob seem louder. Around him, the other prisoners began to whisper prayers.

　　It won`t be the spike, it`ll be the pyre, Professor Lawson thought. The chaos of the mob, the disorder of the prison administration& The professor glanced at Riccardo of Sanchia sitting beside him in the dark. He recalled all the lessons of recent history when the rule of law collapsed under the brittleness of conflicting interests. The witch laws of Ammar would overtake international interests. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

　　An hour after sunset, he was proved right. A clutch of armed guards appeared at the door to the cell, bearing poleaxes and a long chain with iron collars affixed to the links. One by one, men were pulled from the cell, collared and led away.

　　"Where are they taking them?" Riccardo of Sanchia asked.

　　Professor Lawson could not answer past the lump in his throat. A numbness not unlike the mage`s enchantment clutched at him. The cold iron closed around his neck. Then they were rattling in a line down the steps of the prison out into the yard where a cart waited to take them to the garden where the pyre awaited.

　　Professor Lawson prayed. God in Heaven preserve me. Forgive me for the sins of pride and vanity& Guide Prince Anryniel better than I have&

　　The cart pushed through the crowd. Fists banged against the wood, shouting the cries he`d heard from within the prison. Again and again the cart stopped as the guards were obliged to clear people from the street. Finally, they gave up and opened the cart to have the prisoners step down and walk the rest of the way.

　　Professor Lawson stepped down from the cart. The garden was aglow with torchlight. It shone in the faces of hundreds of people gathered there. The professor was shocked to see women with their faces unveiled, tears streaming down their cheeks.

　　Professor Lawson looked around. In the women`s section, a court had been set with high-backed chairs for the judges and scarlet banners bearing the King`s four-pointed sun. The pyre spread out over the bare patch of the men`s section of the garden. Poles were set all along the platform, and bundles of sticks and kindling waited beside them. The professor did the math in his head—they could burn maybe two hundred witches at a time, assuming the fires were doused between executions.

　　Riccardo of Sanchia was again beside him. The line of prisoners clustered together in a circle as more carts arrived, bearing more accused witches. "They can`t do this! We weren`t charged with witchcraft&"

　　Now Professor Lawson found his voice again. He marveled that it was so steady. "It is sadly more efficient to have us brought here than it is to sort through prisoners within the cells. Especially considering that they were likely at capacity."

　　The professor`s eyes found the King`s chair among those set for the court. It was the one set with a thick red cushion. Beside it, another chair bore a thinner one. This would likely be Anryn`s seat.

　　Professor Lawson`s eyes strained, searching the crowd. His eyes picked out the lords Eyiffoen and Kenon there in the crowd, making their way to the women`s viewing platform. The King had not arrived yet.

　　Smoke stung his nose. Professor Lawson glanced back at the pyre, horrified to think that the witch burning had begun before even the trial. At first, he could not see the source of the smoke. In the dark, it seemed as though a shadow flickered over the pyre. The smell of smoke grew stronger as it licked the beams of wood.

　　Black fire, Professor Lawson realized.

　　The mob noticed it at the same time that he did. A confused murmur swept across the crowd, pitching to a violent roar as the flames spread over the empty pyre. The guards with their poleaxes were overwhelmed by the crush as people surged away from the shadowy flames.

　　Before he could be swept away by the crowd, a hand closed on Professor Lawson`s shoulder. The iron collar around his neck tightened as the other prisoners chained to him were yanked away. The professor twisted, strangled by the tension against the collar. He grabbed at it, working his fingers beneath the iron. Spots danced behind his eyes.

　　The metal beneath his fingers crumbled. The collar fell away from Professor Lawson`s neck. As the dark spots cleared from his vision, he finally saw a face that he recognized.

　　"I waited for you. Anryn said that you would come to get me," Maertyn Blackfire said. "You look like you could use a drink."