“They won’t,” the ex-governor assured her. “It will be reported and confirmed by the emperor that you went off on some foolish adventure and something awful befell you, just as everyone knew it eventually would. If you take enough chances, your luck is bound to run out. Besides, everyone knows you don’t like funerals. You weren’t even here for your friend’s. No one will find it strange when you disappear.”

“Manuel might,” she said. “Kolby, too.”

“The emperor will assuage their concerns, and being good and loyal knights, they won’t question his word.”

The wagon rolled on away from the river toward a secluded hollow where brambles and brush made a natural blind. Several of the trees were dead.

“Why?” she asked as they moved past the brambles and a willow stump with an ax in it came into view.

“No idea,” Vicross replied. “The emperor didn’t feel it necessary to explain. But maybe it’s because you’re a troublemaker and everyone hates you.”

“And an evil sorceress who plays with black magic,” Lars added. “You think you’re so smart, but did you really believe the emperor would build a book house for your evil relics?”

“A library,” she corrected.

“We wanted to burn you,” Lars continued. “But they said the smoke would draw attention. So, it’s the ax.”

The wagon rocked to a stop, and they pushed her off. They probably expected her to fall, hoped to hurt her, or at least dirty the famed princess, but Farilane landed gracefully. This served only to irritate them.

The dishonored soldiers of the Fourth Legion circled the stump to witness.

“Tie her arms behind her back,” Vicross ordered a black-hooded man.

“That won’t be necessary,” the princess said. She stepped forward, knelt down, and laid her head on the stump.

This silenced the crowd.

Farilane could feel the damp of the grass beneath her knees and the warmth of the sunbaked wood against her cheek.

Nothing but death will stop me.

The hooded man stepped forward and jerked the ax from the wood.

With her cheek still on the stump, Farilane asked, “Who’s the executioner?”

Vicross smirked and shook his head. “So full of questions even seconds before your death.”

Farilane shrugged. “I like to know the name of the person who cuts my hair, too.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. No one here knows, nor ever will know. He was chosen at random, his identity to be a secret forever. Can’t take chances at the death of an imperial.”

Farilane looked up as the man hefted the cleaver.

Her executioner did not handle it well. His hands were not the sort accustomed to weapons. Like the rest of him, they were slender and delicate. Two of his fingers were ink stained.