The crowd, already quiet, grew deadly still as they came to the woman from Kilnar, who began screaming as they approached. The sheriff and his deputies took turns whipping her, as the day’s heat made such work exhausting. The fatigue in their arms was evident by the wild swings that struck the woman high on her shoulders as well as low on her back, and even occasionally as low as her thighs. After the first thirty lashes, the woman stopped screaming and only whimpered softly. The whipping continued, and by the time the scribe counted sixty, the woman merely hung limp. A physician approached the post, lifted her head by her hair, and pronounced her dead. The scribe made a note of this. They did not remove her body.

The sheriff finally moved to Emery. The young man was not daunted after seeing the punishment carried out on the others, and made the bravest showing of all. He stood defiant as the soldier with the whip approached him.

“Killing me will not change the truth that Viceroy Androus is the real traitor and guilty of killing King Urith and the royal family!” he managed to shout before the first strokes of the whip silenced him. He did not cry out but gritted his teeth and only dully grunted as the knots turned his back into a mass of blood and pulpy flesh. By the last stroke, he also hung limp and silent, but everyone could see him breathing. The physician indicated such to the scribe, who dutifully jotted it down.

“Those people didn’t do anything,” Arista said as the crowd began to disperse. “They’re innocent.”

“You, of all people, know that isn’t the point,” Royce replied.

Arista whirled. She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then shut it.

“Alric had twelve people publicly flogged for inciting riots when the church was kicked out of Melengar,” he reminded her. “How many of them were actually guilty of anything?”

“I’m sure that was necessary to keep the peace.”

“The viceroy will tell you the same.”

“This is different. Mothers weren’t whipped before their children, and women weren’t beaten to death before a crowd.”

“True,” Royce said. “It was only fathers, husbands, and sons who were whipped bloody and left scarred for life. I stand corrected. Melengar’s compassion is astounding.”

Arista glared at him but could say nothing. As much as she hated it, as much as she hated him for pointing it out, she realized what Royce said was true.

“Don’t punish yourself over it,” Royce told her. “The powerful control the weak. The rich exploit the poor. It’s the way it’s always been and how it always will be. Just thank Maribor you were born both rich and powerful.”

“But it’s not right,” she said, shaking her head.