tg.stone of tears-第90部分

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　Kahlan　started　to　turn　away；　but　Cyrilla　gently　caught　her　arm　and　drew　her　aside　as　men　bent　to　carry　the　body　from　the　hall。
　
　‘Kahlan；　forgive　me。’　Her　fingers　worked　a　ribbon　at　her　waist。　‘I　have　wrongly　directed　my　anger　over　Drefan　to　you。’
　
　‘I　understand；　Cyrilla。　In　your　place；　I　would　probably　have　reacted　the　same。　I　could　see　your　feelings　for　Drefan　in　your　eyes。　I　would　not　expect　you　to　be　happy　over　what　I　have　just　done。　Forgive　me　for　bringing　anguish　to　your　home　on　a　day　that　should　be　only　joyful；　but　I　greatly　feared　the　results　of　delay。’
　
　Kahlan　had　made　her　feel　like　the　younger　sister。　She　looked　anew　at　the　tall；　beautiful　young　woman　standing　before　her。　Kahlan　was　of　the　age　to　have　a　mate。　Perhaps　she　had　already　chosen　one；　for　all　she　knew。　Her　mother　must　have　been　about　this　old　when　she　took　Cyrilla’s　father　as　hers。　So　young。
　
　Looking　into　those　depthless　green　eyes；　Cyrilla　let　go　of　some　of　her　anger　over　Drefan。　This　young　woman；　her　sister；　had　just　saved　her　life；　knowing　full　well　it　would　bring　no　thanks；　and　would　probably　earn　her　only　deeper　fear；　and　possibly　undying　hatred；　from　her　half　sister。　So　young。　Cyrilla　felt　shame　at　her　own　selfishness。
　
　She　smiled　at　Kahlan　for　the　first　time。　‘Surely；　the　things　Wyborn　taught　you　weren’t　all　grim？’
　
　‘He　taught　me　only　killing。　Whom　to　kill；　when　to　kill；　and　how　to　kill。　Be　thankful　you　know　no　more　of　his　lessons；　and　that　you　have　never　needed　what　he　taught。　I　have；　and　I　fear　I　have　only　begun　to　use　what　he　taught　me。’
　
　Cyrilla　frowned。　Kahlan　was　a　Confessor；　not　a　killer。　‘Why　would　you　say　such　a　thing？’
　
　‘We　believe　we　have　uncovered　a　conspiracy。　I　will　not　speak　of　it　until　I　know　its　nature；　and　have　proof；　but　I　think　it　may　bring　a　storm　beyond　any　you　or　I　have　ever　seen　before。’
　
　Cyrilla　touched　her　sister’s　cheek；　the　only　time　in　her　life　she　had　ever　done　so。　‘Kahlan；　please　stay？　Enjoy　at　my　side　what　is　left　of　the　festival？　I　would　love　to　have　you　with　me。’
　
　Kahlan’s　face　returned　to　the　calm　mask　of　a　Confessor。　‘I　cannot。　It　would　only　ruin　your　people’s　light　heart　to　have　me　present。　Thank　you　for　the　offer；　but　you　should　be　able　to　enjoy　your　day　with　your　people；　without　my　spoiling　it　further。’
　
　‘Nonsense。　It　would　spoil　nothing。’
　
　‘I　would　like　nothing　more　than　that　it　were　so；　but　it　is　not。　Remember　what　our　father　said：　keep　a　wary　eye　to　the　Keltans。　I　must　be　gone。　There　is　trouble　gathering　and　I　must　see　that　the　Confessors　find　its　cause。　Before　I　return　to　Aydindril　I　will　pay　a　visit　to　Kelton　and　deliver　my　suspicions；　and　a　warning　that　what　has　happened　not　be　repeated。　I　will　inform　the　council　of　the　trouble　of　this　day；　so　that　all　eyes　will　be　on　the　Keltans。’
　
　What　did　they　teach　in　Aydindril　that　could　turn　what　looked　to　be　porcelain　to　iron？
　
　Thank　you；　Mother　Confessor’　was　all　she　had　been　able　to　say；　to　offer　her　sister　the　honor　of　her　office；　as　she　watched　her　stride　off；　her　wizard　in　tow。　That　had　been　the　most　intimate　conversation　she　had　ever　had　with　her　half　sister。　The　midsummer　festival　had　not　held　much　joy　for　her　after　Kahlan　had　left。　So　young；　yet　so　old。
　
　At　the　council　today；　Cyrilla　had　been　surprised　to　find　that　the　Mother　Confessor　was　not　presiding　over　the　council。　No　one　knew　where　she　was。　It　was　to　be　expected　she　would　have　been　absent　when　Aydindril　fell；　she　was　frequently　gone　in　her　capacity　as　a　Confessor；　and　had　probably　been　doing　what　she　could　to　halt　the　threat　from　D’Hara。　All　the　Confessors　had　fiercely　fought　the　hordes　from　D’Hara。　She　was　sure　Kahlan　would　have　done　no　less；　using　in　part　what　her　father　had　taught　her。
　
　But　that　she　had　not　immediately　returned　to　Aydindril　when　D’Hara　withdrew　was　worrisome。　Perhaps　she　had　not　yet　had　time　to　return。　Cyrilla　feared　Kahlan　might　have　been　killed　at　the　hands　of　a　quad。　D’Hara　had　sentenced　all　the　Confessors　to　death；　and　hunted　them　relentlessly。　Galea　had　offered　refuge　to　the　Confessors；　but　the　quads；　implacable；　and　without　mercy；　had　found　them　anyway。
　
　Worse；　absent　the　Mother　Confessor；　there　had　not　been　a　wizard　overseeing　the　council　meeting。　Cyrilla’s　flesh　had　prickled　with　apprehension　at　seeing　no　wizard。　She　recognized　that　the　absence　of　a　Confessor　and　a　wizard　created　a　dangerous　vacuum　in　the　council　chambers。
　
　But　when　she　saw　who　presided　over　the　council　session；　her　apprehension　sharpened　to　alarm。　Sitting　in　the　first　chair　was　High　Prince　Fyren；　of　Kelton。　The　very　man　she　had　e　to　seek　deliverance　from　sat　in　judgment。　To　see　him　sitting　in　the　chair　that　had　always　belonged　only　to　the　Mother　Confessor　was　startling。
　
　The　council；　it　would　seem；　had　not　been　put　back　to　the　way　it　should　have　been。
　
　Nonetheless；　she　ignored　him　and　instead　pressed　her　demands　to　the　rest　of　the　council。　In　turn；　Prince　Fyren　stood　and　accused　her　of　treason　against　the　Midlands。　He　had　the　unmitigated　gall　to　accuse　her　of　the　very　thing　of　which　he　was　guilty。
　
　Further；　Prince　Fyren　assured　the　council　that　Kelton　was　mitting　no　aggression　but　was　acting　only　in　self…defense　against　a　greedy　neighbor。　In　a　tirade；　he　lectured　them　on　the　evils　of　women　in　positions　of　power。　The　council　took　his　word　for　everything。　They　allowed　her　to　present　no　evidence。
　
　She　stood　stunned　and　speechless　as　the　council　heard　Fyren’s　charges；　and　without　pause　found　her　guilty；　sentencing　her　to　be　beheaded。
　
　Where　was　Kahlan？　Where　were　the　wizards？
　
　Lady　Bevinvier’s　vision　had　proven　true。　Cyrilla　should　have　listened；　or　at　least　taken　some　precaution。　Kahlan’s　warning；　too；　had　proven　true；　Kelton　had　first　tried　to　strike　out　of　jealousy；　and　now；　years　later；　they　had　renewed　the　attack　when　they　saw　tempting　weakness。
　
　The　Galean　guard　stood　in　the　great　courtyard；　ready　to　immediately　escort　Cyrilla　home。　She　had　needed　to　set　about　readying　Galea’s　defenses　until　the　forces　expected　to　be　sent　by　the　council　could　arrive。　But　it　was　not　to　be。
　
　At　the　pronouncement　of　sentence；　she　heard　the　terrible　shouts　of　battle　outside。　Battle；　she　thought　bitterly。　It　was　not　a　battle；　but　a　slaughter。　Her　troops　had　waited　in　the　great　courtyard　without　their　weapons；　as　a　sign　of　respect　and　deference；　an　open　gesture　of　acquiescence　to　the　rule　of　the　Council　of　the　Midlands。
　
　Queen　Cyrilla　stood　at　the　window；　a　guard　at　each　arm；　shaking　in　horror　as　she　watched　the　slaughter。　A　few　of　her　men　managed　to　take　up　weapons　by　overpowering　their　attackers；　and　put　up　a　valiant　struggle；　but　they　had　no　chance。　They　were　outnumbered　five　to　one；　and　were；　by　and　large；　without　means　to　defend　themselves。　She　couldn’t　tell　if　in　the　chaos　any　escaped。　She　hoped　they　had。　She　prayed　Harold　had。
　
　The　white　snow　that　lay　upon　the　ground　was　turned　to　a　sea　of　red。　She　was　aghast　at　the　butchery。　There　was　mercy　only　in　its　swiftness。
　
　Cyrilla　had　been　made　to　kneel　before　the　council　as　Prince　Fyren　took　up　her　long　hair　in　his　fist；　and　with　his　own　sword　sliced　it　away。　She　had　knelt　in　silence；　her　head　held　proudly　up　in　honor　of　her　people；　in　honor　of　the　men　she　had　just　seen　murdered；　while　he　cut　her　hair　as　short　as　the　lowest　kitchen　scullion。
　
　What　an　hour　before　had　seemed　to　be　the　near　end　of　her　people’s　ordeal　had　bee　instead　the　mere　beginning。
　
　The　powerful　fingers　on　her　arms　jerked　her　to　a　halt　before　a　small　iron　door。　She　winced　in　pain。　A　crude　ladder　twice　her　height　lay　on　its　side　against　the　wall　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　corridor。
　
　Again　the　guard　with　the　keys　came　forward　to　work　the　lock。　He　cursed　the　mechanism；　plaining　that　its　lack　of　use　made　it　stiff。　All　the　guards　seemed　to　be　Keltans。　She　had　seen　none　of　the　Aydindril　Home　Guard。　Most；　she　knew；　had　been　killed　in　Aydindril’s　fall　to　D’Hara。
　
　At　last　the　man　drew　back　the　door　to　reveal　a　dark　pit。　Her　legs　felt　as　if　they　wanted　to　turn　liquid。　Only　the　hands　gripping　her　arms　held　her　up。　They　were　going　to　put　her　in　that　dark　pit。　With　the　rats。
　
　She　willed　her　legs　solid　again。　She　was　the　queen。　But　her　pulse　would　not　slow。
　
　‘How　dare　you　put　a　lady　in　a　rat…infested　hole！’
　
　Prince　Fyren　stepped　close　to　the　black　maw。　One　hand　on　a　hip　held　back　his　unbuttoned；　royal　blue　coat。　With　his　other　hand　he　hefted　a　torch　from　a　bracket。
　
　‘Rats？　Is　that　what　worries　you；　my　lady？　Rats？’　He　gave　her　a　derisive　smile。　He　was　too　young　to　be　so　well　schooled　at　insolence。　Had　her　arms　been　free　she　would　have　slapped　him。　‘Let　me　allay　your　fears；　Queen　Cyrilla。’
　
　He　tossed　the　torch　into　the　blackness。　As　it　dropped；　it　illuminated　faces。　A　husky　fist　caught　the　torch。　There　were　men　in　the　pit。　At　least　six；　maybe　ten。
　
　Prince　Fyren　leaned　into　the　doorway；　his　voice　echoing　into　the　hole。　‘The　queen　worries　there　may　be　rats　down　there。’
　
　‘Rats？’　came　a　coarse　voice　from　the　pit。　‘There　be　no　rats　down　here。　Not　anymore。　We　et　them　all。’
　
　A　hand　with　white　ruffles　at　the　wrist　still　rested　on　Prince　Fyren’s　hip。　His　voice　taunted　with　feigned　concern。　‘There；　you　see？　The　man　says　there　are　no　rats。　Does　that　ease　your　apprehension；　my　lady？’
　
　Her　eyes　darted　between　the　flickering　torchlight　below　and　Fyren。　‘Who　are　those　men？’
　
　‘Why；　just　a　few　murderers　and　rapists　awaiting　their　beheading；　same　as　you。　Quite　vile　animals；　actually。　What　with　all　I’ve　had　to　attend　to；　I　haven’t　had　time　to　see　to　their　sentences。　I’m　afraid　being　down　in　the　pit　for　so　long　puts　them　in　an　ugly　disposition。’　His　grin　returned；　‘But　I’m　sure　having　a　queen　among　them　will　mellow　their　mood。’
　
　Cyrilla　had　to　force　her　voice　to　e。　‘I　demand　my　own　cell。’
　
　The　grin　vanished。　An　eyebrow　lifted。　‘Demand？　You　demand？’　He　suddenly　struck　her　across　the　face。　‘You　demand　nothing！　You　are　nothing　but　a　mon　criminal；　a　loathsome　murderer　of　my　people！　You　have　been　tried　and　convicted！’
　
　Her　cheek　burned　with　the　sting　of　his　handprint。
　
　‘You　can’t　put　me　in　there　…　with　them。’