Mircea sidled over and gave a cautious tug. The fabric slithered away to reveal a huge, leather bound book on a wooden stand. It was open to a page where a hunt was depicted, one he could see clearly now, because there was no corruption here. Like the mail shirt, it looked like it had
been finished yesterday, the colors so glossy and bright that he was almost afraid to touch it, lest he smear the paint.
But he did, after a brief glance over his shoulder at the witch, who was muttering to herself and whacking at something in a basket with a piece of broken spear.
Mircea turned back to the book, and gingerly turned over a gossamer page, being careful to touch only the unpainted edge. And then another and another, because they were like nothing he’d ever seen: illustrations, in vibrant hues picked out in gold, that would have been wondrous enough on their own. But, like the ethereal hunt, they also moved.
He saw nobles riding in procession, their gilded leather trappings gleaming under a painted sun; peasants tilling the land, the soil under their tiny plows so warm and rich that he swore he could smell its scent; people dancing around a painted bonfire, the little sparks glowing like jewels as they rose off the page and into the gloom; and two navies clashing in the midst of a majestic, rolling sea, which sent what felt like miniature sprays of water up at him.
He turned page after page, eagerly, almost hungrily. They were painted poetry, all of them, more perfect than any masterwork he’d ever seen. Far more, he thought, after sighing a little too hard on a page, and sending a noble’s hat flying, which the tiny man scrambled around and only just managed to catch.
Mircea stared at him, sure he’d been mistaken, and accidentally brushed the edge of a painting. And had a very small, very angry squirrel glare at him from under the edge of his fingertip. And then push out from beneath the pad to bark at him in outrage.
He grinned, utterly enchanted, and turned over another page.
And felt his smile grow puzzled.
That was . . . strange.
The illustration took up both pages this time, bright and colorful, like all the others. But instead of a distant view of an expansive scene, it showed only a close-up of a crowd—very close. So much so that Mircea could see virtually nothing, except the backs of jostling, milling people.
Something appeared to be happening up ahead—something important, judging by the animation of the crowd—but he could see little of it. Just occasional glimpses of a bright blue sky, and something that might be a castle on a hill. But the view was so intermittent that even that was debatable. He found himself pushing at the crowd of bodies, even poking at a fat man who refused to budge, trying to see—
Everything.
* * *
* * *
The dark little room flashed out, the fire-splashed walls giving way to a crowd of people, screaming and shoving and threatening to trample him. Mircea tried to move away, while he figured out what was happening, but he couldn’t seem to control his body. And it wouldn’t have mattered even if he could.
Behind him, a double ring of guards circled the crowd, their swords out, blocking the way back. And ahead—damn it, he still couldn’t see! Until the screams became shrieks, and a huge fight broke out, sending dozens to the ground, and parting the crowd enough to show—
Oh God.
Not again!
Mircea stumbled back, but there was nowhere to go. And nowhere to look except for the caldron straight ahead, big as a ship and gleaming copper bright in the incongruously sunny day. Inside, a crowd of men floated motionless on the bubbling surface of the water, their long hair drifting around them, their skin sloughing off in pieces. Or else they writhed, screaming and fighting, lobster red but still trying to climb up the blistering sides, while a thick line of soldiers with spears shoved them back in.
Mircea tried to avert his eyes—he’d seen enough horrors this day! But they stayed glued to the scene nonetheless. Forcing him to watch as more men, waiting their turn alongside the caldron, used their chains to strangle their fellow prisoners out of pity, before they were boiled alive. While the vast crowd tore at their hair and cried and fought and—
Mircea finally looked away, but only because a woman, beautiful, desperate, and tear streaked, grabbed him. “Help us!” she breathed. “You’re on the Domi! Make her stop!”
Mircea followed her outflung arm, and saw another woman, raven haired and dark eyed, standing on top of a terrace, framed by the castle. She was watching the spectacle and laughing: at the sufferers, their families, him. Knowing he couldn’t do anything, that if he so much as muttered a word against her, he’d join them.
“I can’t help,” he babbled. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“Murderer!” the woman shrieked. “You may as well be killing us yourself! Do something! Those are your people!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Stop saying that!” She was shaking him, and now more people were pausing, were turning this way, were looking at him.
Didn’t any of them understand? He’d done all he could! Why were they looking at him with such hate? What did they expect? For him to die along with them, and his family, too?
“I’m sorry!” he screamed in the woman’s face, shame and horror and panic all coming together into what felt like madness. And why not? The whole world was mad. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
She was backing away now, but still he pursued her, screaming, crying, helpless and hating himself for it, until hard hands grasped him, and strong arms pulled him back. And still he yelled: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”