Witch's Pyre (Worldwalker #3)(90)

“Chenoa,” Lillian said, teeth bared. The name hissed out of her like a curse word.

As Lily and Lillian approached the center of the clearing together, the shouting fell to a murmur. The crowds stopped pushing against the barricade and the man in Rowan’s headlock settled down enough that Rowan let him go.

Chenoa looked at the two Lillians, her mouth tilting with a knowing smile. Her eyes were like two black beads—hard and clear—and they sent a thrill down Lily’s spine.

“So I suppose you’ll be fixing to hang me,” Chenoa said, instigating a fresh round of hateful calls.

“She should be hanged!” yelled the man recently released from Rowan’s headlock.

“Otter—don’t,” Rowan growled in warning in case he decided to lunge at Chenoa again. Rowan knew this man. He spun away from Rowan and faced the bloodthirsty crowd.

“She killed my Lena and our baby,” Otter said. Voices shouted out the names of more dead. “She could have told us what was in those canisters.” More voices rose like “amens” in church. “She should have told us it was going to make them sick.”

Lily looked out at the quickly turning mob, and then back at Lillian’s impassive face. Lillian would let the mob hang her, and as Lily recalled the women dying horrible deaths in the tunnels, a tiny voice in her head said maybe Chenoa deserved it.

But then she noticed the Outlanders in the crowd were slowly detaching themselves, watching with their weapons ready. Lily reached out to Rowan.

Will the Outlanders fight if the ranch hands try to hang Chenoa?

Yes, Rowan replied in mindspeak. To a lot of Outlanders she’s a hero. This could get very bad, very fast. Find a fire and get ready to fuel us.

I don’t think you can stop my army from tearing itself apart, Rowan.

Neither do I. The only thing that I’m concerned with now is keeping you safe.

While Lily racked her brain for a way to defuse this powder keg, Mary stepped forward, holding up her hands for everyone’s attention.

“We below folk know all about the dust sickness that Chenoa brought on us,” Mary said in a commanding voice. “We’ve seen it with our own eyes. And if you’re anything like me, you’ve had nightmares about it ever since.” She started to pace around Chenoa, circling her like a cross-examiner. “This isn’t just something she brought on the women who agreed to carry her poison dust into the Outlands. It’s something that got brought back to those women’s families. Children. Babies, even.”

Chenoa grunted and smirked. Mary broke off and turned to address her.

“You think babies dying is funny?” Mary asked. Chenoa leveled her with a look. Anger seemed to gather around the old woman like a cloak. “Speak,” Mary urged. “Give us some reason why you did what you did. I’m trying to give you a chance here, or would you rather I just let my people string you up?”

For a moment it seemed as if Chenoa would remain silent on her own behalf. She looked out at the mob as if it were happening to someone else, and then nodded to herself as if she already knew the ending to this story.

“I’ve always been good with numbers,” she said in a soft, dry voice that carried. “I’ve always been able to look at numbers and equations and understand them. Always been able to see through the numbers to the truth hidden behind them. I don’t know, maybe it’s a kind of magic. How many children do you think I’ve had, blond city woman?” she asked.

Mary was taken aback by the question. “I don’t know,” she replied.

“Four. All dead in their first year.” Chenoa’s voice was even and empty, her words pressed flat by the weight of the grudge within her. “My first babe starved to death. Belly swollen and so weak she couldn’t even cry anymore. She just made this mewing sound, like a kitten.” A long silence spilled out of her and swept over the crowd. “My middle two were taken by the Woven and the pox got my youngest. You ever see a baby die of the pox, blond city woman? No, you haven’t. The witches wouldn’t help us Outlanders when the pox came, but the below folk, they got the medicine ’cause they’re citizens.” Chenoa laughed, her head settling deeper into her shoulders, like a bird’s in a rainstorm. “You below folk are acting like you invented suffering, but how many of your children were lost by what I did? A few hundred? How many hundreds of thousands of our babies starved, were taken by the Woven, or died from the pox . . . or maybe you’ve done the math and think your pink babies are worth a thousands times more than our brown ones?” Her mouth pressed into a sneer. “Well, I’ve done the math, too, and I got some different numbers. One number in particular.” Her eyes dropped to the ground, all the fire suddenly snuffed out of her. “Four.”

When it became clear that Chenoa would say no more, the crowd began to shout their grievances at her again. There had never been anything she could say that would have persuaded them not to hang her, and the fact that they pitied her only served to anger them more. A rock was thrown. Then another.

Oh my God, they’re going to stone her, Una said in mindspeak. A score of Outlander braves notched arrows into their bows.

Tristan addressed the coven in mindspeak. Lily, can you jump us out of here?

Jumping might be our only option, Caleb agreed.

Jumping won’t stop them from killing one another, Lily argued.