Kit dragged Kynan Rhys Gower to the stake. From her vantage point, she could see that Kit repeated the same procedure with the Welshman’s wrists. Kynan was white to the lips. He held his head high and intoned something in a loud voice, speaking in his own native tongue. He might have been heaping curses on the Portuguese or praying to God to let this mad scheme work.
Kit stumbled back down the piled wood and turned to face them. He lifted both hands, a crucifix clenched in one fist. He began to chant in Latin. Whatever it was, it went on and on. Sweat beaded up on his lips and dripped down his chin. Malcolm kept darting nervous glances in the direction Margo thought the gate ought to lie.
Nothing was happening.
The sun sank lower, vanishing behind the distant peaks of the Drakensbergs. The crash of waves was loud in her ears. Seabirds screamed overhead. It’s not opening, oh God, it isn’t going to open … On the ground below the pyre, Kit sank to his knees and bowed his head. Malcolm followed suit. The rest of the company went to their knees as well. Torches crackled in the growing twilight. Still no gate opened. Kit couldn’t delay this, much longer. The military governor was staring at him, darting uneasy glances toward the as-yet unlit pyre. A few glimmering stars appeared in the darkening sky.
Then the bones behind Margo’s ear began to vibrate.
She caught her breath on a sob
Then let out an ear-piercing shriek.
At the first buzz of the gate, Malcolm went giddy with relief. Then Margo screamed. He started and whirled to stare at her. Even Kit Jumped.