She hoped they were right. It would be a terrible thing to die for nothing.

Her escort led her to a spot midway between the two small knots of people. Cyril had a few words of greeting and encouragement, but it was clear that no one really felt like conversation, and thankfully it was soon over. With the sun down and the night growing cold, even Melantha couldn't see any point in postponing the inevitable any longer.

The preliminaries finished, Cyril and an elderly Gray with a long scar on his left cheek—Halfdan, she vaguely remembered his name—led the way down the steps into the lower part of the park, Melantha and her escort behind them, the rest of the observers joining in behind her. They walked past the small flower garden which she had been told would be her final resting spot, and she found herself wondering whether the flowers would come up extra beautiful in the spring because of it. The grass seemed springier beneath her feet than usual, though that might have been the strange shoes she'd been given to wear along with the ancient ceremonial clothing. Pinned high on her left shoulder, the unaccustomed weight of a trassk tugged uncomfortably at her dress.

They continued past the garden to the chosen spot between a pair of majestic oaks. A few more Greens were waiting there, eyeing and being eyed in turn by three more Grays silently hanging onto the side of the fifteen-foot stone wall that separated the lower part of the park from the upper promenade they'd just come from. The Gray leader beside Cyril gave a quiet order, and the Grays reluctantly came down from their perches, joining with the rest of their group.