The memory shifted into a cobblestone square, framed by stone buildings draped in Viremont banners.
Hundreds of people. Packed shoulder to shoulder, filling every available inch of space between the buildings, pressed against walls and balanced on ledges and craned forward with the specific, awful attention of a crowd that had assembled to watch suffering and had convinced itself the watching was mandatory.
A wooden post stood in the center of the square.
"By order of King Viremont, the slave known as Silverveil is hereby sentenced to forty lashes for her crime."
Fin's blood went cold.
He moved before he thought. His body launched toward the post, toward her, every instinct overriding the fact that he was a ghost in a memory that had already happened. His hands reached for the ropes at her wrists and passed through them like water through a sieve.
He couldn't touch her. He couldn't untie her. He couldn't do a goddamn thing.
