“Why wasn’t he executed?” Callum asked as they passed under the shadow of a colossal abandoned castle. He’d never seen a castle made of brick before, but the thing was so large, what else could it possibly be? Its roof was missing and the great white towers at each corner were starting to crumble, seemingly held up by nothing more than a vast matt of clinging ivy.
William Bayns turned in the saddle to look at him.
“What’s that lad?”
“Zachory. He confessed to killing a hundred and thirty seven people! Why did they let him live?”
Bayns regarded him for a moment. “Ever heard of Tryst Brown?”
Callum shook his head.
“No, why would you? Before your time; before my time, if truth be told…”
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