Chapter 3

   

Celimus was frustrated. He paced the courtyard angrily awaiting a page he had sent off to find Wyl Thirsk. The Prince enjoyed belittling Wyl but the orange-haired troll was not giving him the sort of smug satisfaction he wanted. He would be King one day and he wanted to see this one in particular cringing early to him. Wyl was Fergys Thirsk’s son after all and Celimus had despised Fergys since he was old enough to measure the bond between his father and his General. Perhaps without the famous soldier in the King’s life, his father might have paid more attention to his sole heir.

Now all Celimus had to offer his King was contempt.

The major rift had come when his mother died twelve years previous. Whispers around the court had hinted that perhaps her death was not quite the accident it had seemed at first. Try though his caretakers might, they could not protect the sharp, highly intelligent four-year-old from absorbing the enormity of what was being gossiped about. If he valued his father’s praise, he worshiped his mother ten times as much. Although he had sensed her cool detachment from Morgravian society and its people—especially his father—Celimus also grasped that this aloofness did not extend to him. Celimus she loved with intensity. He was every bit her child. While his father was golden in looks, the son had her dark, exotic glamor. Olive skin and black lustrous hair meant Celimus was Adana all over again. She granted him his height was no doubt inherited from the King but that was all. Men should be tall, she had argued. For sovereigns she felt it was a prerequisite. She had no doubt that Celimus would be an imposing man in years to come—he was already an arresting child to look at. And with it came a bright and agile mind that she adored. Adana made good use of those early years, manipulating her son’s thoughts, trying to poison him against his father—the peasant, she called him—but not to much avail. It remained a failure of hers. The infant Celimus craved the attention of Magnus but she was relieved to note the King had neither time nor inclination to level much interest toward the boy. She hated the red-headed General even more and used his presence as a weapon to turn Celimus against the King.

“He loves that Thirsk fellow more than us, child. See how they bend their heads together. Plotting. Always conniving.”

Celimus had not understood the grown-up words then but he had grasped her meaning. She accused Thirsk of constantly filling his own coffers at the King’s expense; she laughed hard at the shy and reticent creature Thirsk had finally married. “Peasant for peasant!” she had spat at Celimus one day. Although he had thought Helyna Thirsk quite pretty, he was only a few years old, and so believed his mother must surely be right. And when she had finally seen the Thirsks’ first child, Adana had attacked the infant’s red hair, claiming it was the sign of a warlock. Magnus had overheard her snide comment and his reaction was the closest Celimus believed his father had come to striking his mother. His parents had hardly spoken after that. They had never behaved as a family might—eating together or playing together. Magnus was absent as a father, preferring his war rooms, his soldiers, the hunt, and other manly pursuits.

But despite his caretakers striving to assure the boy that his majesty had little time for anything but running his realm, Celimus knew his father avoided him. He watched other nobles making time for simple pleasures with their families and his mother’s words rang true: his own father disliked him, hated them both in fact, and deliberately chose to evade all contact with his wife and his son.

It hurt. And Adana made it her business to prey on her small son’s pain and turn it into her own weapon. Her machinations worked. The young Celimus hardened his thoughts; the changes were initially subtle—he no longer asked whether he might see his father before going to bed or whether the King might care to take a ride with him sometime soon. Then they became more apparent. One one occasion. Magnus had sent a message that he would be joining them for supper. Celimus was absent, claiming a stomach upset, but Adana knew better and she rejoiced in his shunning of the King.

It was after the aggressive incident between his parents that Celimus felt compelled—and that he had right on his side—to openly reject his father. Watching the tall man’s anger stoke so fast had frightened him. His mother had fallen to the floor as if struck, though he knew his father had pulled the blow just in time. She had shrieked and writhed on the flagstones of that courtyard before rising to cast a final cold slur at the man she despised.

Celimus remembered it well.

“I would rather die than have you touch me again, you pig!”

And the chilling, prophetic reply. “Perhaps that can be arranged,” his father had said, just as coldly.

Celimus had not been the only one in earshot of the harsh exchange and so when the hunting accident occurred not long after, it was a small leap for many who had heard the gossip. Anyone who knew Magnus would refute the claim fiercely. Anyone who knew him well enough would know the man was more than capable of such a thing. Whether he had killed his wife or whether it was an accident remained a tantalizing mystery to Celimus. It was a matter never discussed and over the years it had become a buried issue, as cold as the tomb that enclosed its victim.

Celimus never forgot it. however. It festered in his heart to become a dark ball of hate he vowed to one day hurl at the pig who sired him. He had heard his father openly threaten Adana and from the day of her death he had privately sworn to make his father pay. As a child there was little more he could do than remove all contact and pretense at affection, even in public, from the King as best he could. Drawing on memories of his mother, he became utterly cold and detached from Magnus, who. by the same token and at the urgings of Fergys, had begun an all-out effort to bring his son closer. But it was too late.

Too late for the father to give love. Too late for the child to want it let alone welcome it. In a youngster’s warped way Celimus had linked the always present Fergys Thirsk with wanting Adana dead and maturing had not eased the young Prince’s attitude toward his father’s closest friend. When the news of Thirsk’s passing had begun to filter through Stoneheart. Celimus had rejoiced at the old General’s death. He had hoped it would drive a stake of pain so hard into his father’s heart that he might die of the agony and loneliness. But now he was having to deal with the hated seed of Thirsk’s loins.

And the son appeared to have the same qualities that the father had showed before him.

Now was a chance to stick another stake into his father’s side. Oh, he knew how his father loved Wyl. Did Magnus think him a fool? Did he not think it was writ all over his peasant face everytime he encountered the flame-haired troll? It mattered not to Celimus that he did not chase his father’s affection but he would be damned if he’d allow the old man to love anyone. You don ‘t deserve it, he had often raged silently at his father whenever he saw the pair of them together. I will not permit you that pleasure, that sense of warmth in your last years. You denied it to me and then you destroyed the only person who ever loved me. I shall do the same to you by destroying Wyl Thirsk whom you fawn over, he promised himself, smiling slyly toward the aging monarch.

Celimus had deliberately never given the Thirsk lad a chance. From the moment of Wyl’s arrival at Stoneheart, Celimus had set about a campaign of destruction, his intention to break Wyl’s spirit and send him running home to Argorn. But so far the lad’s keen desire to follow in his father’s footsteps was giving him sufficient grit to withstand Celimus’s cruel schemings. He did not care for the defiance that burned in Wyl’s gaze either, that remained even when he was seemingly paying homage.

“I’d like to poke your eyes out Wyl, and wipe that disloyal gaze from your ugly halfwit’s face,” he said to himself. “One day I might just do that. Destroy your eyes, destroy you, destroy the pretty, spoiled Ylena…” he trailed off as he heard the bells again.

He smiled savagely at what the sound prompted in his mind. The Prince had heard the change in the bells a day or so ago. Discreet inquiries had told him this afternoon was the right time to strike. He had only his mother’s reports to go on of how brutal the torture of a witch could be. He reveled in the thought that he would finally witness the brutality she had hinted toward when he was a boy. Persuaded by his bigoted mother, he held the view⁷ that those who appeared to wield magic—not that he believed in it—should be hunted down and executed. In truth Celimus cared nothing for witches or warlocks. Their kind had never impacted on his life and his generation had no belief in such folk, yet the idea of wringing confessions using methods of torture from supposedly empowered people did interest him. It interested him in the same way it fascinated him to hear the screams when he bullied and hurt defenseless creatures such as the palace dogs and cats. As a youngster he had enjoyed listening to their pitiful cries for release from his ministrations. He wondered if anyone knew how many corpses he had secretly buried, mostly in the midden heaps around Stoneheart.

He would have to sneak into the dungeon today, of course, but he was counting on no one having the courage to ask a royal Prince to leave—not now that he was a man and tall enough to look down on most. No, he would have a fine afternoon’s entertainment, not the least of which was dragging thirteen-year-old Thirsk through what he hoped would be a shattering experience that would show up the General for the cringing child he surely was.

“I’ll bring you down. Wyl Thirsk. I shall crush you like overripe fruit and then I will poison your family name. And when I’m King,” he muttered to himself, unaware that his words were becoming loud enough for others to hear, “I shall end the reign of the Thirsk ingrates as generals by—”

His rantings were interrupted by the arrival of the breathless page.

“Well?” the Prince demanded.

The boy, sweating from both exertion and his nervousness of having to face the well-known temper of the young heir, stammered that Wyl Thirsk was not to be found in Stoneheart.

Before Celimus could explode the boy tremulously added, “But I have an idea where he might have gone, my lord Prince.”

Celimus bent low toward the trembling child. “I don’t care where you have to go, you dullard, but you find him and do it quickly!” he bellowed at the youngster. “Don’t come back here without Thirsk,” he yelled toward the retreating figure. “Or it will be your neck I’ll snap!”

The boy fled.

Wyl was not so far away on this particular afternoon but had made himself scarce with Alyd Donal. Fortune had smiled upon him a few months after the meeting with the King. A new boy. the same age as Wyl. had been brought into the group. He too came from a close family and because they were both feeling a similar emotional dislocation the boys became inseparable.

Wyl could tell that Gueryn had done everything within his power to encourage the friendship and had gone so far as to include Alyd in his personal training with Wyl. But Wyl. much to his lament, now spent long periods out of the yards and in tutoring with Celimus.

Wyl had kept his promise to the King and made himself as available as he could to Celimus but nothing had changed in how they felt about each other. But he had forged the ability within himself to simply accept his lot. He would not join in with any of the mischief that the swaggering Celimus promoted and yet, like a shadow, was never very far away. Wyl watched and Wyl protected wherever he could, often warning Celimus of impending discovery of his latest scheme or diverting attention to prevent him from being found out. It was not without its risks and it was obvious to him that Celimus was unaware of the pact Wyl had forged with his father. He never promised he would like the heir, though, or even respect him and Wyl could never fully suppress his smoldering contempt. His friend Alyd warned that it showed.

“Tread carefully. Wyl. He will make you pay somehow.”

“I’ve saved his lot so many times.”

“For which he owes you nothing! Don’t forget your place or the fact that your pact is with the King alone. One day Celimus will be King…what will you do then?”

Wyl could not answer that pointed question. The notion of Celimus ruling Morgravia twisted in his gut all too often. Kneeling to him, swearing loyalty to him—privately he wondered if he could ever do this and mean it.

He knew he was ugly to the heir’s beautiful eyes. Celimus took immense pleasure in reminding Wyl of his plainness. Wyl had little choice but to accept the taunts with grace; he knew the Prince was, for once, not lying in this regard. Nevertheless the words stung. It was Alyd who always helped him retrieve his sense of humor and whenever the pair found time alone together explosions of laughter could be heard.

Wyl firmly believed Shar had sent a golden-haired angel to him in the shape of Alyd, for laughter had been rare in his life at Stoneheart before his arrival. Alyd’s sharp wit and easy style seemed perfect foils for Wyl’s remote, yet very direct manner, and where Wyl was brutally honest. Alyd had the gift of gilding the lily, always prone to exaggeration. Alyd’s storytelling powers had become legend, even in his short time at Stoneheart; a minor event, such as Lord Berry’s wig slipping when the old fellow napped during a council, took on gigantic, hysterical proportions when retold through the imagination of Alyd Donal.

Wyl loved Alyd for his friendship, his ability to make him laugh out loud, and for his interest in Ylena. It never bothered Alyd on the rare occasions she tagged along with them and he appeared to take as much delight in entertaining her as Ylena did in accompanying them. And while she was blossoming into the same golden beauty her mother had once possessed, the boys had put on some height and bulk. Gueryn had seen to it that if Wyl was not going to be especially tall, then he would have strong physical presence that would impress his men in years to come. He devised for Wyl and Alyd a special training routine that worked on their boyish muscles, and the results were impressive already.

“You’ll be my second, I promise,” Wyl said solemnly to Alyd as they chewed on apples near the lake that flanked Stoneheart. It was a free afternoon; the day was cold but the sun shone and both boys had nothing better to do than lie on their backs, hidden from the castle’s world, and stare up at the sky, making plans as they dreamed of soldiering together in the Legion.

“How do you know they’ll allow it?” Alyd replied.

Wyl snorted. “Who is ‘they?’ I will be ‘they,’” he said in a rare show of arrogance. “I am General of the Morgravian Legion.”

“Title only.” Alyd corrected.

Wyl ignored him. “And in a few years. I will lead our army. My father had total control of the men. And I will have only those I trust as my Captains and Lieutenants.”

“But what if—” Alyd broke off as a disheveled and weary-looking page suddenly crested the hillock they lay against.

“Oh, what now?” Wyl muttered. “Ho, Jon!”

The relief was evident on the youngster’s face. “You’ve got to come, Master Thirsk—he commands you.”

Wyl grimaced, resigned. He stood. “The Prince?”

Jon nodded, still breathing hard from his exertions. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. He’s in a hot temper, too.”

“Lovely—just how we like him,” Alyd said, grinning and standing as well. “How did you find us anyway, young Jon?”

The boy’s eyes flicked nervously at Wyl. “Your sister. Master Thirsk. I’m sorry but I had to find you.”

“That’s all right, think no more on it.”

“We’ll just run her through with our swords later,” Alyd reassured him.

Jon looked aghast.

“He’s being witty, Jon. As if he would harm the girl he loves.”

It was Alyd’s turn to look shocked. He threw his apple core at his friend, then in a blink he knocked Wyl backward and sent them both rolling down the hill with the poor page running after them.

“How dare you!” Alyd accused, not sure whether to laugh or punch his friend.

“It’s obvious to a blind man, you fool.”

“She’s not even eleven, curse you!”

“Yes and when you’re twenty, she’ll be sixteen summers and equally eligible. Don’t deny it, Alyd Donal. You’re starry-eyed over my baby sister. But I actually approve—lucky for you.”

“I refuse to discuss this,” Alyd said but Wyl could see a treacherous red flush at his neck—a sure sign that Alyd’s protestations were empty.

He grinned. And then noticed the trembling Jon. “Shar forgive us! Sorry, Jon. I’m coming. Lead the way. See you, Alyd—don’t get into any trouble while I’m away.”

“Watch your back, Wyl. He’s never up to any good.”

At sixteen the Prince’s stature had undergone a major transformation and it felt to Wyl as though Celimus towered above him. making his own recent spurt of growth irrelevant. The Prince had broadened as well. He was indeed breathtaking in looks, but spoiled by the scowl.

“Don’t keep me waiting like that again. Thirsk.”

“My apologies, your highness,” Wyl said, adopting his usual politeness. “How can I assist?” he added, moving the conversation quickly forward. He knew from experience that if he did not it would follow the traditional path of insult.

“You’re well fortunate that I am in a good mood today.”

“I am glad of it, highness. How can I make it brighter?” he said, almost smirking at his own sycophantic manner. Alyd had taught him how to say something in a sugary way while meaning something quite different. Wyl had learned that this tactic worked well on Celimus who was too vain and preoccupied to notice. Alyd would be proud of him.

“Back to your duties,” Celimus said to the page and Jon trotted off, happy to be away from the growls of the Prince. Celimus returned his olive gaze to the lad his father had implored him to get closer to. He sneered and Wyl wondered what wickedness lay behind it.

“Come along, then.” Celimus said chirpily. “I have a special treat for you.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise, Wyl.”

Myrren’s bruises and cuts had begun healing. She now sat shivering in the dungeons of Stoneheart. where they had brought her days ago. The hunger pangs of near-starvation had recently settled into a numbness. She had refused the deliberately salty food they had thrown into the cell, knowing full well no water would be offered later when her parched throat would scream for it. And after a few days of such treatment the raging thirst would be enough to send one mad, as it had some poor soul a few cells down. She was the only Stalkers’ prey in the dungeon and thus inwardly accepted that she would offer the best sport.

They were preparing her for the “trial” that would extract her eventual confession under torture. Myrren could hear the mournful ringing of the bells and was half-tempted to fall to the damp flagstones and writhe about as witches were apparently meant to.

That would soon brine them running, excited that she had been found out. It would save a lot of pain, she realized grimly. She could just confess and be done. They would kill her anyway, so why suffer more than was necessary?

A small voice inside begged her to make it easy for herself Death was coming whichever way she looked at it and it could either be a merciful end by fire after possibly days of agony, or she imagined, it could be swift and relatively painless; a brief confession and a blade into the throat. Myrren thought of the flames. They frightened her more than the notion of torture, which seemed harder to imagine. But she had no trouble picturing herself bound and screaming as the fire melted and consumed her flesh.

The trial—as had been explained to her by a tall, hook-nosed creature who had introduced himself as Confessor Lymbert—had three categories. Lymbert, whose name Myrren had recognized with a sinking heart, preferred to call these categories “degrees.” The word made him smile each time he uttered it.

Myrren had already undergone Lymbert’s so-called first degree. Apart from the permitted rape by one of his assistants in which her virginity was torn away from her, she had been stripped, bound, and flogged in front of a group of hooded men. They were presumably remnants of Zerques whom, she realized, were far more interested in viewing her naked body in pain than extracting anything more than her helpless shrieks.

Myrren had always believed that King Magnus was not in favor of these fanatics, that he had crushed them and their Order. Her parents had not shared her optimism. They had always warned her to be careful.

“It’s your eyes, my love.” her father would gently say. “The zealots will not see your beauty or hear the intelligence of your words. They will see only the mismatch of your eyes and all the old superstitions will rise up to frighten them.”

She had known since she was old enough to converse with others that she was different and was being protected by her parents. Her mother had once confessed the constant anxiety she and her father held for Myrren. She too had referred to her daughter’s eyes and the old fear.

“Poke them out. then!” Myrren had once suggested angrily, much to her parents’ dismay. She had not meant to shock them but she was tired of the constant care she took to distract strangers from looking at her full in the face. Tired of the scarves and shawls her mother insisted she wear when out and about.

It was never going to change. The fear was ancient and, though Morgravians were more enlightened and even openly dismissive of the existence of magic these days, the need to privately ward against sorcery still pervaded. Myrren wished she did possess the power to change the color of her eyes because she had known the Witch Stalkers and their whisperings would hover around her for all of her life. She remembered how she had felt hollow after being so abrupt with the noble, sensing immediately that it could lead to trouble—although she was past caring once his unwelcome hand had slipped beneath her skirts. His drunken breath made her feel ill and his decrepit and desperate desires brought a wave of disgust. Her contempt showed in her rebuke. And now she was paying the price.

Nevertheless, she would give no satisfaction to these men.

And so after the first couple of licks from the whip, which brought her shrill objections, she had clamped her teeth as hard as she could and uttered no further sound. She would give them nothing of herself, not even her groans.

Another woman, far older than her, had received similar treatment simultaneously and she had cried throughout, begging for pity. She was accused of slaying her husband but no one paid any attention to the old burns, the bruises, the limbs that had obviously been broken previously and were now twisted. Here, clearly, was a woman tormented by a brutal husband. It mattered not. In finding the courage to kill him, she would now pay with her own life. The flogging had finally stopped and both women had remained bent over barrels, inhaling whatever air they could drag into their lungs to steady their trembling limbs and shattered nerves. The pain from the bleeding welts on Myrren’s back had been so intense and all-consuming it became part of her. She had somehow been able to absorb it and put it aside. Moments later she had been turned and strapped to a post. She recalled ignoring the cloudy messages of pain from her back as it had chafed against the rough timber. The men had then enjoyed watching her body, still naked, from a different angle, but more importantly, she had been able to witness what was happening to her companion.

They had obviously decided, Myrren deduced, that she should be saved for future entertainment—a suspected witch, after such a dearth, was to be savored after all. Myrren had watched mournfully as the other woman had been dragged from her barrel.

“Put her boots on,” Lymbert had commanded, bored with this one, and Myrren had closed her eyes. She knew what was coming, for Lymbert had already taken sincere delight in giving her a guided tour of this torture chamber.

The sagging woman had been hauled jabbering toward a bench where she had been pushed into a sitting position.

“Bind her hands,” Lymbert had ordered.

“I beg you, sir,” the victim had beseeched and Myrren had clenched her eyelids tight and had tried to close off her hearing but could not. She knew there would be no mercy now, not for a killer…certainly not for one who would not admit to murdering in cold blood.

Two specially crafted vises had then been clamped around the woman’s feet. She had been still too much in a swoon from the pain of her flogging to even realize that more pain was coming. Needless to say it had not taken too many twists of the cruel screws to shatter the shin bone in one of her legs, at which point the victim had screeched a confession, agreeing that she had in fact planned and then murdered her husband without remorse. Myrren could tell that the Confessor had little interest in pursuing the truth, particularly in the cases of common criminals. She understood that Lymbert did not view extracting confessions from thieves, bandits, and murderers as his appointed duty. It seemed he wanted the old woman dealt with as quickly as possible, in order to pursue his real interest—the annihilation of witches and warlocks, what he called the curse of society. Myrren’s father had once shared a rumor he had heard that Lymbert’s grandparents had been fervent Zerques. whose only daughter had supposedly been killed by a suspected witch four decades previous. As a result, right from childhood Lymbert had harbored a grudge against anyone who supposedly dealt in matters of magic—and extended this to herbmen and herbwomen. whom he believed drew on devil craft for their healings. Fearful for their daughter. Myrren’s parents had gathered as much information as possible about the Confessor. Lymbert was renowned for being so stringent in his investigations that he never brought a victim to trial without their conviction being a certainty—and Myrren knew it would have taken only one glance at her eyes for him to be sure of winning a conviction in her case.

Myrren opened those same odd eyes now and fought back tears at the memory of the older woman’s terror. She remembered how Lymbert had turned and smiled directly at her as he watched the woman put her mark to the confession and sent her away to die at the end of a rope, no doubt. The message Myrren received from that cold grin had been unmistakable. He was reserving her for much harsher treatment. The woman had been carried off and not heard from again, presumably dispatched that same day.

Lymbert’s assistant, the same one who had used her body, had then untied Myrren, blowing his foul breath into her face as he had whispered all the other sexual obscenities he would like to inflict on her. He had deliberately let her fall when the bindings had come loose and had then savagely grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to her feet but still she had given none of those present the satisfaction they so desperately wanted.

“Back to her cell,” Lymbert had commanded, unmoved by her courage. “The witch, Myrren of Baelup, will undergo second-degree torture in three days,” Lymbert had proclaimed to all present. Then he had looked at her. “That should give you sufficient time, my dear, to lick your wounds”—he had chuckled softly at his jest—“and perhaps loosen your tongue.”

So now she sat in the dungeon contemplating the next stage, when Lymbert and his henchmen would get down to the real business of torture. Myrren was not sure whether it was day or night. The cell was small, windowless and airless save whatever fetid air might leak up the corridor and through her bars. She huddled herself on the ground, naked but for a rough scrap of blanket crawling with biting insects. Nevertheless it was all she had and the young woman wrapped herself as best she could, turning away from the doorway.

She thought of her parents but did not cry this time—it seemed every pointless tear had leaked from her body. But then she thought of the black puppy and tears surged again. He had been a special present and had brought such joy. Myrren had called him Knave. He was abandoned now—she felt sure her mother would not be of a state of mind to care about a dog.

“I wish I could fight back,” she whispered. “If I were a witch, I’d seek revenge.”

The tears came for Knave and with them a voice in her head.

Fear not, my child. You are no witch but you will have your vengeance.

“Who speaks?” she whispered, terrified, whipping her head around in the darkness.

I am Elysius, the man spoke into her mind.

A few hours later Myrren felt exhausted but at peace. She was amazed that she could think so calmly about the inescapable trauma that lay ahead of her. Elysius had explained much. Now she understood. He had urged her to be brave. She realized she had no choice to be anything but courageous.

Lymbert and his henchmen were preparing to come for her. The Confessor had sent her some items of clothing. Through his aide he insisted she wear them but she soon found out they were nothing more sophisticated than a piece of rough cloth with a hole for her head, and another strip of fabric for a belt. Myrren wondered if Lymbert had suddenly had a change of heart and would allow her a modicum of dignity through her trial. But nothing about Lymbert’s conduct so far could convince her that he possessed any empathy for his victims. She dismissed her notion as wishful but gladly donned the garment. In sudden inspiration she used the blunt spoon that sat amongst the congealed mess that passed as food in this place to scratch a message onto one of the stones. It made her feel defiant in these last hours of her life.

Myrren felt grateful that since hearing the voice of Elysius she had felt a strange numbness overtake her body. She recalled his softly spoken words now, repeating them silently to herself.

They will hurt yon, my little one. But the pain will be minimized. I cannot save you but I will give you the means to avenge your death. Hear me now, I give you a gift—and he had told her it all.

Why can I not use this gift to save myself? she had asked into this strange void opened in her mind.

Because, child, they will burn you. It will not work. And he had explained why.

She had fought back the initial surge of hope as understanding dawned. He had spoken more but it was of an intimate nature. She had heard his words, his explanation of who she truly was. Despite the shock of it, she had loved him then for sharing the news and she had buried the information within. She would not resurrect that joy and have it tarnished here by these proceedings.

Myrren of Baelup was no witch but she had a gift to give that would unleash a relentless power until it found the true target of her vengeance.

Myrren considered her torture now. Lymbert’s choice would most likely be the rack, for his eyes had lit up at its mention during her tour, and probably thumbscrews, which she had seen the Confessor almost lovingly stroke when he had presented them to her.

But Myrren was wrong.

When they led her once again into the main torture chamber it seemed he had reserved something far more special for her. Many more people had gathered, including the smug Lord Rokan, invited no doubt to savor the results of his connivings. In fact the room was crowded with men, none hooded this time, eager to witness her trial and the confession.

Wyl stood rigid next to Celimus in the torture chamber. The men gathered were talking excitedly; some jocular and a few voices raised in obvious anticipation of what was to come. The Prince joined in the animated conversations while Wyl scowled and made a poor attempt to mask his nervousness at being in this place.

Celimus had taken him by surprise with this jaunt. Wyl gathered he was here to witness something unpleasant; he too had heard the bells and Gueryn’s solid education told him what they meant. But he had not yet put it together in his mind that he was present to see the torture of a witch. Even now as a hush began to spread around the room, Wyl expected it would be the hasty confession of a criminal that Celimus’s warped mind felt he needed to see.

Of course he wondered why so many would be present but his anxiety prevented him from exploring that notion. His question was answered when a man called Lymbert announced himself and the witch Myrren.

Her arrival silenced the chamber and Wyl held his breath when he saw the attractive young woman raise her head and challenge her audience with a compelling gaze that saw most of the men clear their throats and cast their eyes toward their feet. It was a small win, Wyl felt, but he applauded her courage nonetheless and he hoped it fueled her obvious resolve to die bravely.

Rough hands began to tear the flimsy garment from her body and Lymbert’s seeming generosity fell into place for the falsity it was: he had insisted on her being robed only in order to make the theater of her torture, beginning with nakedness, that much more dramatic for his audience. Wyl could not know this but he did not need further reason to dislike the man after watching the way he licked his lips at her nakedness and helplessness.

The rents in Myrren’s robe revealed her body, just blossomed into womanhood, and the audience’s gaze no longer rested in discomfort by its collective feet but was drawn all too hungrily toward her bared skin.

A squealing noise distracted them and Wyl, together with the rest of the onlookers, glanced above where a strange contraption was being lowered from the ceiling. His attention was quickly drawn back to Myrren, whom he also noticed did not give Lymbert the pleasure of her fear. She ignored both her Confessor and the contraption, instead fixing her focus on Wyl.

He could not help but wonder what she thought of him with his crop of bright red hair atop a plain and lightly freckled face, which he knew was heavily written with despair. His own unremarkable eyes were riveted upon her. Not upon her bare flesh but on her own ill-matched eyes. He watched her expression soften as she regarded him and she even dared the barest of smiles. He was so petrified on her behalf he did not have the ability to muster even the hint of a smile in return.

Wyl heard Lymbert making some announcement to those gathered, who nodded and made sounds of approval, led by her accuser, Rokan, but neither he nor Myrren paid attention. Wyl surmised she had lost all notion of embarrassment at her nudity but from her grimace was perhaps more acutely aware of her hands being tied tightly behind her.

A cleric was brought to absolve her of her sins and as she turned her gaze on him, Wyl watched the man recoil at the sight of her eyes. Nevertheless, he prayed to Shar’s Gatherers to claim her soul and for that Wyl was grateful.

“Thank you,” Wyl heard her utter to the cleric as he began his mournful prayer to guide her soul to Shar.

She looked over the short priest’s bowed head, her attention drawn again to Wyl, who watched her gaze shift now towards Celimus and who heard Myrren’s sharp intake of breath. Her captors probably thought it was because they had just tested the ropes that bound her hands but Wyl was sure Myrren’s sound had escaped at the beauty of his companion and he hated Celimus all the more for having her attention.

That same beautiful man leered at her nakedness and whispered something lewd to Wyl, who scowled with disgust and blushed furiously. Hitting his mark, Celimus laughed loudly and Rokan nearby joined in.

Celimus muttered, none too softly over the prayer, that the trial had been his idea. People nodded and grinned.

“And it was I who discovered the witch in the first place, my Prince,” Lord Rokan added, keen to be included in the praise.

Wyl saw Celimus scowl in Rokan’s direction and it seemed the middle-aged noble considered it politic to remain quiet from here on and allow the young royal to have his moment.

“Have you anything to say?” Lymbert’s voice suddenly boomed to Myrren above the idle murmurings. Apparently the priest had stopped his praying, not that Wyl had noticed.

He watched Myrren take a deep breath and look around her. “Yes,” she replied. “Who is that person?”

Lymbert stepped aside, taken aback by her odd question, and looked at those gathered. “Which one?”

Myrren stared at Celimus. “You.”

Wyl did not have to look to know⁷ it. He could feel the triumph emanating from Celimus and imagined the smile stretching across his face. Wyl felt disappointment knife through him that she had chosen the Prince for recognition and he looked down while Celimus took a step forward, all easy grace and arrogant swagger.

“My lady,” he said, accentuating his words to ensure the insult could not be mistaken for genuine politeness. “I am Prince Celimus.”

Wyl glanced toward her. Whether she was surprised to share such lofty company for her forthcoming pain, he could not tell for she managed to keep her expression unmoved, her voice steady. “I understand why the pig-fingered Lord Rokan would bring along his bruised ego and flaccid member for inflation at my expense.” There was a series of audible gasps followed by snickers amongst the audience and Wyl reveled in the high color suddenly on the cheeks of the noble who had brought about her ruin. “But why,” she continued, “would a Prince of the realm have any interest in this—” she swept her strange eyes around the chamber—“mummery? For that’s what this is, sire.”

Wyl watched the Prince grin and wondered whether it made Myrren’s heart flutter as it did so many of the young noblewomen of Pearlis.

“Lord Rokan’s flaccid member aside, madam, I am here in the name of education,” Celimus replied and then Wyl felt himself grabbed by the Prince. He struggled but Celimus held him firmly. “This lad here has never watched a witch confess before. As he is soon to lead our great Legion and stand up as my Champion when I am King, I felt it was my duty to expand his knowledge of Stoneheart’s ways, which has been sadly lacking in his life. He’s a country bumpkin, you see.”

This time Wyl twisted away angrily from Celimus’s grip and shook his head vehemently so Myrren would know his attendance here was forced. He remained silent, though, imploring the woman before him to understand.

She nodded at Celimus but this time her gaze rested on Wyl. “Thank you.” she offered and he knew she understood. “Do what you will, Lymbert. You’ll get no confession from me.”

“Feisty.” Celimus said, running his tongue over his lips. “Pity she had to be broken so. I would have bedded her first and loosened her mouth by a different sort of torture.” Everyone around him laughed loudly again, led by Lord Rokan aiming to ingratiate himself to the crow^d once more after the young woman’s heinous accusation.

Wyl, helpless to stop this terror unfolding, saw the confessor step forward. There was a sparkle in Lymbert’s eyes. “Myrren, may I introduce you to the Dark Angel. It’s my favorite instrument. I’d like to take a few moments to explain how it works, if you please.” He was all graciousness now, enjoying the chance to show off his latest contraption of pain. “Your hands are tied behind you for a reason and now my assistant is attaching the Ansel to your bound hands. When I give the word, those three men over there,” he said, pointing, but Wyl cheered silently that she refused to look, “will use that pulley to hoist you aloft so you will fly like an angel, your arms outstretched backward like wings.” he said, enjoying himself. “Now, Myrren, it’s at that point we’ll all enjoy hearing your arms dislocating. My favorite sound.” He all but shivered with delighted anticipation. “And did you notice the hundred-pound weights, my dear? Well, as you can see—if you would only look—they are attached to your feet now and they, of course, will do their best to fight the Angel to prevent your body leaving the ground, thereby assisting us in dislocating your hip joints. Oh, glorious agony! Incidentally, we have decided to bypass the somewhat tedious second degree and go straight to the third to save time and a great deal of pointless screaming. I hope that’s agreeable to you?” He laughed jovially and everyone except Wyl joined him.

Myrren turned her face away.

“Oh, and, Myrren,” he added, “I nearly forgot—how careless of me. I thought I’d throw in what I like to call Dark Angel Swoops for good measure. Perhaps you don’t know what that is? It’s the most exquisite suffering I think I could possibly inflict without actually drawing blood. This is when we will let go of the Angel’s ropes—just momentarily—and you, of course, my dear, will fall from the sky. But oh—and this is the good bit—my men will suddenly halt that swoop to the ground by grabbing the rope and you just can’t imagine what torment that’s going to mean for those suffering sockets and limbs, long past their pain barriers. Now, do be a good girl and confess after the first flight and drop because you should know that by law I have another three times to inflict it. It will hurt a great deal more by the fourth and I do think it’s more noble to die by the flames than hanging dead and broken on the ropes, don’t you?”

This time Wyl wanted to applaud loudly when she spat at him. but he held his composure watching her turn her back to her tormentor in a last show of defiance. It was but a momentary triumph.

“Hoist the witch—let’s watch the Dark Angel fly,” he said viciously and his henchmen obeyed, hauling on the rope attached to a pulley.

Wyl felt his stomach contents lurch into his throat as he heard the inevitable and sickening sound of Myrren’s shoulders capitulating almost immediately. As the first of her limb sockets popped, Wyl’s midday meal burst onto his boots but few paid him any attention, except Celimus, who pushed him aside to avoid being splattered.

The Prince was laughing, though, and Wyl knew Celimus was revelling in Wyl’s obvious squeamishness at watching a woman suffer.

“Trust you’re enjoying my surprise. General,” he growled for Wyl’s hearing only.

This was what he had wanted, Wyl knew, to finally unsettle his Champion-to-be into humiliating himself. It was true that plenty of other watchers looked away or retched at the hideous sound of her shoulders releasing their arms but only Wyl’s discomfort counted for Celimus.

No one in that room heard Myrren utter a sound.

They dropped Myrren time and again that afternoon, all the while demanding she confess herself a witch and failing. For several periods she appeared unconscious, presumably from the torturous pain. Wyl could not comprehend how she resisted, for he felt weak from her trauma. He felt sure many were quietly in awe of the courage it took to repel such an assault, for none would be able to imagine the level of punishment her body withstood.

Lymbert, coolly detached, expertly revived Myrren on each occasion with strong smelling salts and a dousing of freezing water. Still her mouth was firmly closed to any sound, although every other opening of her body slackened with the shock of her trauma, and if she were able, Wyl thought she might have even derived some satisfaction from the effect her loosened muscles had. Initially the chamber had smelled of men’s sweat and lust. Now it smelled like a cesspit and a few experienced trial attendees held perfumed linens to their noses.

Knowing this was a test of his own nerves but also frozen with fear at what this young woman endured, Wyl remained as still now as one of the statues of Stoneheart. He had conquered the second wave of nausea and panic, fighting back the sour bile. Now he would conquer his fear and be like her; he would not capitulate.

Wyl understood why Celimus had brought him. It was to show⁷ him up as a child, a pretender to his father’s title. Well, he would not permit Celimus to succeed in this humiliation. Ignoring the stench of his own soiled boots, he lifted his chin and stared at the closed eyes of Myrren, his own new bedrock of determination derived from her refusal to succumb to their demands.

Lymbert had his victim pulled higher so that the weights attached to Myrren’s already distended legs and arms could stretch them further. He was satisfied to hear her ankles and elbows give up their resistance. Now every major joint was loosened from its socket and several inches were added to her height, some wit acknowledged.

Naked, broken, and surely dying, she was still true to herself, Wyl realized. He now would prove himself to be just as true to the name of Thirsk. He was no coward and, although this was a shocking, intensely barbaric scene, he would not let himself down again.

As her eyes opened once more at the dousing of chilled water, they seemed to search for his, and in that moment he felt connected to Myrren. Together, united by their personal despair, they would get each other past this torment. It might be a childish view, he thought, but he was somehow convinced she knew he was staying strong for her. Her time was short—that much was obvious—and he promised himself he w^ould see her through to her end without turning his head again.

Look at me only, Myrren, he willed. But she closed her strange and exhausted eyes once again. He wished she was dead but knew otherwise as she retched for the umpteenth time from her agonies, her thin framework of delicate bones in stark relief beneath stretched skin.

She had endured the four mighty drops. Lymbert had begun to scream at her to confess, seemingly demented with his desire to overpower and win this admission from her. Realizing she had somehow, impossibly, won, he looked around wildly and then ran toward one of the braziers, surprising the man tending it. It was obvious that the Confessor could not afford to fail in wringing a confession from the girl, particularly with the Prince in attendance. Wyl could tell that Lymbert had been unprepared for the royal presence; perhaps he had not experienced such an important audience in his work, and having sensed the cruelty smoldering in his regal guest, the Confessor intended to display the full breadth of his skills.

Wyl watched with horror as the man grabbed a nearby glove and picked up a pair of white-hot pincers from the coals. Tearing the flesh from victims’ bones was surely not Lymbert’s favorite practice but all present could see that there was no other way he might prevail in this battle of wills. Lymbert had already explained that no one resisted the Dark Angel or her swoops yet here was brave Myrren, her fourth drop completed and still adamant.

Wyl’s pride surged as did his anger. He had status here, no matter how young he was. Do something, he silently screamed at himself.

Reaching for the pale flesh of Myrren, who was hanging unconscious once again, Lymbert was stopped by a loud command into the now brittle atmosphere of the torture chamber. The crazed Confessor turned around, scanning for its owner, his face a mask of fury.

“You will put those down.” Wyl repeated. “She has suffered enough punishment by your hand, sir, and she has survived the four legal drops.”

“And who in Shar’s Name are you to give me orders?” Lymbert sneered, gathering his wits.

Wyl felt his rage focus on this cruel man. And the white flash of anger coursing through him suddenly made him feel stronger, bigger than he knew he was. Even his voice suddenly sounded deeper as he faced down the torturer.

“I am Wyl Thirsk. You’d do well to remember that name, Confessor. It belongs to someone with the ear of our King and I will recount all that I have witnessed here today and the law you are about to break if you do not end this procedure now. Our King would not permit you to step beyond the legal boundaries. The trial is over. Let her die.”

Celimus stepped in, the ever-present grin across his mouth, and was about to take charge of proceedings when something dangerous in Wyl’s glare stopped him.

“Your highness,” Wyl said. “With respect, I believe it undermines your status to witness these proceedings any further. As your protector I insist we get you away from this place.”

Celimus was shocked as Wyl knew he would be. All eyes were on the Prince now. If he remained he would certainly appear the sadistic royal voyeur—as Wyl had cleverly insinuated. He could not risk that.

“Of course, you are right, thank you, Thirsk. I had no idea it would be so ugly,” he lied, a murderous look in his eyes. “Lymbert, do as he says: bring her down. Incidentally, let me introduce General Thirsk of Morgravia.”

“But…but he is a mere lad, sire,” Lymbert spat.

“Young, yes,” Wyl countered, not allowing Celimus to answer on his behalf. “But my name carries w^eight w^here yours never will unless you consider ‘traveling butcher’ a memorable title. Do as your Prince commands. Lower her!”

It was an audacious order coming from the red-headed youth. Watchers muttered to one another but none challenged him outwardly as it was obvious the lad was with the Prince.

As Myrren was lowered, Celimus shouldered his way through the onlookers but not before whispering to Wyl: “There will be a reckoning for this.”

It was as he expected and Wyl sighed, pushing the Prince’s threat from his mind, for the woman needed him. Wyl watched the Prince leave and then to Lymbert’s disgust he demanded a cup of water be poured from a pitcher. He knelt by Myrren and after gently lifting her head he dribbled a trickle of it into her throat. Her lids fluttered open and somehow she mustered a smile that touched her oddly colored eyes.

“I’m Wyl” was all he could say.

“I know.” she croaked through her cracked lips, bleeding from where she had bitten them. “I shall return your kindness with a gift, Wyl. It will avenge me.” Her voice was no more than a whisper.

What could you possibly give me? he thought as her eyes closed once again.

“She’s for the flames now, Thirsk,” one of the dungeoners growled.

He had no choice but to let them drag her limp body away.

“When?” Wyl demanded of Lymbert. He had decided the man deserved no courtesies.

“No time like the present,” the Confessor replied and rediscovered his thin smile.