Chapter 20
Iyana
Her parents had been here.
Iyana was absolutely certain they were the couple Uther had been taunting her with. They had left Imothia when she was one year old, which would have been twenty-five years ago. Iyana struggled to believe, however, that Uther had simply let them go after they had refused him. No, he would have done something about it. He was not a man accustomed to being denied. Was that why they’d never come home? Iyana hadn’t realized it until that moment in the throne room, but she had still held hope that her parents were alive somewhere. Never mind that meant they had abandoned her, at least they’d be living. Imo had provided her with a great childhood, but the empty space in her heart, which should have been occupied by her parents, would now never be filled.
Also, shit, Uther knew she was the Aztia. Iyana wasn’t na?ve enough to think he had fallen for her lies. On the way to the capital, Zane had mentioned the star being an ‘it,’ and it was wishful thinking on her part that Uther would be under the same impression. She tried to steer him in that direction once she heard him ask where ‘they’ were, but she doubted it threw him off the trail at all. Luckily he had dropped the Kanaliza questioning. Probably because a man of Uther’s mien would have no use for a human whose only magical ability was to boost the magic of another. And although she didn’t even like Emmeric, she would hate for someone to die because of her actions or words.
But what of her? Iyana’s own magical abilities were nowhere near mastered or unlocked to their full potential. What were Uther’s plans for her? She dreaded learning the answer, chiding herself for thinking this would end any other way. The dungeon was always destined to be her housing arrangement. Did she really think Uther would put her up in a guest suite?
The cell she had been thrown into (quite literally thrown) was small. She could pace from side to side in four steps and front to back in five. There was hay in one corner—she assumed it would be her bed—and a bucket in the other. Rusty holes dotted the bottom of the metal bucket, so it was practically useless. Iyana scrunched her nose at the thought of using that to relieve herself. Everything was damp—a deep chill pebbled Iyana’s skin. She regretted not wearing her cloak as she was marched before the emperor. Green algae filled the cracks and holes found across the dark gray walls, which comprised three quarters of her cell. Thick iron bars finished the enclosure. Her only view was of a blank wall. There was no window, nothing to tell her what time of day it was. Iyana could handle not knowing what time it was, but the moaning and pleading from other cells would surely drive her to the brink of insanity.
And the incessant drip…drip…drip…somewhere in the hallway would push her over the edge.
Iyana sat, crossing her legs and laying her hands upon her knees, palms facing upwards. Mediation had helped her in the desert, and if it took her away from her situation, even for a moment, it was worth a try. Closing her eyes, she controlled her breathing. Breathe in…breathe out. Repeat. She called on her magic, only a small amount, to help keep her warm against the cold floor. Soon Iyana was lost in a trance, any panic-inducing thoughts that crossed her mind were immediately banished to be dealt with later. The sounds of the dungeon faded into the background. It was a peaceful, albeit temporary, state of mind.
Minutes, or hours, later, the loud clang of the main dungeon door shutting snapped her sense of peace. Other prisoners cried louder and harder, protesting their innocence, asking for mercy. The clamor of sound swelled closer to Iyana’s cell, and she knew someone was there to pay her a visit. While she didn’t exactly know who she had the pleasure of expecting, her first guess definitely wouldn’t have been Emperor Uther.
He stopped in front of her cell, dressed in the dark forest-green of House Holygazer, a black cape fluttering to a stop behind him. She stayed in her seated position. Even with little interaction, Iyana could tell the man was a sadist, getting off on others’ pain. The pleading and prostrating happening within the dungeon was akin to a drug for him. She saw it in the set of his shoulders, the gleam in his eyes. Uther was an addict—power, fear, adoration…he would never get enough.
“Iyana,” he said, his tone sickly sweet. A smile spread across his face, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your beauty should not be locked away where none can gaze upon you. I would love to change this arrangement if you’re willing to compromise.”
Iyana picked at the dirt underneath her nails, refusing to look the emperor in the eye. “I actually like it fine here, thank you. Other than the rather large pest that has made its way into my doorway, blocking the lovely view of the hall.”
Uther frowned deeply, and all false pretenses evaporated. “Bold words for a woman who will be shitting in a bucket for the foreseeable future.”
She glared into his icy-blue eyes. “I’d rather die down here, shitting in a bucket, than to live in luxury with you. I’ll stay with these other criminals. I wonder what their crimes are, or did they push your buttons just right?”
The emperor’s face reddened with ire. “One more word out of line, Iyana…”
“Come in here,” Iyana goaded, arms outstretched in a clear challenge. “If I possess all this magic you believe I do, come take it.” She sneered, baring her teeth at him. He wouldn’t enter the cell—too much of a coward to take on a challenge directly. But, she considered, if he did, then maybe she could kill him and be done with this whole mess. The cadre of guards in the hall would pose a problem, though. Plus, she had no weapon other than the metal bucket.
“You know, I lied,” Uther said, the sudden picture of calm. “About your parents.” Iyana sat still, the fire within her banking. “When they refused my very generous request, I had them brought down here. Possibly to this exact cell,” he continued, stroking one finger slowly down an iron bar.
You knew that was a possibility,Iyana told herself. Don’t let him in your head.
“They endured for only two days. Your mother—Isa, correct?” Her breath lodged in her throat. He remembered her name, even after all these years. “Beautiful woman. You look exactly like her,” he continued, appraising her closely. “Although more petite.”
“Why should I care about any of this?” she asked, trying to play nonchalant. “If these people were my parents, I have no memories of them.”
Uther smiled crookedly, knowing full well he had her in his snare. Iyana was the rabbit hanging upside down by her foot, struggling and squealing for freedom, and he was the hunter approaching with a knife, ready to skin her alive.
“Your mother was about to sing for us. She couldn’t take any more of our…sessions. Your father saw the inevitable. The third day, while they were being escorted to a session, he stole a sword from a guard. When he found he was no match for the other three guards, especially while chained, he slit your mother’s throat, and then his own.”
Iyana was dismayed. The small amount of fight remaining inside her was snuffed out completely. A thought flitted through her mind—Uther could be lying to her to get under her skin. Make her more pliable, so she would give him exactly what he wanted. But he knew her mother’s name. Unfortunately, this felt like a truth aimed strategically at her heart.
Hearing this from the evil man she was supposed to overthrow was a shock to her system. Iyana didn’t know how to respond, or if she even should. This loss, especially so soon after Imo, was too much. It didn’t matter that she didn’t remember them; she wanted her mother and father. As a young girl, her biggest wish was for her parents to walk back into Imothia, weaving a fantastical tale of why they were delayed for so long. Pirates, dragons, and witches had tried to stop them from coming home to her. As Iyana grew older, the dream faded, but there was still a small, secret kernel of hope they would still return one day. The carefully placed stoic mask she’d donned when Uther had entered the dungeon was gone.
Uther removed his cape, draping it over the arm of one of his personal guards, and he crouched so he was face to face with Iyana. Gods forbid the dungeons should dirty his clothing. “I’ll offer one last time. Give me the information I require, and I will allow you to live under my roof as a free woman. I will ensure you are tutored on your magic so that it may bloom and flourish into its full potential. You would sleep in a bed, wear magnificent dresses, attend balls… anything your heart desires.”
“Let me guess,” she said, “even if I were to give you any information, there would be strings attached to this deal. You’d use me and my magic for your own gain. And I wouldn’t be free. I’d still be chained here in this castle, only with a longer leash.”
Uther chuckled. “There would be some odd jobs here and there for you to complete. But it would be a minority of your time—the rest would be free to dance, drink, cavort with men…”
“I’ll pass,” she said, dryly.
“Pity,” he said, clicking his tongue on his teeth. “I do hope you’ll last longer than your parents. I’ve got you for four days in our betting pool.” The guards lining the hall snickered. Uther straightened, reattaching his cape with an ornate golden clasp. Iyana noticed it was large, with beautiful and intricate scrollwork, and at the center was an anatomical heart. The emperor touched the item that had caught her attention. “Do you like it?” he asked. “It’s a family heirloom.”
With a last overdramatic swish of his cape, he sauntered away from Iyana’s small cage. He called over his shoulder, “Azazel will call for you when it’s most convenient for him. Don’t wait up, dear.”
Iyana had absolutely no desire to learn who Azazel was, but that didn’t stop her from being summoned around the time the other prisoners were being fed. Her stomach grumbled loudly in protest. The last thing she’d eaten had been a quick lunch riding through the middle ring of Athusia earlier that day. Or was it the day before? She’d already lost all sense of time.
They wound their way through underground tunnels, moisture dripping down the walls. Wails of pain rang out from all directions. A guard stood on either side of her, her arms in a vice-like grip. Iyana’s wrists remained chained in iron, the cold metal biting into her skin. She shivered. When she walked into a large chamber, the worry and fear truly dug its way into her bones.
A metal table stood menacingly in the center of the room, loops to attach chains welded in place, and splattered blood of various ages decorated the floor. The air smelled of the coppery tang of blood, but the overwhelming sterile alcohol scent suffused the space, making Iyana’s nose sting. Someone here prided themselves on cleanliness—it was a small mercy. Instruments of various types hung on the walls. There were some medical ones Iyana was familiar with—forceps, a bone saw, surgical retractors—others with no medicinal uses she could discern, like hammers. And some she’d only read of in books—a rack in the far corner of the room stood ready to stretch its victims into submission, collars of spikes directed inwardly waited for a neck, and there were other sharp implements she had no names for.
Scampering towards her was a small man, only a few inches taller than Iyana herself, who appeared to be skin and bones. He dressed all in white, the clothing hanging off his body, collarbones protruding grotesquely. His hair was thin, stringy, and graying. Iyana saw his scalp underneath, riddled with dandruff that flaked off in small amounts with his every step, causing bile to rise in her throat. But his beady, dark eyes, so dark she couldn’t discern where the iris stopped and the pupil began, focused directly on her. She wanted this man nowhere near her. If she thought Uther was a sadist, this man must be at least ten times worse.
He sketched a mocking bow towards her. “Good evening, Iyana,” the man said, his voice akin to the rasp of fingernails on cement; it made her nauseous. “I’m Azazel. Welcome to my humble abode.” With a flick of his wrists, he dismissed her escorts.
Looking her up and down, he walked a slow circle around her body, like a cat preparing to pounce. She stood still, letting him complete his inspection.
“Strip,” said Azazel.
“What?” Iyana asked, shocked by the brusque order.
“Strip,” he repeated, “or I’ll do it for you.”
Wanting his hands nowhere on her body, she rushed to do as she was told, hitting a snag as she tried to remove her shirt with the irons still on. The fabric pooled around her wrists, and then she was standing completely vulnerable in this room of horrors, naked and shivering. Azazel scuttled towards her. Iyana stumbled backwards, away, until her back hit the cold stone of the wall. Saying nothing, Azazel cut the shirt from her manacles, then walked towards the table.
“Tub,” he said, pointing to a metal bathing tub on her right. Not daring to risk his wrath, she climbed into the tub, gasping as her feet met ice cold water. “All the way. And scrub with that bar of soap. I’d hate for an infection to ruin our fun.”
The look in his eyes dared her to disobey his orders. While she wanted to believe she was strong and able to withstand anything, realistically, Iyana had little experience with pain. She’d hate to make anything worse for herself by failing to follow simple instructions. So she slowly lowered herself into the frigid tub, her breathing stopping momentarily as the water touched the sensitive portion of her abdomen. Finally seated, she washed with the soap left for her. Judging by the smell, she surmised it contained echinacea, honey, and oregano—all ingredients to stave off possible infection. Coarsely ground eucalyptus leaves had been added as an exfoliant. Iyana rubbed her skin to the point of rawness, a red taking over her normally golden-tan coloring.
“Table,” Azazel continued with his single-word commands, slapping the metal table for emphasis. Iyana jumped at the sudden noise echoing through the room and clambered out of the tub, trying her hardest not to slip on the slick floor. He did not offer her a towel; she didn’t ask for one. Teeth chattering, she hoisted herself onto the metal table, the cold biting into her, instantly numbing her skin. Azazel motioned for her to lie back. She worried her skin would fuse to the table, leaving some behind when she tried to stand. Arms hugged to her chest, Iyana’s entire body was shaking uncontrollably, the iron manacles biting into her breasts. Crossing her legs in an attempt for warmth and modesty, she searched for the magic inside her. If she were warm, she’d be able to withstand this ‘session’ much easier. The cold was torture on its own, even without any of the instruments employed. Iyana was certain that was purposeful. But the magic became slippery again, sliding through her fingers. Panicked, she grasped wildly at it, only for it to retreat further. Hoping it was her distraction and the freezing cold causing the magic to disappear, and not because she’d lost the ability, Iyana gave up. Lying back, she awaited her fate.
Azazel seemed disappointed by her easy acquiescence, and she reveled in the win for a moment. But then he was yanking her legs apart, strapping her ankles down and anchoring them to the table, leaving her exposed. It was the first time in her life she felt uncomfortable with her own nudity. Next, he pulled her arms above her head. She was short enough that in order for both her legs and hands to reach; she had to be stretched to the point of her joints straining. Bowing her back from the table, she attempted to keep her shoulders from dislocating.
A ticking clacking sounded near the top of her head, creeping around the table. Azazel came into her line of sight, tapping his long, yellowing nails slowly, methodically against the metal. His eyes grazed her body, breasts taut, nipples peaked in the cold air. A sense of dread washed over her. The man studied her, not sexually, but as something to be dissected and learned. He ran one of those nauseating fingernails between her breasts, down her abdomen, to just above her pubic bone, where he stopped but kept his finger on her. Iyana shuddered.
Cocking his head, he said, “Tell me about your Kanaliza, Iyana.” She refused to allow this old, cachectic rat of a man to get the better of her. So she said nothing, staring at the ceiling, focusing on the patterns in the stone instead of the pressure building within her shoulders. Then a sudden, sharp pain jolted through her lower abdomen, causing her to cry out. Looking down, Azazel had stabbed his disgusting fingernail into her skin so deeply the inch-long nail was no longer visible. Smiling wickedly, he slowly withdrew his nail, wrenching a gasp from Iyana’s lips. He studied his bloodied finger for a moment. Licking his nail, decaying crooked teeth on display, he consumed her blood, closed his eyes and moaned. She wanted to vomit.
“Delicious,” he purred. “Please, continue to resist me. It’s what I live for.” Azazel walked to the wall with medical instruments and other tools of torture, perusing his choices as though they were articles of clothing or the finest cuts of beef. Eventually, he chose a simple pair of pliers.
Walking to Iyana’s hands, he tapped the pliers menacingly against the table. Metal against metal rang out in the space. Stinging pain continued on her stomach where he’d cut her, and she was suddenly grateful for the pre-torture scrub.
“Do you want to tell me about the Kanaliza?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what a Kanaliza is.”
“Tsk, tsk, such a little liar you are. We’ll have to teach you some manners.” Iyana couldn’t see what he was doing up above her head, but the pinch of the pliers clamped onto her left little fingernail.
Her mind blanked. “No,” she whispered, unbelieving of what was about to happen next.
“Oh, yes,” Azazel said. Then he ripped her nail from her hand. Iyana screamed, feeling warm blood pool on her hand, hearing it drip onto the floor. Her hand spasming, she collapsed back against the table, breathing heavily.
“This is me going easy on you,” said Azazel. “We’re only dipping our toe in at the moment. Now, you say you don’t know who the Kanaliza is. Fine. Tell me about the star.”
“Never,” Iyana gritted out between panting breaths.
“I’m going to like you, I think,” he said, this time yanking out her right little fingernail. She screamed again, the sound bouncing off the walls and ceiling before reverberating back into her body.
Iyana endured three more questions, and three more ripped nails, before the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness enveloped her.