Interlude
Three Months Later
brAXTON WALKED DOWN the last of the steps into the dungeons, stepping onto stone-flagged floors that were cheap, but easy to mop. Only political prisoners ended up in the palace dungeons; the prison complex for everyone else was about five miles north of the city, heavily fortified with specialty guards. Braxton didn’t like going there, so it was nice Prince Clament was one of their pampered guests here in the palace. Braxton visited every couple of days to ask one simple question.
He walked down the hall, which had barred doors for six cells, three on either side, and stopped outside the last door on the right, peering through the bars at the lone person lying on the bed inside. Prince Clament had the blond hair and blue eyes of his entire family, the royal family of Namin. Normally, those brilliant blue eyes were glaring at the door, fierce and powerful and wonderfully defiant even with hair disheveled from months in a cell. This time, Clament was curled into a ball, huddled underneath the thin blanket.
“Are you ready to talk?” Braxton asked, his usual question feeling flat today.
Clament didn’t answer, and Braxton could see he was shivering.
Braxton turned to one of the guards stationed in this wing. “Summon the healer,” he ordered. The man dashed off, and Braxton turned to a second one. “Open this door.”
The second man produced a key ring and fitted the key into the lock, which groaned as the lock was turned. The door hinges let out a screech as the guard yanked it open. And Clament didn’t twitch.
Braxton hurried inside, his two personal guards following closely, and paused at Clament’s side. He was definitely shivering, his nose curled up to his knees, and clutching at the blanket in clenched fists. Braxton slowly reached out, tentatively resting his palm against Clament’s forehead and yanked his hand back with a hiss. Clament’s skin was boiling.
“Why the hell am I back here so soon?” someone whined from the hallway. “I just put this bastard back together last night! Can’t you wait a few days before ripping him to pieces?”
Braxton sucked in a sharp breath at the healer’s words, clenching his own hands into fists to keep from lashing out. There was only one reason the healer would be familiar with this particular prisoner, a reason for which his words also implied. Braxton straightened and turned to face the door, catching both prison guards and the healer in his harsh, angry glare.
“Who signed the writ approving torturing this man?” Braxton asked, his voice eerily calm considering the fury churning inside, absolutely ready to explode like a volcano. “Answer me!” he roared.
“You wanted him to talk,” the guard who had fetched the healer began, his voice a whine that had Braxton clenching his teeth and taking in slow breaths through his nose to keep from screaming again.
“The law is clear,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and logical when all he really wanted to do was grab the guard and shake him until the stupid fell out. “Torture of political prisoners requires a royal writ, signed by the king or crown prince, and sealed by whichever one didn’t sign. Tell me where you got a writ to touch this man?” Braxton prowled closer, and his two personal guards spread out to encircle the three men.
“You want answers, this is how you get them,” the guard continued, still whining but sounding even more desperate as he glanced around the small space.
“Hands in the air. You’re under arrest. All of you,” Braxton added pointedly to the healer, who had opened his mouth to protest. The healer might not have participated in the torture, but he must have realized what was going on and done nothing to stop it. That made him equally guilty in Braxton’s eyes.
Slowly, all three obeyed, although the loudmouthed guard and healer both looked like they wanted to argue. One of Braxton’s guards, Mark, moved forward to disarm the two prison guards—he checked the healer, but he wasn’t carrying anything—the other personal guard, Sapson, drew his sword and stood ready to intervene if needed. Braxton watched, arms crossed and scowling, seething inside.
How dare these mere guards presume to know what Braxton wanted! How dare they touch Clament! All the fire, his fierce beauty, now shuttered and hidden behind a thin blanket and high fever. And there was no telling what mental issues Clament bore since torture was more effective at breaking a man than getting actual answers.
“Luckily, we’re already in a prison,” Braxton said, bending down to retrieve one of the sets of keys on the ground next to the pile of weapons. He passed the keys to Mark. “Mark, put them each in their own cell. Quickly. I need to get Prince Clament to the healers’ ward.” He wasn’t going to believe anything the healer down here had to say, not right now. The healers’ ward had people Braxton knew he could trust.
Mark took the keys and dragged the three prisoners off, Sapson following, sword still at the ready. Braxton left them to it and turned to Clament. He gently slid his arms underneath the curled body, feeling the shivering rattle through his own bones, and picked Clament up. Clament’s golden head rested against Braxton’s shoulder, his puffing, panting breaths blowing against Braxton’s neck. He walked out of the prison, heading for the secret passages that would keep Clament’s presence and illness secret from gossipmongers and spies alike. Mark and Sapson caught up quickly, following as Braxton led the way through the passages to the healers’ ward. Braxton walked as quickly as he dared, trying not to jostle Clament, and hoping he wasn’t too late to save Clament’s life.