Chapter 54
Of course I don’t agree to join the shithole’s sect, so I wind up back in the brig.
For hours, I sit there, time ticking by.
I pace the cell until I realize no food or water is being brought to me.
Then I sit down to conserve my energy. As soon as my ass hits the floor, Lynx appears beyond the bars.
She angles her masked face toward me and says, “Sovereign Rheon asks if you are ready to cooperate and join the Zenith.”
I know where this is going. “I believe he already knows my answer.”
Lynx makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat, something partially like a giggle, partially like a hum. Then she vanishes from the brig.
As time crawls by, more and more cries and occasional screams fill the darkness of the cells beyond mine.
Voices plead for mercy, for death. Whispers of power and torture, threats and the like echo through the passageways.
At first, I try to take in any information, but then I choose my own sanity and block out as much of the cacophony as I can for as long as possible.
The next time Lynx appears, I’m not sure how much time has passed, but it’s much of the same. She asks if I’m ready to join the Zenith, I say no, and she jumps away.
All the while, no food or water is brought to me. By the time my throat feels like the Wastelands and the pangs in my stomach become unbearable, Lynx makes another reappearance. “Last chance,” she says.
This time, I don’t even bother to respond.
“Alright then.” There’s sickening glee in her voice as she looks to the two guards who stand outside my cell and says, “You know the next step.”
One guard unlocks the gate and lets it swing open.
As the other guard steps into my cell, I jump to my feet and ignore the dizziness that sweeps in.
“I can walk,” I say. I’m uncertain where they’re taking me, but I will not be dragged along like a common criminal.
Even if my legs are a bit shaky. We travel through tunnels, up a set of stony steps, and out into the encampment where the harsh sun hurts my eyes.
I stare across the encampment at the barracks, at the entrance to Fiada Purlieu, the lush forest unassuming as always.
A jail wagon awaits me, and a guard nudges my back, pushing me forward.
The jail wagon contains three other people.
One is a man who has clearly committed theft; his right hand has been severed, and bloody bandages wrap around his wrist. Another bounces his knee up and down, jostling the wagon.
The third man glowers at me with such unsettling steadiness that I look away, but his thoughts slam into me: I hope he goes last. I can’t stop my forehead from creasing.
Five years ago, I escaped the brunt of Rheon’s punishment.
And now, it’s as if none of the time between even mattered.
Anxiety squirms in my stomach as the creaky jail wagon makes its way through the gates of Paramount and into the city.
The wheels jostle over the cobblestone street as we pass small groups of soldiers in black uniforms—Forayers?
But no, Forayer uniforms aren’t so detailed.
These aren’t Zenith uniforms either, or even Royal Brigade or brig guard uniforms. Gods, how many different regiments does Rheon command by now?
It isn’t Rheon this time, however, who awaits the prisoners at the whipping post. Instead, there’s Lynx and a couple of those guards in black. We’re hauled out of the wagon one by one. First is the thief who pleads with his whole heart as they drag him up the steps to the whipping post.
Each sound of the leather lashing against his bare skin causes me to flinch, even as I fight to keep my Empath powers under control.
His screams die down to whimpers and silence follows.
He’s thrown back into the wagon, completely unconscious, and I refuse to look beyond his face.
The nervous prisoner is next, followed by the glaring man.
I’m once again forced to listen to his cries, my empathy slipping into the foreground of my mind, the pain and fear of the man dizzying me.
I’m sure it was Rheon’s idea to leave me for last. So I can hear what’s coming—as if I wasn’t there when he held the mass flogging years ago. Fifty victims had been brought out one at a time, their crimes read aloud before they were publicly and brutally punished.
They were whipped until they lost either consciousness or their lives.
Whichever came first. Each prisoner was accused of having committed treason—by the use of magic, by speaking ill of the queen, by harboring an Undesirable.
All for the purpose of nailing fear into the heart of every Erleyan and Outer Islander.
Rheon claimed he had been given the command by Morwenna, but the rumors that spread through the castle at the time said she had no idea.
By the time she realized what was happening, the floggings were already in progress, and to have the queen admit she was not in control of the Royal Brigade’s commander would’ve been an admittance to weakness.
The victims’ screams of pain are forever branded in my mind. And now, if I survive everything, I’m sure it’s a feeling I will never forget either.
I’m strangely detached from my body as I’m hauled up the steps.
As my name and past stations are announced.
Lynx declares me a coward and a deserter, and the crowd jeers at me and calls out for my blood.
My boots slip on the bloodied ground as I’m tugged toward the whipping pole.
I’m forced to my knees, the magic dampener still shackled around my wrist, the ropes digging into my skin as I’m bound to the pole.
I press my face against the wood, closing my eyes and preparing myself for the first strike.
The cool air hits my back, a chill sliding down my spine as my tunic is torn away.
The first lash sends an arc of pain through my back and down my thighs.
My spine arches, my head flinging back as if my body tries to get away from the whip.
With the next strike, I clench my jaw and force myself to keep breathing through my nostrils.
The smell of blood fills my nose, but my throat barely spasms before the next stripe nearly steals my breath away.
From my constant clenching, my jaw begins to ache more and more with each strike, but I refuse to cry out; I refuse to give the sadistic bastards what they want.
I pull up my mental barriers as much as I can, this time to lock myself away from the torment.
From the sound of the whip. From the feel of my skin being slit open and blood coursing down my back, seeping into the waistband of my trousers.
I never cry out, but my throat feels raw as though I’ve been screaming, and my body grows heavier and heavier.
Until I silently beg my consciousness to flee.
I’m not sure how many lashes I take, but my body eventually gives in to the overwhelming anguish and I black out at last.
The first scream builds in my chest and rips free from my throat before I even open my eyes.
I’m on my stomach, but as I move my hands to grapple for my searing back, something digs into my skin.
My eyes are too bleary to make out anything, but it’s clear that my wrists are still bound.
The pungent scent of herbs fills my nostrils, pulling nausea from my gut.
I dry heave, and the pain nearly tips me back into unconsciousness.
A voice I don’t recognize says, “Deep breath. In through your nose. I’m almost done here. ”
Obeying, I take a deep breath through my nose. Again, and again until the nausea subsides, but the pain in my back comes and goes in waves. Icy cold undulates across my skin, causing first more pain, then relief.
The surface beneath me is soft. I curl my fingers, and they bunch in crisp sheets. When I open my eyes again, there’s only white fabric. I lift my head as best as I can and vaguely make out bright white curtains and other cots in a line.
The infirmary.
I’d expected to wake up in the brig.
“Almost there,” says that voice again. I strain my neck to get a better look at her. Dark eyes focus on my back, her face reflecting the glow from her hands. A Mage Healer openly practicing. In Paramount.
Well, I’ve seen everything now.
At last, the woman shifts to stand behind me, grey hair falling onto her shoulder. “There,” she says.
My body is exhausted, but I allow my senses to reach out for her magic. I’m met with something that reminds me of Alys’s powers, but far darker. A Dark Mage Healer? Is it possible? My mind must still be shrouded from the pain.
“Ah, he’s awake,” says a voice that causes my heart to lurch painfully.
My head snaps to the other side as Rheon marches into the infirmary, Lynx in tow. My healing back protests my sudden movement, and I grit back a groan.
“I’ve been told you didn’t even cry out once,” says Rheon. “Very impressive. Next time, I will ensure that they don’t stop until you scream for mercy. Or the next time. Or the next.”
My throat spasms, but my stomach is completely empty. My body is too spent for me to even come up with something witty to say. Especially when it’s frighteningly clear why Rheon ordered that I be healed.
“You’re going to do this until I break,” I say with certainty.
“You’ve always been a brilliant soldier.
I’ve seen many talented fighters in my day, but not everyone is as intelligent as you are, Major Kilkenny.
” He smiles, squatting so that he’s face-to-face with me.
“Do you remember when you received that title? Major? I can still remember the pride on your face. You could’ve been commander someday.
” He tsks and stands upright again. “How would you like to regain your title as major to start? The Zenith really could use a brilliant fighter such as yourself.”
“No,” I grit out.
“Suit yourself.” He looks to the Healer woman. “Is he able to return to the brig now?”
“Yes, I’m finished with him,” she responds, and I almost want to beg her to let me stay longer.
“Perfect. Lynx, have some broth brought to him. Nothing more.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
He turns on his heel and marches out of the infirmary. Lynx, however, struts toward me. “Come along, pretty boy. The brig is getting lonely without your presence.” She begins to work at the ropes around my wrists and forces me to sit up.
My skin feels stiff, pulling unpleasantly and sending small ripples of discomfort through my back. But I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the cot. My vision sways and I close my eyes.
Lynx yanks my arm up and I open my eyes to see her staring at the sword tattoo inked into my forearm. She doesn’t say anything, however. She only pulls me to my feet and vanishes us back to the brig.
I land rather hard on my ass and bite back a small cry.
I place my hands flat against the cool floor beneath me and struggle to remain upright.
Lynx crouches down in front of me, holding an almost black, double-edged blade before my face.
“Do you like my new toy?” She asks, her husky voice filled with amusement.
As best as I can, I remain absolutely still. There’s no way in hells that I want that blade to touch my skin.
“You won’t believe how much effort went into forging such a blade.
Mind-boggling, really.” She makes a small humming sound of satisfaction then says, “Not that I forged it myself, of course.” With a giggle, she stands upright and sheaths her dagger.
“Have you heard the screams? In the night? Reminds me of the horror stories my parents read to me as a child. You know, to scare me into behaving like a lady, no doubt.”
My brows pinch together.
“Do they give you nightmares, pretty boy? The screams?”
My mouth remains tightly shut.
Anger flares brightly around Lynx, and before I can think of what to do to prepare myself, her mask takes up my whole field of vision again.
I take a breath and hesitantly allow my magic to reach out to her, but there’s a strange blockage.
She doesn’t draw her dagger this time, but she runs her finger along the side of my face, drawing an invisible line.
Her hand feels surprisingly unsteady, however, and I can feel pain writhing within her, mixed with annoyance and frustration.
“The rugged look suits you,” she says. “Do you have a lover by now who appreciates it?”
A sort of sadistic lust emanates from her like a purr as she continues drawing that unsteady, invisible line down the side of my neck, over my scar. I shudder.
“Are you disgusted by me?” There’s a sudden bite to her voice that makes me wince. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a superficial man.” The hysteria filling her tone tempts me to scoot away from her, but I remain in place though my arms shake from the continued support against my palms.
I don’t take the bait, and her finger lingers on my scar. Somehow, I manage not to move.
Lynx huffs. “My, aren’t we a bore.” Her tone is back to being light and aloof. “Well, pretty boy, keep being stubborn and”—she splays her hand over my bare chest—“you’ll wish the only punishment you receive is subsequent flogging.”
I’m busy staring at her bright green eyes through her mask when something pierces my flesh. I grit back a groan of pain, and Lynx takes her hand away, claw-like nails retracting. I blink, certain I’m hallucinating.
She laughs gleefully. “That’s more like it.” A satisfied sigh leaves her lips, and she stands, her crimson cape swishing around her. “That’s all for now. Enjoy the screams.”
I watch her retreating form until she vanishes from sight outside the cell, and it’s only when I’m certain she’s not coming back that I look down at my chest. I’d hoped the claws were just a figment of my imagination, but sure enough, small droplets of blood trickle down my chest from five shallow cuts in an arc.