Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Apparently the Fraysian royal palace, in contrast to that of King Cyrus, didn’t have dungeons.
Henry wasn’t relieved, however, because this place did have a small torture chamber, and that was where he was now.
His captors had removed the bag covering his head, and they’d taken the gag away…
along with every scrap of his clothing. He hung naked by his shackled wrists, the chains so short that he could barely scrape his toes against the cold tile floor.
Henry was accustomed to physical pain, so the ache in his wrists, arms, and shoulders was almost bearable.
And the fear of what was going to happen to him, well, he felt it, but mildly.
Merely an annoyance buzzing around his head.
His cursed heart was likely the reason for that.
But the iron bands had only a small impact on another emotion, which was the distress of being separated from Stefano.
Henry had yelled for some time, his shouts echoing off the plaster walls until his voice grew hoarse and his throat raw.
He’d been pessimistic all along about the outcome of this journey, knowing that he was destined for loss and sorrow at the very least. But this wasn’t the ending he’d envisioned: his prince, abandoned and alone, so small that any number of things could harm or kill him, and completely unable to protect himself. What could a frog do if attacked?
“Stefano.” His moan crackled and burned like a flame.
Not long after, three people entered the room.
The woman and one of the men were dressed in the uniform of the Fraysian royal guards.
Neither of them looked happy to be there.
In fact, the way they carefully avoided his gaze reminded him of the guards who’d whipped him in Stefano’s stead, fulfilling a duty, but one they didn’t relish.
The third person was a middle-aged man, tall and thin, clean-shaven, with graying hair pulled back in a queue.
Although his clothing looked expensive, it was in understated tones of navy blue and without ornamentation.
His only visible jewelry was a single large gold ring.
Henry didn’t sense cruelty on his face, or even something like King Cyrus’s implacable coldness, but there was no warmth or sympathy either.
Henry wanted to beg for water, but instead he said, “Please. Stef—”
“Quiet. The more accurately and expediently you answer my questions, the less you will suffer. Who are you?”
There was no reason not to answer that. “Henry Marsh. But I’m—”
“You’re not Fraysian. Where are you from?”
“Thanytsia.”
The guards murmured uneasily but the other man ignored them. Although his expression turned grim, he gave a slight nod. “I thought as much. Who sent you here to harm our princess?”
“Nobody sent— I never intended to—” The words tangled on Henry’s tongue until he growled at his own idiocy and simply said, “Please!”
Scowling, the man gestured at the guards, who stepped forward in unison.
Each of them held a slender silver stick about the length of their hands.
They pressed the sticks against his skin—the woman just above his hip and the man at his belly—and before Henry could even wonder what they were doing, a bolt of lightning seared through his body.
That was what it felt like, at any rate. He screamed, tried fruitlessly to jerk away. His toes scrabbled for traction and for a brief moment, he was blind and deaf.
The man waited to speak until Henry had caught his breath. “I don’t enjoy this. Nor do you, I presume. And frankly, torture is a poor way to glean accurate information. But it can be expedient, and when the wellbeing of Her Royal Highness is at stake, I have no patience for more delicate measures.”
Henry’s brain, a traitor, refused to bend to his will. “I-I-I’m n-n-not,” he stuttered, then spat out a mouthful of frothy blood. He must have bitten his tongue at some point. “N-n-not harming her,” he managed after that.
His captor crossed his arms. “I’ll ask again. Who sent you? Was it King Cyrus?”
Henry spat again, more forcefully. “No. I have no l-l-loyalty to him.”
That seemed to take the other man by surprise. He cocked his head slightly. “To whom are you loyal, then?”
“Prince Stefano,” Henry answered. Because this was his fundamental truth, and he wouldn’t deny it even if it meant death.
“Stefano? Has that useless lout finally fallen under his father’s thumb?”
Enraged at this slander, Henry shook his head savagely. “No!”
“You’re wasting my time.” The man gestured, and before Henry could respond, the guards touched their silver instruments to his skin again, this time one on each thigh.
It hurt worse than the first time. So much so that he couldn’t even scream—his lungs didn’t work at all—and the rest of his muscles locked stiff for what felt like hours.
Through the agony, all he could see was Stefano: smiling at him in his fond, sweet way; watching helplessly while Henry was whipped; bent over his notepad with his pencils and his bits of stones and twigs and feathers.
Eventually, Henry took several deep, whooping breaths, although his caged heart still staggered like a drunken dancer. “Stef,” he sobbed.
Implacable, the man watched him. The guards stared rigidly elsewhere, each gripping the little silver stick awkwardly. Henry almost felt sorry for them; he understood how loyalty could lead a person in many unwanted directions.
“Let’s finish this,” the man said at last. “Tell me who sent you and why.”
Henry did his best to marshal his thoughts, and he started with a plea.
“Listen. Please.” Encouraged by the lack of new pain, he continued.
“Prince Stefano was cursed. Your princess can break the curse. That is why I came—because of my love for Stefano. Neither of us wish harm to her or to any Fraysian.”
The man tugged at his chin. “A curse. If this is a lie, it’s an interesting one.”
“Sir, please, he—”
“Quiet.” The man turned to the female guard and whispered something in her ear.
She nodded and looked relieved. The next steps happened very quickly.
The guards unlocked his wrists, allowing Henry to fall to the floor with a painful thump.
They immediately chained his hands again, this time behind his back, and dragged him into an adjacent cell, then removed the manacles, exited, and closed the door with a decisive slam.
He was alone in a small room illuminated by a single tiny window, too high to reach.
The room contained a narrow cot with a blanket, a chamber pot, and a washstand with a half-full basin.
Hands shaking and wrists bruised, Henry drank a few swallows of water before wrapping himself in the blanket and collapsing onto the cot. He lay curled on his side, unmoving, desperately fighting a battle with despair.