Martok bristled at this. Seeing his reaction, Sylas stopped and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Martok. I love my brother, but he has done nothing to help this family. It's because of his negligence that we are now in danger of losing everything. And if you don’t learn the way things really are very quickly, you’ll end up with nothing. You hear me? Nothing at all.”
All of his inherent stubbornness rose up sharply in Martok. He lifted his chin. “Better that than to live like a dog – scraping and begging to people who talk behind our backs and look at us as if we are somehow lesser than they are.”
“You don’t want to live like a dog? Then behave like a man. Ideals are wonderful things…in stories. But this is real life, boy. And the consequences mean life or death. You think you can fight the world? You think you can stand alone? Go right ahead and try. But I promise you, the only thing louder than your fall will be your screams as you are tortured to death by your enemies.”
Not receiving any reply, he shook his head. “I'm wasting my breath. I can see it in your eyes. That same defiance your father had at your age. You think that just because you have a talent for magic that you are invulnerable. Well let me tell you, besting four novices is a hell of a lot different than battling a fully trained mage. You keep up this attitude of yours and you'll learn that the hard way.”
As angry as his uncle was, Martok was determined not to yield. And though he still said nothing, he refused to avert his eyes or back away.
After a few seconds, Sylas’ face gradually softened. “Look, I know you think what you did is right. And in truth, it was. I cannot deny that.” He placed a hand on Martok's shoulder. “Perhaps one day you will even become powerful enough to change things. But for now, I am faced with the task of keeping you safe. If you have any respect for me, you will not make that any harder than it already is.”
It was at that moment Martok saw something in his uncle he had never seen before. Fear. He was truly afraid of what might happen. Suddenly, guilt over what he had done washed over him. “I’m sorry, uncle,” he said. “I won’t cause you any more trouble. You have my word.”
Sylas forced a weak smile. “Good. Then let us see what Lord Prustoni has to say about all this.”
They made their way back to the room allocated to them within the manor. By now, news of the incident had obviously spread. From the looks and whispers, tongues were wagging furiously. As they walked by, the words, 'animal' and 'exile' could be heard floating on the air.
“Pay no attention to it,” Sylas told Martok. “Kytain is a reasonable man. And the fact is, no one was seriously injured. All will be well.”
As soon as his uncle had left for the meeting, Martok took a shower and then decided to pass the time reading a book about the Dragonvein family history that his father had given him before he left. Though he had already read it many times before, he always seemed to find some interesting new passages that he'd somehow overlooked on previous readings.
At first the time passed quickly, but after spending more than an hour with the book, he began to worry. Sylas had still not returned, so perhaps things were not going as well as he suggested they might. With all kinds of possible outcomes running through his head, he paced the room for a while and then stretched out on the bed, trying to relax.
The sound of his door squeaking slowly open broke into his thoughts. At once he sat bolt upright, ready to defend himself. But the person standing in the doorway was no foe out for retribution. It was the little girl he had saved from the bullies.
“What are you doing here,” he demanded sourly. “Haven’t you caused me enough trouble already?”
Her eyes were downcast and she was shifting nervously. “I just wanted to thank you,” she said in a very small voice.
Martok huffed. “You can thank me by telling everyone the truth about what happened.”
“I…I can’t. My mother won’t let me. She says we’ll get into a lot of trouble if I say anything. I’m sorry. I really am.”
Martok sighed. She couldn’t be more than eight or nine years old. And if her mother had forbidden her from talking, he certainly couldn’t blame the child for doing as she'd been told.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I understand.”
She looked up shyly. “Thank you.”
“What is your name?”
“Miriam Goldsong.” She curtsied politely.
Martok smiled. “Well, Miriam Goldsong, my name is Martok Dragonvein. And it is very nice to meet you.”
“I know
your
name,” she said, a tiny smile forming. “Everyone does. They’re saying you have the blood of a dragon in you. Is that true?”
“In a way,” he replied. “My family has a special connection to dragons.”
“My mother says it's unnatural.”
“And what do
you
think?”
Miriam shrugged. “I don’t know. You seem normal to me.”
Looking at this timid child, Martok was even more convinced that he had been right to help her. Whatever the consequences, he would accept them. “You should go before you are missed and get into trouble,” he told her.
She nodded. “You're right. I should. But I really hope nothing bad happens to you.” Having said that, she quickly turned and hurried away.
Martok laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. Her visit had complicated matters in his mind even further now. He would of course do his best not to cause trouble for his uncle. All the same, in spite of his promise, he knew for certain that if he was once again faced with the choice of whether or not to
'do the right thing'
, he would still follow his father's advice.
Another hour passed before finally Sylas returned. Martok could see that his face was tight and his eyes dark.
“What happened?” he asked. “Am I in trouble?”
“We have reached an accord with the families of the four boys,” he replied.
“What kind of accord?”
Sylas took a seat on the edge of the bed. “This isn’t going to be easy for you, I’m afraid.”
Martok frowned. “What do you mean?”
“After a long and very heated debate it was decided that the families would receive compensation for your aggression toward their children.”
“Are you saying you had to pay them?”
“That was one option, yes.” He was unable to look Martok directly in the eye. “The other was for you to receive a lashing with a wooden cane.”
A chill shot down Martok's spine. “And what did they choose?”
“Three families chose to receive gold. Only one chose the alternative.”
He did not need his uncle to tell him which family that was.
“I need you to be brave,” Sylas added. “Can you do that?”
Martok closed his eyes. So this was the price. He had already decided that whatever punishment came his way, he would face it with courage. But he had seen grown men being caned and heard them wail from the pain of it. His hands began to tremble, though it was only for a second or two. In that very moment of need, the distant call of the dragons echoed in the corner of his mind, filling him with courage and steeling his resolve.
He looked up. “When will they do it?”
“Immediately.”
“And then what?”
Sylas refused to speak further. He simply rose from the bed and crossed over to the door.
Martok allowed the dragons’ voices to rage through him. “Then let’s get on with it.”
He followed his uncle through a labyrinth of corridors until reaching an open courtyard. Standing ominously in the very center of this, he immediately saw a tall whipping post with a large iron hook embedded halfway up. Evelyn Bronstar was waiting alongside Kytain Prustoni a short distance back, while a grinning Desmond clutching a four-foot long cane roughly as thick as a man’s finger had already positioned himself close to the post.
“I insisted that no one else be allowed to witness this,” his uncle whispered.
“Thank you,” he replied. It was hard enough coming to terms with the fact that it would be Desmond himself administering the punishment. The added humiliation of being a spectacle for the entertainment of the guests would have made it almost unbearable.
Sylas led him over to the post. “He’s allowed to strike you five times. No more.”
This was at least a small comfort. The canings he had seen in the past had often involved twenty or more lashes.
Kytain approached holding a pair of leather bindings that he placed on Martok’s wrists. “I am truly sorry it has come to this,” he said quietly. “But your uncle tells me you possess great courage for one so young. I am sure you will endure.” With a quick movement, he lifted Martok completely off the ground. “Place your bindings over the hook,” he ordered.
Martok did as he was told. He could hear the wretched sound of Desmond giggling behind him.
“Let us not prolong this,” Kytain said curtly to the boy. “Have your retribution and be done with it.”
Suspended against the post, Martok concentrated his mind totally on the dragons. He was there with them, sharing their raw power and passion as they streaked across a clear sky. The exhilaration of the hunt and the blood lust of the kill. He could almost feel the wind on his face.
When the first blow came it landed squarely across his shoulders, sending waves of pain shooting through his entire body. Clenching his jaw and sucking his teeth, he forced himself to remain focused. Show them no hint of suffering, he kept telling himself. Stay with the dragons. Then the second blow came. Harder than the first, it snatched him violently back to earth and into the dreadful realm of agonizing reality. Still, from somewhere deep, he found the strength not to cry out.
“Harder, Desmond,” Evelyn urged. “The lesson must be learned properly.”
The third blow landed on his lower back. Desmond grunted loudly from the sheer effort it took to deliver. But to Martok's amazement, rather than increasing his suffering, this time the pain was nothing more than a dull sensation. Then, with a rush, he understood what was happening. A primal rage from the other side of the world had filled him. The dragons could feel his pain, and they were lending him their strength. He let out a soft laugh.
“You should have taken the gold,” he goaded. “You’re no better at this than you are at magic, Desmond.” He thought he heard a chuckle come from Kytain, but he could not be sure.
His torturer screamed with rage as he landed the fourth blow. It was all to no effect. Martok now felt as if his skin was covered in hard scales. He laughed again, this time far more loudly.
“This is an outrage!” cried Evelyn. “There must be some protective spell or ward at work.”
“I assure you there is not,” Kytain told her. “I would know if there were. The boy is simply stronger than you…or I, had anticipated. Strike once more and finish receiving the compensation you required.”
Martok smiled, his mind crossing the vast expanse that lay between him and the dragons. Then the clatter of wood striking the ground caught his attention. From the corner of his eye he saw Desmond leaving, his grandmother following close behind. They were done. He hadn't even been aware of the final lash landing.
He felt himself being lifted from the hook and placed gently back down. The moment his feet touched the tiles, the bindings on his wrists dissolved in a puff of red smoke.
Martok turned to see Kytain eyeing at him curiously. “Where is my uncle?” he asked.
His question was ignored. “Come with me, Martok Dragonvein. I would speak with you.”
He stood defiantly. “I have taken your punishment. Where is my uncle?”
“Come with me, boy,” Kytain repeated, his voice stern. “You are brave. But you are also a guest in my house. I will not tolerate discourtesy. Your uncle did not wish to witness your punishment. A pity actually. He would have been proud of you.”
The sting of the caning was now beginning to creep in. But Kytain’s words filled him with pride, helping him to push it away.
Nonetheless, something of it must have shown through. “Lift your shirt and let me see your injuries,” Kytain said. This was a command, not a request.
Martok did as instructed.
“Would I be correct in guessing that your connection with the dragons helped you through this ordeal?” the lord asked.
Martok hesitated. Such topics were rarely spoken of outside of the family. The general public opinion of the Dragonvein's bond had made it an uncomfortable subject. Sylas frequently warned him not to do anything that might draw attention to it. But Martok did not sense the same prejudice in Kytain that he saw in others.
“They helped, yes,” he admitted.
“Interesting.”
Very quickly he felt healing magic soothing his wounds. In only a few seconds, the pain was gone entirely. He lowered his shirt and bowed in gratitude.
“Does your uncle allow you wine?”
“With meals,” he replied.
Without another word, Kytain started from the courtyard, clearly expecting Martok to follow. He led him along a series of hallways and through a massive ballroom before arriving in a dimly lit study. The walls here were adorned with a variety of rare and spectacular works of art, while the furniture had the dual look of being both masterfully crafted and extremely comfortable. Kytain jerked his head sharply, prompting a cheerful looking fire to jump up in the marble hearth.