“Well?” the Prince demanded.
The boy, sweating from both exertion and his nervousness of having to face the well-known temper of the young heir, stammered that Wyl Thirsk was not to be found in Stoneheart.
Before Celimus could explode the boy tremulously added, “But I have an idea where he might have gone, my lord Prince.”
Celimus bent low toward the trembling child. “I don’t care where you have to go, you dullard, but you find him and do it quickly!” he bellowed at the youngster. “Don’t come back here without Thirsk,” he yelled toward the retreating figure. “Or it will be your neck I’ll snap!” The boy fled.
Wyl was not so far away on this particular afternoon but had made himself scarce with Alyd Donal.
Fortune had smiled upon him a few months after the meeting with the King. A new boy. the same age as Wyl. had been brought into the group. He too came from a close family and because they were both feeling a similar emotional dislocation the boys became inseparable.
Wyl could tell that Gueryn had done everything within his power to encourage the friendship and had gone so far as to include Alyd in his personal training with Wyl. But Wyl. much to his lament, now spent long periods out of the yards and in tutoring with Celimus.
Wyl had kept his promise to the King and made himself as available as he could to Celimus but nothing had changed in how they felt about each other. But he had forged the ability within himself to simply accept his lot. He would not join in with any of the mischief that the swaggering Celimus promoted and yet, like a shadow, was never very far away. Wyl watched and Wyl protected wherever he could, often warning Celimus of impending discovery of his latest scheme or diverting attention to prevent him from being found out. It was not without its risks and it was obvious to him that Celimus was unaware of the pact Wyl had forged with his father. He never promised he would like the heir, though, or even respect him and Wyl could never fully suppress his smoldering contempt. His friend Alyd warned that it showed.
“Tread carefully. Wyl. He will make you pay somehow.”
“I’ve saved his lot so many times.”
“For which he owes you nothing! Don’t forget your place or the fact that your pact is with the King alone. One day Celimus will be King…what will you do then?” Wyl could not answer that pointed question. The notion of Celimus ruling Morgravia twisted in his gut all too often. Kneeling to him, swearing loyalty to him—privately he wondered if he could ever do this and mean it.
He knew he was ugly to the heir’s beautiful eyes. Celimus took immense pleasure in reminding Wyl of his plainness. Wyl had little choice but to accept the taunts with grace; he knew the Prince was, for once, not lying in this regard. Nevertheless the words stung. It was Alyd who always helped him retrieve his sense of humor and whenever the pair found time alone together explosions of laughter could be heard.
Wyl firmly believed Shar had sent a golden-haired angel to him in the shape of Alyd, for laughter had been rare in his life at Stoneheart before his arrival. Alyd’s sharp wit and easy style seemed perfect foils for Wyl’s remote, yet very direct manner, and where Wyl was brutally honest. Alyd had the gift of gilding the lily, always prone to exaggeration. Alyd’s storytelling powers had become legend, even in his short time at Stoneheart; a minor event, such as Lord Berry’s wig slipping when the old fellow napped during a council, took on gigantic, hysterical proportions when retold through the imagination of Alyd Donal.
Wyl loved Alyd for his friendship, his ability to make him laugh out loud, and for his interest in Ylena. It never bothered Alyd on the rare occasions she tagged along with them and he appeared to take as much delight in entertaining her as Ylena did in accompanying them. And while she was blossoming into the same golden beauty her mother had once possessed, the boys had put on some height and bulk. Gueryn had seen to it that if Wyl was not going to be especially tall, then he would have strong physical presence that would impress his men in years to come. He devised for Wyl and Alyd a special training routine that worked on their boyish muscles, and the results were impressive already.
“You’ll be my second, I promise,” Wyl said solemnly to Alyd as they chewed on apples near the lake that flanked Stoneheart. It was a free afternoon; the day was cold but the sun shone and both boys had nothing better to do than lie on their backs, hidden from the castle’s world, and stare up at the sky, making plans as they dreamed of soldiering together in the Legion.
“How do you know they’ll allow it?” Alyd replied.
Wyl snorted. “Who is ‘they?’ I will be ‘they,’” he said in a rare show of arrogance. “I am General of the Morgravian Legion.”
“Title only.” Alyd corrected.
Wyl ignored him. “And in a few years. I will lead our army. My father had total control of the men. And I will have only those I trust as my Captains and Lieutenants.”
“But what if—” Alyd broke off as a disheveled and weary-looking page suddenly crested the hillock they lay against.
“Oh, what now?” Wyl muttered. “Ho, Jon!”
The relief was evident on the youngster’s face. “You’ve got to come, Master Thirsk—he commands you.”
Wyl grimaced, resigned. He stood. “The Prince?”
Jon nodded, still breathing hard from his exertions. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. He’s in a hot temper, too.”
“Lovely—just how we like him,” Alyd said, grinning and standing as well. “How did you find us anyway, young Jon?”
The boy’s eyes flicked nervously at Wyl. “Your sister. Master Thirsk. I’m sorry but I had to find you.”
“That’s all right, think no more on it.”
“We’ll just run her through with our swords later,” Alyd reassured him.
Jon looked aghast.
“He’s being witty, Jon. As if he would harm the girl he loves.” It was Alyd’s turn to look shocked. He threw his apple core at his friend, then in a blink he knocked Wyl backward and sent them both rolling down the hill with the poor page running after them.
“How dare you!” Alyd accused, not sure whether to laugh or punch his friend.
“It’s obvious to a blind man, you fool.”
“She’s not even eleven, curse you!”
“Yes and when you’re twenty, she’ll be sixteen summers and equally eligible. Don’t deny it, Alyd Donal.
You’re starry-eyed over my baby sister. But I actually approve—lucky for you.”
“I refuse to discuss this,” Alyd said but Wyl could see a treacherous red flush at his neck—a sure sign that Alyd’s protestations were empty.
He grinned. And then noticed the trembling Jon. “Shar forgive us! Sorry, Jon. I’m coming. Lead the way.
See you, Alyd—don’t get into any trouble while I’m away.”
“Watch your back, Wyl. He’s never up to any good.”
At sixteen the Prince’s stature had undergone a major transformation and it felt to Wyl as though Celimus towered above him. making his own recent spurt of growth irrelevant. The Prince had broadened as well.
He was indeed breathtaking in looks, but spoiled by the scowl.
“Don’t keep me waiting like that again. Thirsk.”
“My apologies, your highness,” Wyl said, adopting his usual politeness. “How can I assist?” he added, moving the conversation quickly forward. He knew from experience that if he did not it would follow the traditional path of insult.
“You’re well fortunate that I am in a good mood today.”
“I am glad of it, highness. How can I make it brighter?” he said, almost smirking at his own sycophantic manner. Alyd had taught him how to say something in a sugary way while meaning something quite different. Wyl had learned that this tactic worked well on Celimus who was too vain and preoccupied to notice. Alyd would be proud of him.
“Back to your duties,” Celimus said to the page and Jon trotted off, happy to be away from the growls of the Prince. Celimus returned his olive gaze to the lad his father had implored him to get closer to. He sneered and Wyl wondered what wickedness lay behind it.
“Come along, then.” Celimus said chirpily. “I have a special treat for you.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise, Wyl.”
Myrren’s bruises and cuts had begun healing. She now sat shivering in the dungeons of Stoneheart.
where they had brought her days ago. The hunger pangs of near-starvation had recently settled into a numbness. She had refused the deliberately salty food they had thrown into the cell, knowing full well no water would be offered later when her parched throat would scream for it. And after a few days of such treatment the raging thirst would be enough to send one mad, as it had some poor soul a few cells down.
She was the only Stalkers’ prey in the dungeon and thus inwardly accepted that she would offer the best sport.
They were preparing her for the “trial” that would extract her eventual confession under torture. Myrren could hear the mournful ringing of the bells and was half-tempted to fall to the damp flagstones and writhe about as witches were apparently meant to.
That would soon brine them running, excited that she had been found out. It would save a lot of pain, she realized grimly. She could just confess and be done. They would kill her anyway, so why suffer more than was necessary?
A small voice inside begged her to make it easy for herself Death was coming whichever way she looked at it and it could either be a merciful end by fire after possibly days of agony, or she imagined, it could be swift and relatively painless; a brief confession and a blade into the throat. Myrren thought of the flames.
They frightened her more than the notion of torture, which seemed harder to imagine. But she had no trouble picturing herself bound and screaming as the fire melted and consumed her flesh.
The trial—as had been explained to her by a tall, hook-nosed creature who had introduced himself as Confessor Lymbert—had three categories. Lymbert, whose name Myrren had recognized with a sinking heart, preferred to call these categories “degrees.” The word made him smile each time he uttered it.
Myrren had already undergone Lymbert’s so-called first degree. Apart from the permitted rape by one of his assistants in which her virginity was torn away from her, she had been stripped, bound, and flogged in front of a group of hooded men. They were presumably remnants of Zerques whom, she realized, were far more interested in viewing her naked body in pain than extracting anything more than her helpless shrieks.
Myrren had always believed that King Magnus was not in favor of these fanatics, that he had crushed them and their Order. Her parents had not shared her optimism. They had always warned her to be careful.
“It’s your eyes, my love.” her father would gently say. “The zealots will not see your beauty or hear the intelligence of your words. They will see only the mismatch of your eyes and all the old superstitions will rise up to frighten them.”
She had known since she was old enough to converse with others that she was different and was being protected by her parents. Her mother had once confessed the constant anxiety she and her father held for Myrren. She too had referred to her daughter’s eyes and the old fear.
“Poke them out. then!” Myrren had once suggested angrily, much to her parents’ dismay. She had not meant to shock them but she was tired of the constant care she took to distract strangers from looking at her full in the face. Tired of the scarves and shawls her mother insisted she wear when out and about.
It was never going to change. The fear was ancient and, though Morgravians were more enlightened and even openly dismissive of the existence of magic these days, the need to privately ward against sorcery still pervaded. Myrren wished she did possess the power to change the color of her eyes because she had known the Witch Stalkers and their whisperings would hover around her for all of her life. She remembered how she had felt hollow after being so abrupt with the noble, sensing immediately that it could lead to trouble—although she was past caring once his unwelcome hand had slipped beneath her skirts. His drunken breath made her feel ill and his decrepit and desperate desires brought a wave of disgust. Her contempt showed in her rebuke. And now she was paying the price.
Nevertheless, she would give no satisfaction to these men.
And so after the first couple of licks from the whip, which brought her shrill objections, she had clamped her teeth as hard as she could and uttered no further sound. She would give them nothing of herself, not even her groans.
Another woman, far older than her, had received similar treatment simultaneously and she had cried throughout, begging for pity. She was accused of slaying her husband but no one paid any attention to the old burns, the bruises, the limbs that had obviously been broken previously and were now twisted. Here, clearly, was a woman tormented by a brutal husband. It mattered not. In finding the courage to kill him, she would now pay with her own life. The flogging had finally stopped and both women had remained bent over barrels, inhaling whatever air they could drag into their lungs to steady their trembling limbs and shattered nerves. The pain from the bleeding welts on Myrren’s back had been so intense and all-consuming it became part of her. She had somehow been able to absorb it and put it aside. Moments later she had been turned and strapped to a post. She recalled ignoring the cloudy messages of pain from her back as it had chafed against the rough timber. The men had then enjoyed watching her body, still naked, from a different angle, but more importantly, she had been able to witness what was happening to her companion.
They had obviously decided, Myrren deduced, that she should be saved for future entertainment—a suspected witch, after such a dearth, was to be savored after all. Myrren had watched mournfully as the other woman had been dragged from her barrel.
“Put her boots on,” Lymbert had commanded, bored with this one, and Myrren had closed her eyes. She knew what was coming, for Lymbert had already taken sincere delight in giving her a guided tour of this torture chamber.
The sagging woman had been hauled jabbering toward a bench where she had been pushed into a sitting position.
“Bind her hands,” Lymbert had ordered.