hiss accompanying every cracking blow. This one didn’t scream until the second blow, but he was almost as broken as the first man by the time the guards had untied him. They administered the same rough first aid to the second man, who bellowed as the saltwater hit his torn flesh, but he walked away without any assistance from the guards.
By the time the third man had been similarly dealt with, R’shiel was certain she was going to be sick. She had seen men whipped before. It was a common enough practice in the Citadel for minor crimes. But in the Citadel men were whipped with a single plaited lash and care was taken to cause pain rather than lasting damage. Loclon’s purpose seemed to be to inflict as much damage as possible.
As they brought Tarja forward, R’shiel glanced at Loclon and shuddered. His eyes were alight with pleasure, as he watched Tarja walk calmly toward the post. Rather than waiting to have his hands tied, Tarja reached up, gripped the ring with both hands, and braced his feet wide apart. Unused to such cooperation from their charges, the guards hesitated a moment before securing him with the hemp ropes.
“Tarjanian Tenragan. Ten lashes. Public brawling.”
A murmur ran through the crowd at the number of lashes to be administered. Ten was a rare punishment. Wilem was known as a fair man who doled out punishment for discipline, not entertainment. R’shiel glanced at Wilem and suddenly understood why Tarja was last. Loclon had already delivered fifteen blows with the deadly Tiger’s Tail. Wilem had put Tarja last to spare him a little, but while she appreciated Wilem’s gesture, she doubted it would do much good. For a moment, she let her eyes lose focus on the scene and she studied the auras around both men. Her strange and inexplicable gift was becoming increasingly easy to control. Tarja’s was clear but tinged with red, the only sign of the fear that he refused to display publicly. Loclon’s was fractured with black lines and dark swirling colors. The sight evoked unwanted memories in R’shiel as she recognized the pattern from her own torment at his hands. She wondered why nobody else could see this man for what he truly was. To her, it was so obvious, it was almost like a warning beacon shining over his head.
Silence descended on the crowd as Loclon stepped up and swung his arm back, expertly flicking the tails of the whip. The lash landed with an audible crack across Tarja’s back, and he flinched with the pain but gave no other sign of the agony he must be feeling. The next blow landed with similar force, raising a bloody welt across the first cut. Tarja remained silent, flinching with the pain but refusing to utter a sound. The silence continued as Loclon laid blow after blow across the rebel’s back, which soon became a bloody canvas of torn flesh and raw muscle. The crowd shared Tarja’s silence; it was as if they were collectively holding their breath, waiting for him to break. Loclon grew increasingly agitated. R’shiel recognized Loclon’s frustration. He had worn the same look when she had refused to scream for him.
The only noise that echoed through the Square was the sound of Loclon grunting with the effort of laying open Tarja’s back and the monotone voice of the sergeant who was counting off the blows. When he reached ten, Loclon raised his arm for another strike, but the sudden cheer from the crowd distracted him. They might despise him for a traitor, but they were willing to acknowledge Tarja’s courage. Loclon looked disappointed as the guards hurried forward to untie him and douse his bleeding back with the saltwater. Tarja finally allowed himself a loud yelp when the water hit him.
R’shiel was thoroughly sickened by the whole affair, but Crisabelle seemed quite exhilarated by it. She turned to the woman standing on the other side of her, a blue-robed Sister from one of the workhouses. She chattered on about what a lovely day it was for this sort of thing, although the wind was a bit nippy, and shouldn’t they put in some sort of seating for the spectators? R’shiel watched them lead Tarja away and wondered just how much willpower it was taking for him to stay on his feet.
“Get the physic to take a look at him,” Wilem told Mysekis as they led the rebel away.
“If your intention was to break him, then I doubt you succeeded.”
“We’ll not have any further trouble,” Wilem predicted. “Tarja has proved his point. He won back a measure of respect today.”
“Traitor or not, he certainly has mine,” Mysekis agreed. “I’ve never seen anyone take ten lashes without a whimper.”
“That’s the tragedy. He could have been a great man. Now he’s nothing more than a common criminal.”
R’shiel listened to the private conversation thoughtfully as she waited for Crisabelle to finish her discussion with the Sister, watching the crowd disperse. They were hugely impressed by Tarja’s courage, and, as Wilem had predicted, much less ambivalent toward him. She glanced across the square and spied Dace with L’rin, the tall blonde tavern owner, watching the proceedings. The man standing with them gave R’shiel pause.
It was Brak. He was the last person she expected to find in the Grimfield. He refused to meet her eye, but R’shiel was suddenly certain that he had not been watching the lashing. He had been watching her.
chapter 36
The first few weeks of R’shiel’s sentence passed so quickly she could barely credit it. Life settled down in a surprisingly short time, disturbed only by Crisabelle’s idiotic demands and occasional but disturbing brushes with Loclon. Each incident served only to strengthen her resolve to escape, preferably leaving Loclon dead in her wake.
She would sometimes watch the work gangs being marched out to the mines, which were located in the foothills about a league from the town. The men appeared universally miserable. They worked long shifts, breaking down the rock face with heavy sledge hammers, while others, bent almost double with the weight of the load, carried the ore back to the huge, bullock-drawn wagons for the journey to the foundry at Vanahiem. The female convicts of the Grimfield fared marginally better. They were split into three basic groups: the laundry, the kitchens, and the
R’shiel quickly made herself indispensable to Crisabelle. She had taken to constantly reminding people that her maid was the First Sister’s daughter, ignoring the fact that R’shiel was not even permitted to use the name Tenragan anymore or claim any familial links with Joyhinia. R’shiel found the constant reminders irritating, but they reinforced Crisabelle’s belief that she had some link with the life she felt she should be leading rather than the one she was. Crisabelle blamed Mahina, not Joyhinia, for her current circumstances and rather than take her frustration out on R’shiel, she heaped all of her woes at her mother-in-law’s door.
Mahina was a different story, entirely. She was brusque on a good day, unbearable on others, but R’shiel liked the old woman almost as much as she secretly despised Crisabelle. They had developed a private bond, brought about by the shared burden of Crisabelle’s constant and frequently idiotic demands.
Mahina treated Crisabelle’s pretensions of grandeur with utter contempt and made a point of deflating her daughter-in-law at every opportunity. Nobody else in the Grimfield dared to challenge Crisabelle; most simply went out of their way to avoid her. Mahina had a wicked sense of humor and a keen eye for the absurdities of life. She even joked about her own fall from grace once in a while. R’shiel wished she had found a way to warn Mahina of Joyhinia’s plans to bring her down. Had Mahina never been impeached, her life would have taken a very different course.
With a sigh, R’shiel crossed the small village square and shifted the basket of laundry on her hip to a more comfortable position. Crisabelle invited selected officers and their wives to monthly formal dinner parties, which she loved, but everyone else, from the Commandant down, abhorred. No one in the Grimfield dared refuse an invitation. Wilem tolerated them for the sake of peace. Sitting down in his uncomfortable dress uniform once a month was vastly preferable to Crisabelle whining at him daily, and if he had to suffer it, so did his men.
Crisabelle was agonizing over the guest list, wondering who warranted a second invitation, who warranted a first, and who she could leave off without causing offense in the tight-knit community. Mahina helpfully offered her caustic advice for no other reason than to annoy her daughter-in-law. Crisabelle’s attire for the party was almost as big a decision as the guest list, hence her hurried order to R’shiel this morning to have all her good dresses cleaned so that she could choose at the last moment.
“One never knows how one is going to feel on the night, and one must be prepared for all eventualities,”
