He held her gaze with his cold, reptilian eyes. “Witch and gaol-breaker. You will die, Kaetha, that much is certain, but how quickly you will die and how much pain you will suffer? Well, let’s just say, it’s in your best interests to be as helpful to your king, and to me, as you can. Oh . . . and your behaviour may affect the way we decide to treat your father. You should think about that.”
Be strong, Kit, he had said. As I know you are.
“Did you use witchcraft to attack royal guards with fire in a field south-west of Ciadrath, a year and three months ago?” said Sir Jarl.
She was dumbstruck. She had been sure that he would ask her about her father’s escape. How could they suspect that she was the same person whom guards pursued on the night that Rhona fled? Surely no one knew that that had been her, except herself and her father?
She said nothing.
Sir Jarl walked behind her and soon she heard a wheel creaking and the rattling of chains. Dodging out of the way, she just avoided being hit by clinking metal which dropped from the ceiling. Chains ended in iron sleeves which were joined together. Sir Jarl fixed them onto her forearms, taking his time as he screwed them tighter, metal squeezing her flesh. Kaetha’s thoughts raced, her nerves making her tremble as she tried to work out what might be about to happen. Sir Jarl kept silent, not explaining what he was doing. Her arms dropped heavily when he let go of the iron sleeves, then he placed a wooden block before her.
She heard someone else approaching. Assuming it was the torturer’s assistant, she half expected to see a glowing brand appear from the darkness. However, when she saw who it was, she lunged at the new visitor with a snarl, cursing her chains for holding her back.
“So you do know each other?” said Svelrik.
Murdo Macomrag stood outside the cell. He didn’t meet Kaetha’s eyes.
Sir Jarl dragged her backwards. “Up,” he said, dragging her onto the wooden block.
“Macomrag here heard talk of the commotion outside earlier and, fortuitously, decided to investigate,” said Svelrik. “Macomrag?” Murdo’s face grew pale. “You confirm that this is the one you spoke of?”
With the barest of glances at Kaetha, Murdo nodded. “Her father is the traitor, Aedan Baird, whom I brought to you.”
“You son of an arsewit, Macomrag!” growled Kaetha.
“And, if you’ll remember,” continued Murdo, “it was the evidence I discovered which led to the uncovering of the three earls’ treachery and—”
“My father is no traitor!” she interrupted. He wasn’t a traitor to the rightful sovereign; that much was true.
“You lie.” There was a lazy tone to Svelrik’s voice and he leant against the far wall of the cell with his arms crossed over his chest as if he had little interest in what was transpiring. “This is what your lies will do.” The king nodded to Sir Jarl. When the torturer turned the wheel again, the chains secured to Kaetha’s arms rose. She braced herself, glaring at Murdo as she was jerked up with each turn of the wheel. Her arms were high above her head and she could only stand on the wooden block with the balls of her feet.
Sir Jarl came back around to face her. “Was it you who used witchcraft to conjure fire the night the old king died?” he repeated.
She spat in his face.
He kicked the block from under her and she stifled a sound of pain as her body dropped and she hung there, suspended, barely scraping the floor with the tips of her toes. The discomfort was bearable at first and she found she could meet Sir Jarl’s eyes, silently challenging him to do his worst, but soon her stretched body hurt and it grew painful to breathe. Her lungs felt tight and shrunken within her and she closed her eyes to focus better on taking in each shallow breath.
Soon pain flared through her whole body, as though she were being burned from the inside. The pressure of the hot blood trapped in her hands by her constraints was such that she thought it might leak from her fingers and it grew increasingly difficult to breathe.
Svelrik’s cold gaze pierced through her like shards of ice. Why did he want to know if it was her who had conjured fire that night? What was this all about? A subtle nod from him, then the wheel cranked and she collapsed onto the floor.
Svelrik stepped towards her and, with an effort, she pushed herself up from the hard stone, scrambling to her feet. She stood as tall as she could, even though her legs still trembled with pain.
“Tell me, Kaetha,” said Svelrik, his tone calm as if he were about to enquire about the weather. “Who is your father’s contact in Angaul?”
“I don’t know of any contact,” she said.
Svelrik glanced at Sir Jarl and then Kaetha’s arms were being raised up again.
“No, please! It’s the truth,” she said.
Svelrik held up a finger and Sir Jarl stopped the wheel. The king walked around the cell as if he were strolling in a garden. “I think I believe you. Now answer properly this time, was it you who used Fire magic a few miles from Ciadrath a year and three months ago?”
He could already execute her for witchcraft. Why did he want to know this so badly? “I don’t have Fire magic,” she said.
“That’s not true,” interrupted Murdo. “As I told you before, your Grace, I saw her conjure a great white fire back home in Braddon. She’s a witch and a liar.” A
