He saw the terrible understanding in her eyes as she glanced at the blade, thought that, perhaps, she would finally tell him what he wanted to know, but when she looked back to him, her gaze hardened. “That’s it?” she asked. “That’s your big threat? I’m over seventy years old, Prince. Fire and salt, I have more pain than you could cause with that little toy of yours every time I take a piss.”
Feledias’s anger, his impatience to find his brother, demanded that he attack the woman, that he carve his fury into her flesh piece by piece, but he forced himself to remain calm, to take a slow, deep breath. He smiled then. “You are a fool, but a brave one, that much I’ll grant you. Still,” he said, glancing at the open door of the inn and those villagers gathered inside, more being added all the time as his soldiers scoured the village, “I wonder, are these others quite so brave? Would you be so willing to watch them suffer and die because you chose to remain silent?”
The older woman glanced back at the doorway, and for the first time her expression showed something that it had not yet—fear. Feledias smiled. Every person had his weakness, his pressure point. For most, it was simply themselves, fear that they—that who they were—might be altered, might be changed, and it was enough to plant in them the idea of what life would look like with one less finger, one less hand. Or, how they would feel about not living at all. That worked most of the time, but not always.
There were some people—not many, but some—who needed some other sort of motivation, and this nearly always came in the form of their family, their friends. After all, no man or woman walked the world alone, without connection. The closest, perhaps, was his own wayward brother, Cutter, and even he had his weakness.
Everyone did. And once you found it, getting what you wanted from them, making them little more than your puppet, was no more difficult than lifting the strings and making them dance. He had always known this, even before his brother’s betrayal, had looked at these different levers a person might pull to get what he wanted, and they had served him well in various diplomatic negotiations. He had been a puppet master then, too, but one constrained by his own morality and society’s conventions. Now, though, he entertained no such constraints. He would have his vengeance, no matter what.
“Ah,” he said, smiling at the old woman’s troubled expression. “It seems we’ve found the crack in your armor after all.”
“Leave them out of this,” she said, “they got nothin’ to do with it. They ain’t none of your business.”
“Well, now, that’s where you’re wrong, peasant,” Feledias said. “You see, I’m High Prince of the realm which means that every single person—noble or commoner, even old innkeepers and backwater hicks—are my business.”
He glanced back at the door once more, at the villagers huddled, frightened inside the inn. He caught sight of one, a girl in her teens, perhaps early twenties. Pretty, for a peasant. He motioned to one of the soldiers at the door. “Bring me the girl.”
The girl in question screamed as they approached, backing away, but the soldier grabbed her, dragging her out of the inn to throw her at Feledias’s feet beside the old woman.
“N-Netty?” the girl asked, her brown eyes wide and confused, clearly looking for comfort.
“I-it’s okay, Emille,” the old woman said. “Everything will be okay.”
Feledias’s grin widened as he saw the fear in the old woman’s face magnified as she stared at the girl. A close friend, perhaps? A stand-in for the daughter she never had? “Everything will be okay?” he said, then gave a sad shake of his head. “Oh, but I’m afraid that’s just not true.” Feledias paused, meeting the girl’s eyes. “In fact, my dear, things are very far from okay. You see, your Netty here will not answer my questions, and so you’re going to die. Badly, I’m afraid.”
The girl whimpered then, her tanned farmer’s skin growing pale as she looked at the woman. “Netty,” she said. “I don’t—”
“Hush now, child,” the old woman said, but she was not looking at the girl, was instead looking at him. “Go on, then,” she spat. “Ask your questions.”
Feledias said, “That’s better, isn’t it? Now, we can all get along. So tell me, peasant, how long ago did my brother leave?”
The old woman shrugged. “A day? Day and a half? He traveled—”
She cut off with a gasp as Feledias casually reached over and backhanded the young woman. The woman screamed in shock and pain, falling onto her side in the dirt.
“You’re lying,” Feledias said calmly. “Tell me, lass,” he said, looking at the weeping girl, at the undeniably shapely figure beneath the simple linen dress she wore, “have you ever known the touch of a man?”
“Leave her alone, you bastard,” the old woman hissed.
The girl said nothing, only looked at him, trembling. “Well,” Feledias said, “you will. If your Netty here tries to lie to me again or does anything other than tell me exactly what I want to know, I’ll see to your education myself. And when I’m done with that, I’ll give you to my soldiers—they are not so kind as me, I’m afraid, not so…gentle.”
“An hour ago,” the old woman sneered. “No more than that.”
“That’s better,” he said, offering her a smile. “And tell me, where did they go?”
“And how in the name of the gods would I know that?” she asked. “It isn’t as if they asked my opinion on it, is it?”
Feledias watched her for a moment then shrugged. He motioned
