“I…I don’t know anything,” Tylar moaned, hating himself for the sob that racked through him.
“Again,” commanded the masklin-wrapped Shadowknight.
Tylar no longer had the strength to tense. He heard the crack of the whip, then felt the lancing sting as a long stripe of flesh was sliced to bone. His body jolted against the whipping post. The flesh on his wrists tore against the unforgiving iron. He hung by his manacles, looped over a hook high on the post, his toes brushing the dirt of the courtyard.
He was stripped to a loincloth. Blood ran down the back of his thighs and calves, dripped from his toes. Tears trailed through his sweat. He stared up at the full face of the lesser moon shining down on him.
He had lost count of the strokes. Eighteen lashes? He wasn’t sure. He had slipped away once, the pain driving him into oblivion. But a splash of cold water had mercilessly revived him, along with a crumpled cloth soaked in bitter alchemies shoved under his nose. Apparently it was rude to sleep during one’s own torture.
Dazed, he slumped against the post, lolling in his manacles. Crowds packed the courtyard stands to watch the spectacle. The trio of adjudicators sat in seats, a silver tray of pomegranates and kettle cakes beside them. The red-robed soothmancer stood at their side, arms crossed. At least he had the decency to look sickened. The group of black-draped Hands clotted in one corner, consoling one another in low whispers, barely noting the festivities.
And a festival it was. The balconies and parapets were crowded with lords and ladies of the high city, servants of the castillion, even some drabbed underfolk who must have bribed their way to a viewing seat. Laughter and shouts for more blood rang off the walls. Black ale flowed along with spiced wine. Somewhere a minstrel played bright tunes, while hundreds of bells rang from the lower city.
The Shadowknight, Darjon ser Hightower, leaned closer to his face, one gloved hand resting against the whipping post. “Tell us the truth, and your death will be swift.”
Tylar tasted blood on his tongue as he attempted to speak. “So you keep promising… but here I keep hanging, though I keep telling you the truth.”
The eyes of his torturer narrowed. “We’ve barely begun here. I can make this last more than a single night.”
Tylar closed his eyes. “You want the truth…?” He took a deep breath, though it pained him to do so.
Darjon bent nearer.
Tylar opened his eyes and spat with the last of his strength, catching the knight square in the face. “There is your truth!”
With a roar, the Shadowknight reared back. He waved an arm to the whipmaster.
The crack of flying leather answered, and Tylar was slammed into the post. His back flashed with fire, his agony darkening the world to a pinpoint. He did not fight it, but instead sank away.
Somewhere far off, he heard a shout. “Keep that up, y’art going to kill him.”
Tylar recognized Rogger’s voice. The thief, bound in ropes off in one corner, seemed to be his only defender. Of course, his pleas for clemency might be self-serving. Once Tylar confessed and was killed, Rogger was due to be impaled next to him, both destined to be bits of decoration for Meeryn’s tomb. So the longer Tylar held out, the longer the thief drew breath.
As Tylar drifted farther away, acrid vapors suddenly assaulted his nostrils. He struggled to get away from them, tossing his head. Cold water flooded over him, shivering over his flesh. He gasped as the world shook back into foggy focus.
He saw the healer’s face hovering at the tip of his nose. “Here he comes,” the man said, pulling away the crumple of stinking cloth. He glanced to Darjon at his shoulder. “He’s lost a lot of vital humour, ser. Next time I might not be able to revive him.”
Darjon swore. “The whip’s not loosening this one’s tongue anyway. We’ll try other tortures that aren’t so bloody. Cut him down!”
A guard rushed forward and unhinged the hook. As the manacles slipped free, Tylar’s body felt tenfold heavier. He collapsed, facedown, into the bloody mud under the post.
The healer dropped to one knee. “I could put some firebalm on his wounds. It stings mightily, but it’ll staunch the bleeding.”
“Do it! I won’t have him dying on us… at least, not yet.”
The healer rummaged in a satchel.
Darjon twisted a fist in Tylar’s hair and pulled his face up. Limned against the full moon, his countenance was entirely shadow. Only his eyes glowed with Grace. “Before this night ends, I will discover what you did to Meeryn.”
Tylar sensed Darjon’s ferocity. And something darker. There was more to this man’s determination than mere vengeance. While punishments could be cruel, torture was not the way of the Order. But Tylar was too tired to curse the man, so he told him the truth in his heart. “You… You disgrace your cloak.”
Darjon shoved him away.
The healer pulled free a tiny clay pot. “This will sting,” he said under his breath.
Tylar steeled himself, though it had done him little good so far.
The healer’s shadow fell over him. Fingers touched his shoulder. The spread of balm on his flesh did not burn. Not at all. Instead, it was like the sweetest nectar on the tongue, a soothing caress on a fevered brow.
Tylar moaned in relief, unable to keep it bottled in his chest. It was as if every scrap of torture-inflicted pain was being repaid in kind by rapturous pleasure. It rippled over his flesh.
A small surprised gasp escaped the healer. “By all the gods!”
“What?” Darjon asked, stepping around.
“He heals with just a touch of the firebalm.” The healer slathered his back with more salve as proof and demonstration. “Look how the lash wounds glow under the balm, and the skin closes over.”
As Tylar shuddered with the pleasure of the balm, Darjon stumbled back a few steps. “The glow…” He swept out with his shadowcloak to command attention. “It is Grace… the Grace stolen from Meeryn! Here is the proof we’ve sought all night! He heals with Meeryn’s own dying Grace!”
Despite the soothing touch of the balm, Tylar groaned.
Figures closed in to witness the miracle. Guards held off all but those who had been in the hall earlier. The adjudicators watched as the healer repeated his demonstration, treating the last of the lash marks. Sounds of amazement rose from those gathered.
A black-gowned figure fell to her knee beside Tylar. She raised her hands to her face, lifting her veil. She was ashen-skinned, her lips daubed black. “It’s blood Grace!” she gasped. “I would know it anywhere…”
Another of the entourage spoke, a man dressed also in black. He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and explained, “Delia was the maiden who handled Her Brightness’s blood.”
Tears rose in the young woman’s eyes. “It is indeed Meeryn!”
“Can there be any doubt of his guilt now?” Darjon said boldly. “I say we put him to more vigorous tests. Grind the truth from his very bones.”
Fervent agreement met his words. Only the kneeling woman looked confused. “Why does he bear her blood?” But no one heard her.
She was helped to her feet by the man who had spoken on her behalf. The crowd dispersed, making room.
Tylar turned.
Darjon led two men. One hulking fellow carried a stump of wood. The other, even larger than the first, carried an immense iron hammer.
As the stump was dropped in the mud at his feet, Darjon bent closer. “There is more than one way to break a man, Godslayer.”
In this instance, the knight was speaking literally.
“Undo his manacles. Drag his right hand onto the wood.”
Tylar balked, understanding what was intended. They meant to pulp him. He fought the guards as his manacles fell away. Not my sword hand. He had regained his dexterity only days ago. He had not even the chance to hold a hilt again.
