The Still (72 page)

Willem cried out as his horse stumbled. I reined in, clawed him to his feet. “Mount yourself!”

The stableboy tore past, circled, charged back at us. “Genard, help him!” Tugging at my sword, I galloped toward the wall. The gate was ajar, awaiting us.

The first of Mar’s troops were paces away.

My cursed sword was nearly useless; resplendent with sapphires mounted in gold, it was a single-edged toy. I slashed at an outthrust arm, was rewarded with a scream.

Three horsemen barred my way. Behind them the gate swung closed. What treachery was this? With a shriek I launched myself, and barely avoided being skewered. Steady, boy. Remember your lessons. Thrust and parry. Feint. Defend.

Margenthar’s troop thundered down on us. The gate swung open. Now, what madness? Were we ceding the keep to Uncle Mar?

Mounted and armored, Tursel raced onto the plain. He waved, urging on a mass of his riders mired behind our own infantry.

The two forces closed. Willem swung a short sword; he was no warrior. A foeman came up behind him. Genard leaped from his steed, clutched the attacker from behind, bit down on his neck. The soldier screamed. Genard wrestled the sword from his grasp, smashed the hilt to the rider’s temple, threw down the slack body.

I swung Ebon about, avoiding pike thrusts. A dozen men barred my way to the gate. I saw Vessa canter to the safety of the walls.

“Demon’s spawn!” Savagely, I hacked at an unyielding form. I needed a shield. “Begone!”

The man stumbled. I sliced at his helmet, was rewarded with a satisfying clang and a snarl of fury. I’d done no damage. I reared Ebon, let his hooves fight for me. The foeman went down. Again I reared, my right arm out for balance.

Someone seized my outflung wrist. Ebon plummeted, his deadly hooves striking, and restrained by the foeman’s grip, I plunged from the saddle.

Flat on my back, I fought for wind. Whinnying, Ebon cantered off.

Screams, shouts, the clang of steel.

I straggled to sit. A foot trod on my stomach. I rolled over, retching.

“There he is!” Soldiers helped me rise.

“Thanks,” I gasped. Where had my sword gone? “Find me a—”

Men of Verein.

I broke free, to plunge into the melee. Someone grabbed my jerkin, hauled me back.

I spotted Tursel, frantic, his eyes upon me. I spun at my attacker, clawing at his face. He clubbed me with his shield.

The world reeled.

Mother, help me. Rust, you were right

I’m sorry, Elryc. Do better than I.

Black.

I
WOKE, HEAD THROBBING
, bound hand and foot in a jouncing cart. The more I struggled, the worse the cords cut.

I bucked and heaved, trying to sit. I struck my temple against the side of the cart. My scalp blazed anew.

My hands were tied to my feet, on a rope with little slack. I tried to draw up my knees, to gnaw the ropes.

A shadow passed. Alongside the cart rode Baron Stire, his dagger drawn. His black eyes never left mine. Casually, I leaned back.

The wagon in which I rode was deep within a column of horse. The riders bristled with arms. Spearmen to the outside, swordsmen within, they trotted down the furrowed road. The wagoneer drove with reckless abandon, bouncing me from rut to rut.

I took stock. My dagger was gone, and of course my sword. I couldn’t see my diadem; I must have lost it in the melee.

Stire leaned over, smiled, and spat in my face. I recoiled, unable to raise my hands to wipe off the spittle. Instead, I asked politely, “A trick you learned from your mother?”

He grasped my hair, slammed my head against the sideboard. I gritted my teeth, rode swirling waves of pain.

I lay too low in the cart to gain much sense of our destination, but I could guess: Verein.

Ah, Rustin, if only I’d listened.

I twisted my aching wrists.

At last the cart slowed. A clatter of hooves, shouted commands. For a moment I dreamed of rescue, but Stire paid no heed to the ruckus. Slowly, the craggy turrets of Verein drifted past the cart.

Through the gates. My cart stopped. Arms hauled me out, dragged me unceremoniously through the mud.

Moments after, I was in a stonewalled cell deep within the donjon. They’d freed my feet, but retied my hands behind my back. The door slammed shut. Bolts scraped.

In one corner, a pile of damp straw. High above, on the outer wall, a barred window; at least I’d know night from day. I licked my lips. There was no water, and with my wrists bound behind, no way to bring it to my mouth.

“Mother.” I recoiled at my voice; I hadn’t known I’d spoken aloud. Mother, what should I do? Wait? Scream? Sit?

What will Stire do with me? Is Mar here, or at Cumber? Is Raeth’s castle breached? I sank on the straw. What of Rust? I’d spurned him before all my court; he could never pardon me.

It was all I could do to keep from gibbering. From Mother, no response, even in the recesses of my mind.

The day passed, and a night. My lips cracked from thirst. I could no longer feel my hands. To ease my terror I spoke to Anavar, to Elryc. I begged Rust’s forgiveness. I curled under his blanket, rested my head in the crook of his arm.

The scrape of a bar. I staggered to my feet. The door opened. Stire, with guards. One bore a serving board. A shank of meat, an apple, a slab of bread. My mouth watered. Stire took the tray, dumped the contents into my straw bedding. “Root in that, youngsire.”

“Untie me,” I croaked, but I was barely audible.

Stire snorted his contempt, and the door slammed shut.

On my knees, weeping with frustration, I bobbed in the filthy straw for the apple. Behind me, pains tore at my wrists. At last I nuzzled the apple to the wall, got my teeth into it, carved out a bite. As I chewed, the remainder rolled into the bedding. I fell upon it, took a bite of apple and foul straw.

The juice teased my raging thirst. While I wrestled with the meat, many-legged creatures scuttled across my face. After, I lay exhausted. I needed to piss, but they’d provided no chamber pot. Not even a hole in the floor. Moreover, I had no way to loosen the rope of my belt. I wondered if I’d be spared the misery and humiliation of wetting myself.

As the distant light faded to night, the door scraped again.

“Get him up.”

My eyes snapped open. Uncle Mar.

As hands dragged at my arms I cried out in torment. Nonetheless I found myself on my feet, held by each arm. I squinted past the torch. Mar, Stire, two guards. One of them carried another board of food, and a narrow-mouthed jug.

My uncle turned to Stire, his tone grim. “The pleasure of Roddy is to be mine, not yours.”

Stire grunted.

Mar’s eyes were coals. “Do you usurp me, sir?”

“No, my duke,” Stire said quickly. He shot me a venomous look.

“Free his wrists. Don’t slash him.”

Stire spun me around. In a moment my hands dropped to my sides. I could feel nothing. I raised them to my face. My wrists were oozing and swollen.

“Stire dislikes you.”

I croaked, “A pity.”

Uncle Mar slapped me so hard I saw fire. “As do I.” To the guard, “Leave him the board, but not water. Let him drink his fill while you wait, then take away the jug.”

“Aye, my lord.”

I stifled a sob. By all the demons of the lake, I wouldn’t cry while they watched. I would not.

Mar strode out, Stire a step behind. The guard handed me the jug. I fumbled with numb fingers. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t raise it to my lips.

One guard watched, impassive. The other frowned, pried the jug from my hand, held it to my mouth, tilted.

I drank of life.

After a time I had to stop for breath. Then greedily I sought again the stoneware teat. When the bottle was drained I nodded my thanks. They left me in dark.

I gnawed my dinner, pausing from time to time to lick the ooze from my wrists. My fingers began to sting; perhaps it was a hopeful sign.

After, I pounded on the door to attract a guard. None came. Unable to wait, I relieved myself in the farthest corner. Mother, Rustin ... stay with me, take my hand. Tell me tales of yore.

I unhooked my bedraggled cloak, decided I needed it more as a blanket than an undersheet. The straw reeked almost beyond bearing.

Two days passed.

I no longer smelled the stench of the corner I used for a midden. Guards bearing meals were a welcome diversion. As always they left meat and bread, but waited while I drank from the jug.

I babbled incessantly. I told myself stories of Mother’s grandfather Varon of the Steppe. Of the fabled Norland raids. Of a stunt horse I’d seen at a fair.

On the third day the guards reappeared, with Uncle Mar. He wrinkled his nose. “You always were a dirty boy.”

I strove for dignity. “Why keep me here?”

“For amusement. You have no other worth.”

“When you tire of your pastime, return the Vessels you stole from Stryx.”

“Good heavens, you still think yourself King?”

I shrugged. No reason to reply.

“Shall I teach you manners, child?”

It stung me. “Could you?”

He punched me in the stomach, threw me to the stone floor, dropped atop me. He unsheathed his dagger. “Yes, nephew, I believe I could.” He took my face in his hands and carved a long jagged slice, ear to chin.

My anguished shrieks echoed from the cell walls. I thrashed on the cobbles, blinded with blood. In my frenzy I rolled onto my bed, found my cloak, crushed it against my wound.

“Mother of Nature imps and demons
RUSTIN!!
No, oh, no!” I thrashed like a babe denied a sweet. “Make it stop!” Had he taken my eye? I didn’t dare pull loose the cloak.

After a time I sensed I was alone. My throat was raw; how long had I been wailing? Each move brought agony; I forced myself to lie still. I would be no coward. I’d sworn not to let fear—I’d be no coward. A sob caught me, and the stretch of my mouth stirred the coals of pain. I howled. I was coward, and didn’t care who knew.

In morn, I thought I’d had a frightful dream, until I tried to move.

When the guards came, I used half my water to soak my cloak so I could peel it from my face. After, I couldn’t eat, from the hurt. That night—perhaps by chance—they brought mush in a bowl, and if I took great care I could swallow without greatly moving my mouth.

Days passed, and the pile of ordure in the corner grew. My face was hot to the touch. I was infested with mites, and some of my scratches bled.

Uncle Mar came to visit, with the usual guards.

“Well, boy, have you manners?”

I nodded, afraid to speak.

“Elryc is dead, by the way. From poison. No one knows his assassin.”

I made an awful sound.

“I thought you’d like to know. Thank me for telling you.”

I couldn’t. Not for life itself.

“Hold him.” Uncle Mar sauntered to where I stood, pulled out his blade. He cut the rope to my breeches, and they fell. I could do nothing. With one tug he split the seam of my loincloth. He reversed the dagger, prodded my shrinking testicles with the icy hilt.

I squealed, unable to loosen the guards’ grip.

“Dear Roddy, in about a month I’m going to castrate you. I’ll do it this moment unless you’re exceedingly polite.”

“Yes, Uncle. I’m sorry, sire. I’ll be polite now. Thank you for telling me about Elryc!” Could I bite off my tongue and end my gibbering surrender?

No. I was coward. “Thank you so much, sir!”

“Much better, Roddy.” He ruffled my hair, as if with affection. “Let him go.” He strolled out.

As days passed, Uncle’s visits became more frequent. He had me agree I was a fool, a dolt, a stinking peasant, a lover of sheep. Once, when I failed to please him, he seized my left hand and, ignoring my screams, bent back two fingers until they snapped. That night, whimpering, I fashioned a makeshift bandage from my shirt, hoping they’d heal straight.

Next visit, Mar had me dance like a drunken vagabond around a campfire. At his urging, I thanked him for the instruction.

My face began to knit.

With the lessening of pain came the beginning of resolve. There was no hook from which to hang myself, but I began to seek to die.

One day, apparently, the stench of my cell was too much for Duke Mar. He sent guards with a barrow, a fresh bundle of straw, and instructions to have me washed. When afterward I was led back to my cell, the pile of filth was gone, and a chipped chamber pot sat in the corner. I was so grateful I almost wept. I sat rubbing the scab on my cheek, appalled at the station to which I’d sunk.

As before, they let me have no water, save what I could consume in their presence. Knowing I could only drink twice a day, I drained the jug, and as always, was beset an hour later with desperate need to piss.

Another day, another visit from Uncle. He asked nothing of me, but played with his dagger, a small smile flitting about his lips as his eyes roved my body. When he left I was drenched with sweat.

Yes, it was time to die.

Mumbling to myself, I measured the cell. Could I throw myself against the wall hard enough to snap my neck? I’d only get one chance.

I took off the belt I’d reknotted. Could I wrap it round my throat tight enough so my frantic efforts couldn’t untie it?

In the end, I decided on the chamber pot. Smashed, it would yield jagged pieces. At least one would serve to slice my throat. With an imagined shard I practiced the motion. One firm slash, too quick to allow pain.

The day I’d chosen to be my last, after breakfast and my jug of water, I sat on the straw. “I was King,” I told the dank cell. Only for a while, but the dream had been accomplished. “Sorry, Mother. I wasn’t very good at it.”

She made no answer.

“And I never used the Still.” I giggled. “I held myself virgin for naught.” I might as well have bedded Tresa. Or even Chela, that wicked day in the clearing.

No, not Chela. She was beneath me. But Tresa, now ... I recalled our embraces. She was a good woman, and kind. And her breasts were inviting and warm. Despite myself, I grew hard, and didn’t stop recalling her until my loincloth hung sticky about my waist. I looked down, ashamed. “Well, Mother, that’s a virgin’s way.” I grimaced. Even Rust’s attentions were preferable.