Myrren's Gift (8 page)

“I beg you, sir,” the victim had beseeched and Myrren had clenched her eyelids tight and had tried to close off her hearing but could not. She knew there would be no mercy now, not for a killer…certainly not for one who would not admit to murdering in cold blood.

Two specially crafted vises had then been clamped around the woman’s feet. She had been still too much in a swoon from the pain of her flogging to even realize that more pain was coming. Needless to say it had not taken too many twists of the cruel screws to shatter the shin bone in one of her legs, at which point the victim had screeched a confession, agreeing that she had in fact planned and then murdered her husband without remorse. Myrren could tell that the Confessor had little interest in pursuing the truth, particularly in the cases of common criminals. She understood that Lymbert did not view extracting confessions from thieves, bandits, and murderers as his appointed duty. It seemed he wanted the old woman dealt with as quickly as possible, in order to pursue his real interest—the annihilation of witches and warlocks, what he called the curse of society. Myrren’s father had once shared a rumor he had heard that Lymbert’s grandparents had been fervent Zerques. whose only daughter had supposedly been killed by a suspected witch four decades previous. As a result, right from childhood Lymbert had harbored a grudge against anyone who supposedly dealt in matters of magic—and extended this to herbmen and herbwomen. whom he believed drew on devil craft for their healings. Fearful for their daughter. Myrren’s parents had gathered as much information as possible about the Confessor. Lymbert was renowned for being so stringent in his investigations that he never brought a victim to trial without their conviction being a certainty—and Myrren knew it would have taken only one glance at her eyes for him to be sure of winning a conviction in her case.

Myrren opened those same odd eyes now and fought back tears at the memory of the older woman’s terror. She remembered how Lymbert had turned and smiled directly at her as he watched the woman put her mark to the confession and sent her away to die at the end of a rope, no doubt. The message Myrren received from that cold grin had been unmistakable. He was reserving her for much harsher treatment. The woman had been carried off and not heard from again, presumably dispatched that same day.

Lymbert’s assistant, the same one who had used her body, had then untied Myrren, blowing his foul breath into her face as he had whispered all the other sexual obscenities he would like to inflict on her. He had deliberately let her fall when the bindings had come loose and had then savagely grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to her feet but still she had given none of those present the satisfaction they so desperately wanted.

“Back to her cell,” Lymbert had commanded, unmoved by her courage. “The witch, Myrren of Baelup, will undergo second-degree torture in three days,” Lymbert had proclaimed to all present. Then he had looked at her. “That should give you sufficient time, my dear, to lick your wounds”—he had chuckled softly at his jest—“and perhaps loosen your tongue.”

So now she sat in the dungeon contemplating the next stage, when Lymbert and his henchmen would get down to the real business of torture. Myrren was not sure whether it was day or night. The cell was small, windowless and airless save whatever fetid air might leak up the corridor and through her bars.

She huddled herself on the ground, naked but for a rough scrap of blanket crawling with biting insects.

Nevertheless it was all she had and the young woman wrapped herself as best she could, turning away from the doorway.

She thought of her parents but did not cry this time—it seemed every pointless tear had leaked from her body. But then she thought of the black puppy and tears surged again. He had been a special present and had brought such joy. Myrren had called him Knave. He was abandoned now—she felt sure her mother would not be of a state of mind to care about a dog.

“I wish I could fight back,” she whispered. “If I were a witch, I’d seek revenge.” The tears came for Knave and with them a voice in her head.

Fear not, my child. You are no witch but you will have your vengeance.

“Who speaks?” she whispered, terrified, whipping her head around in the darkness.

I am Elysius
, the man spoke into her mind.

A few hours later Myrren felt exhausted but at peace. She was amazed that she could think so calmly about the inescapable trauma that lay ahead of her. Elysius had explained much. Now she understood.

He had urged her to be brave. She realized she had no choice to be anything but courageous.

Lymbert and his henchmen were preparing to come for her. The Confessor had sent her some items of clothing. Through his aide he insisted she wear them but she soon found out they were nothing more sophisticated than a piece of rough cloth with a hole for her head, and another strip of fabric for a belt.

Myrren wondered if Lymbert had suddenly had a change of heart and would allow her a modicum of dignity through her trial. But nothing about Lymbert’s conduct so far could convince her that he possessed any empathy for his victims. She dismissed her notion as wishful but gladly donned the garment. In sudden inspiration she used the blunt spoon that sat amongst the congealed mess that passed as food in this place to scratch a message onto one of the stones. It made her feel defiant in these last hours of her life.

Myrren felt grateful that since hearing the voice of Elysius she had felt a strange numbness overtake her body. She recalled his softly spoken words now, repeating them silently to herself.

They will hurt yon, my little one. But the pain will be minimized. I cannot save you but I will give
you the means to avenge your death. Hear me now, I give you a gift
—and he had told her it all.

Why can I not use this gift to save myself
? she had asked into this strange void opened in her mind.

Because, child, they will burn you. It will not work
. And he had explained why.

She had fought back the initial surge of hope as understanding dawned. He had spoken more but it was of an intimate nature. She had heard his words, his explanation of who she truly was. Despite the shock of it, she had loved him then for sharing the news and she had buried the information within. She would not resurrect that joy and have it tarnished here by these proceedings.

Myrren of Baelup was no witch but she had a gift to give that would unleash a relentless power until it found the true target of her vengeance.

Myrren considered her torture now. Lymbert’s choice would most likely be the rack, for his eyes had lit up at its mention during her tour, and probably thumbscrews, which she had seen the Confessor almost lovingly stroke when he had presented them to her.

But Myrren was wrong.

When they led her once again into the main torture chamber it seemed he had reserved something far more special for her. Many more people had gathered, including the smug Lord Rokan, invited no doubt to savor the results of his connivings. In fact the room was crowded with men, none hooded this time, eager to witness her trial and the confession.

Wyl stood rigid next to Celimus in the torture chamber. The men gathered were talking excitedly; some jocular and a few voices raised in obvious anticipation of what was to come. The Prince joined in the animated conversations while Wyl scowled and made a poor attempt to mask his nervousness at being in this place.

Celimus had taken him by surprise with this jaunt. Wyl gathered he was here to witness something unpleasant; he too had heard the bells and Gueryn’s solid education told him what they meant. But he had not yet put it together in his mind that he was present to see the torture of a witch. Even now as a hush began to spread around the room, Wyl expected it would be the hasty confession of a criminal that Celimus’s warped mind felt he needed to see.

Of course he wondered why so many would be present but his anxiety prevented him from exploring that notion. His question was answered when a man called Lymbert announced himself and the witch Myrren.

Her arrival silenced the chamber and Wyl held his breath when he saw the attractive young woman raise her head and challenge her audience with a compelling gaze that saw most of the men clear their throats and cast their eyes toward their feet. It was a small win, Wyl felt, but he applauded her courage nonetheless and he hoped it fueled her obvious resolve to die bravely.

Rough hands began to tear the flimsy garment from her body and Lymbert’s seeming generosity fell into place for the falsity it was: he had insisted on her being robed only in order to make the theater of her torture, beginning with nakedness, that much more dramatic for his audience. Wyl could not know this but he did not need further reason to dislike the man after watching the way he licked his lips at her nakedness and helplessness.

The rents in Myrren’s robe revealed her body, just blossomed into womanhood, and the audience’s gaze no longer rested in discomfort by its collective feet but was drawn all too hungrily toward her bared skin.

A squealing noise distracted them and Wyl, together with the rest of the onlookers, glanced above where a strange contraption was being lowered from the ceiling. His attention was quickly drawn back to Myrren, whom he also noticed did not give Lymbert the pleasure of her fear. She ignored both her Confessor and the contraption, instead fixing her focus on Wyl.

He could not help but wonder what she thought of him with his crop of bright red hair atop a plain and lightly freckled face, which he knew was heavily written with despair. His own unremarkable eyes were riveted upon her. Not upon her bare flesh but on her own ill-matched eyes. He watched her expression soften as she regarded him and she even dared the barest of smiles. He was so petrified on her behalf he did not have the ability to muster even the hint of a smile in return.

Wyl heard Lymbert making some announcement to those gathered, who nodded and made sounds of approval, led by her accuser, Rokan, but neither he nor Myrren paid attention. Wyl surmised she had lost all notion of embarrassment at her nudity but from her grimace was perhaps more acutely aware of her hands being tied tightly behind her.

A cleric was brought to absolve her of her sins and as she turned her gaze on him, Wyl watched the man recoil at the sight of her eyes. Nevertheless, he prayed to Shar’s Gatherers to claim her soul and for that Wyl was grateful.

“Thank you,” Wyl heard her utter to the cleric as he began his mournful prayer to guide her soul to Shar.

She looked over the short priest’s bowed head, her attention drawn again to Wyl, who watched her gaze shift now towards Celimus and who heard Myrren’s sharp intake of breath. Her captors probably thought it was because they had just tested the ropes that bound her hands but Wyl was sure Myrren’s sound had escaped at the beauty of his companion and he hated Celimus all the more for having her attention.

That same beautiful man leered at her nakedness and whispered something lewd to Wyl, who scowled with disgust and blushed furiously. Hitting his mark, Celimus laughed loudly and Rokan nearby joined in.

Celimus muttered, none too softly over the prayer, that the trial had been his idea. People nodded and grinned.

“And it was I who discovered the witch in the first place, my Prince,” Lord Rokan added, keen to be included in the praise.

Wyl saw Celimus scowl in Rokan’s direction and it seemed the middle-aged noble considered it politic to remain quiet from here on and allow the young royal to have his moment.

“Have you anything to say?” Lymbert’s voice suddenly boomed to Myrren above the idle murmurings.

Apparently the priest had stopped his praying, not that Wyl had noticed.

He watched Myrren take a deep breath and look around her. “Yes,” she replied. “Who is that person?” Lymbert stepped aside, taken aback by her odd question, and looked at those gathered. “Which one?” Myrren stared at Celimus. “You.”

Wyl did not have to look to know7 it. He could feel the triumph emanating from Celimus and imagined the smile stretching across his face. Wyl felt disappointment knife through him that she had chosen the Prince for recognition and he looked down while Celimus took a step forward, all easy grace and arrogant swagger.

“My lady,” he said, accentuating his words to ensure the insult could not be mistaken for genuine politeness. “I am Prince Celimus.”

Wyl glanced toward her. Whether she was surprised to share such lofty company for her forthcoming pain, he could not tell for she managed to keep her expression unmoved, her voice steady. “I understand why the pig-fingered Lord Rokan would bring along his bruised ego and flaccid member for inflation at my expense.” There was a series of audible gasps followed by snickers amongst the audience and Wyl reveled in the high color suddenly on the cheeks of the noble who had brought about her ruin. “But why,” she continued, “would a Prince of the realm have any interest in this—” she swept her strange eyes around the chamber—“mummery? For that’s what this is, sire.” Wyl watched the Prince grin and wondered whether it made Myrren’s heart flutter as it did so many of the young noblewomen of Pearlis.

“Lord Rokan’s flaccid member aside, madam, I am here in the name of education,” Celimus replied and then Wyl felt himself grabbed by the Prince. He struggled but Celimus held him firmly. “This lad here has never watched a witch confess before. As he is soon to lead our great Legion and stand up as my Champion when I am King, I felt it was my duty to expand his knowledge of Stoneheart’s ways, which has been sadly lacking in his life. He’s a country bumpkin, you see.” This time Wyl twisted away angrily from Celimus’s grip and shook his head vehemently so Myrren would know his attendance here was forced. He remained silent, though, imploring the woman before him to understand.

She nodded at Celimus but this time her gaze rested on Wyl. “Thank you.” she offered and he knew she understood. “Do what you will, Lymbert. You’ll get no confession from me.”

“Feisty.” Celimus said, running his tongue over his lips. “Pity she had to be broken so. I would have bedded her first and loosened her mouth by a different sort of torture.” Everyone around him laughed loudly again, led by Lord Rokan aiming to ingratiate himself to the crowd once more after the young woman’s heinous accusation.