Souls of Aredyrah 3 - The Taking of the Dawn (38 page)

He removed the tunic from the wardrobe and
brought it to his nose, breathing in the scent of what he used to
be. A rush of memories filled his mind, but there was no time to
dwell on the past. He pulled the tunic over his head and belted it
with a fine chain of gold, then draped a velvet cloak of the same
emerald color upon his shoulders. After securing it with a brooch,
he pulled on his best deerskin boots and hurriedly exited the
room.

Outside the newly-built palace wing that
housed Whyn and his personal servants, a guard stood at attention,
prepared to escort him to the nearby catacombs. At one time, the
catacombs had only housed the remains of the dead. Later, it had
imprisoned political enemies as well. But the recent earthquake had
very nearly destroyed it. Only recently had it been cleared of
enough rubble to bring the tunnels, at least somewhat, to their
original state. The catacombs now held a single prisoner, the only
one worth keeping, and as was Whyn’s daily custom, he was heading
to see that prisoner now. But this time his purpose in visiting was
far different.

The guard, torch in hand, escorted Whyn
through the narrow entrance of the tunnels and down a dark, winding
corridor. It did not take long to reach the cell of destination.
After securing the torch in a metal bracket on the wall, the guard
lifted a ring of keys from a nearby peg. He unlocked the door to
the cell and shoved it open, then grabbed the torch and moved to
usher Whyn inside.

“Hand me the torch,” Whyn said. “Today I go
in alone.”

The guard hesitated, but knew better than to
disobey. “As you wish, my lord,” he said.

“And the keys,” Whyn said. He snapped his
fingers, then took the ring being held out to him. “You may leave,
but wait at the entrance. And keep alert should I need you.”

The guard bowed and retreated into the
shadows.

Whyn held out the torch as he stepped into
the musty cell. It was small, and thick with the miasma of human
waste and utter despair. A sudden movement and the rattle of chains
directed Whyn’s attention to the far corner.

“Lyal,” Whyn said gently.

Lyal scrabbled along the wall, trying to
distance himself from the glaring light turned in his direction.
But the chains at his ankles allowed him no retreat.

Whyn reached a hand toward him. “I am not
here to harm you,” he said.

Lyal recoiled against the wall, his chains
stretched as far as they would go. “Stay away from me,” he rasped.
His eyes, anguished in the glare of the torch, blinked wildly.

“Does the light hurt you?” Whyn asked. “Here,
I will move it further away.” He placed the torch in the bracket
outside the door.

Lyal stared up like an animal caught in a
snare. To look at him, one would have thought he was. His hair was
filthy and matted, and his once handsome face was swollen with
bruises. His body, thin and weak, was caked with his own excrement
and infected with the bite marks of the vermin that shared his
cell.

Whyn stepped closer. He squatted down and
fingered Lyal’s tangled hair. Lyal cringed and jerked from Whyn’s
touch.

“I regret that she did this to you,” Whyn
said. “But you must understand; it was not me; it was her.”

Lyal turned away, cowering against the
wall.

“Look at me, Lyal,” Whyn said firmly. “I want
you to see me as I truly am.”

Lyal eased his eyes toward him. “I see only a
murderer and a tyrant,” he said, then flinched as if expecting a
blow.

Whyn sighed. “She is that, and more. But she
is gone now.”

Lyal’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean,
gone?”

Whyn rose and turned in a slow circle. He
stopped, his hands beseeching Lyal to gaze upon him. “Do you not
see? I am all man now; no longer am I man
and
she-witch!”

“How can I…trust you?” Lyal said. “After what
you did—”

“After what
she
did,” Whyn corrected.
He knelt before Lyal. “I swear to you. I have freed myself of her.
It was no easy task, but I have done it!”

“What is that to me?” Lyal asked
cautiously.

“Freedom.”

Lyal’s eyes grew wide. “Freedom?”

Whyn held up the ring and
jangled
the
keys. “I have come to set you free. But before I release you from
your chains, you must promise not to run or to do me harm. An armed
guard waits for us at the entrance. He will escort us back to the
palace where you will be given a hot bath, clean clothes, and as
much food and drink as you desire. I owe you that, and more. But if
you betray me in this, Lyal, the only bath you will find yourself
in will be that of your own blood. Do you understand?”

Lyal hesitated, then nodded.

“I swear to you on my father’s grave,” Whyn
said. “I only wish to help you.” And with that he twisted the key
and released the prisoner from his chains.

* * * *

Lyal followed Whyn toward the palace, every
agonizing step a reminder of the abuse he had suffered. At times
the guard escorting them had to prop Lyal up and half-carry him.
Other times Lyal was left to stumble along on his own. The blinding
glare of daylight, coupled with the fogginess in his head, forced
him to keep his bearings by training his eyes on the green cape
that fluttered before him. The King was but steps in front of him,
well within his reach. But even had Lyal possessed the strength to
raise a hand to him, for some strange reason he no longer possessed
the desire.

Whyn turned and gazed warmly into Lyal’s
eyes, and Lyal could not help but meet his in return. When Whyn had
first presented himself to Lyal shortly after his capture, the King
had not seemed human at all. His eyes had been red and demonic,
like a beast from another world, and the cruelty in his soul had
been etched upon his face, much like the ancient ritual of
scarification. But now the young King appeared handsome and gentle
and kind. Was it possible that Whyn spoke the truth? Had he truly
been possessed by an evil entity, but now was rid of her?

“Here we are,” Whyn said as they approached
the palace door.

Lyal shifted his gaze to the rose-colored
building before them. Though the palace was currently nothing more
than a single wing that housed the King and his servants, based on
the construction going on around them, it would soon return to its
original grandeur.

As Lyal glanced around, he recognized the
faces of many of the slaves that toiled in the rubble and rising
frameworks of the structure. Most of them were Shell Seekers,
though they no longer wore shells around their necks or kohl around
their eyes. One by one they stopped their work and watched as Lyal
passed. There was pity in their faces, he realized, pity for him.
It filled him with humiliation, but then anger rose to take its
place. Why should they feel pity for
him
? he seethed. Were
they
not the ones whose backs would soon be striped for
stopping their work? Was he not the one who would soon be bathed
and fed and pampered by the King himself? He turned his eyes
forward, determined to ignore their penetrating stares. He had paid
his dues, certainly more than the rest of them. None of them had
endured the abuse that he had. Not one of them had been thrown into
a dismal cell, their body ravaged and tortured in ways they could
not imagine. Only he had suffered that. Only he was due the
restitution of the King.

Two guards pushed open the great double doors
leading into the palace wing. Whyn entered and Lyal followed.
“Prepare a bath for our guest!” Whyn barked to the servants now
hustling around them.

Lyal gazed, awestruck, at the cavernous
foyer. It was wide and high-ceilinged and decorated in elaborate
tapestries and elegant furnishings. Lyal slowed his pace as he
drank in the magnificence of the entryway.

“Come…come,” Whyn coaxed. “No need to linger
in the hall.”

Lyal stepped more quickly, but was suddenly
aware of the grime that coated his skin and the stench that clouded
his body. How could he bring such filth into a place like this? He
hunched his shoulders as though, like a turtle, he could hide
within himself.

Whyn glanced back, recognizing his
discomfort. “Do not feel unworthy, Lyal,” he said. “It is not your
fault that you are in such a state. You should be proud of the way
you stood up to her.”

“Proud?” Lyal said. If he had had the
stamina, he would have laughed.

Whyn stopped and turned to face him. “You
endured much,” he said. “I regret I was a party to it, but please
know that all the while you were suffering, I was suffering
also.”

Lyal lowered his gaze and remained
silent.

Whyn gathered Lyal’s face into his hands,
forcing Lyal to look at him. Lyal’s first instinct was to jerk
away, but as he stared into the endless blue of Whyn’s eyes, he
found it impossible.

“Do you think I enjoyed tormenting you in
that filthy cell?” Whyn asked. “Well, I loathed it. Every moment of
it. She made me do those things to you, Lyal. It was my punishment
as much as it was yours.”

“Your punishment?” Lyal asked, realizing that
in a strange way, he was beginning to feel pity for the King.

“Yes,
my
punishment. You see, I said
the one word to her that she does not like to hear: ‘no’. And for
that I was forced to abuse you in the muck and the stench of your
cell.” Whyn released Lyal’s face. “But now I shall help you forget
the pain and the humiliation you endured. And in so doing, perhaps
I shall forget it also.”

Whyn turned his attention to a nearby open
door. Serving girls scurried in and out of the room beyond it.
“Ah,” he said. “I believe your bath is ready.”

He led Lyal through the doorway and gestured
toward a large bathing cask located beneath a window of frosted
glass. Thick steam rose from within, beckoning Lyal to the comforts
of the tub. But he could only stop and stare.

“Come,” Whyn said. “Do not be shy.”

Lyal slowly approached the cask. More than
anything he longed to strip off his clothes and dive in, to scrub
his body free of the grime and the vile memories of the cell. As he
drew nearer, he noticed flower petals floating atop the water’s
surface, adding their essence to the scented candles that glittered
the room. On a nearby chair, soft fluffy towels were stacked, and
against the wall a large poster bed, thick with comforters and
downy pillows, invited him to it.

He was soon surrounded by serving girls who
undressed him and led him to the cask, all the while caressing him
with gentle hands. Had he been in a better state, he would have
enjoyed the attention and risen to the occasion. But as he was now,
he felt only shame.

Lyal entered the tub as directed, and slowly
rested the back of his head against the rim. He closed his eyes,
trying to focus on the comforts of the water and that of the hands
now sponging his body from head to toe.

“Drink, good sir,” a soft feminine voice
said.

Lyal opened his eyes to see a golden goblet
suspended before him, held in the delicate hand of a pretty young
serving girl. He sat up and took it from her with a nod of thanks,
but his hands were shaking so badly he did not know if he could
hold it.

“Here, allow me,” the girl said. She wrapped
her hands around his and tilted the goblet to his lips. “The King
wishes you to drink this. It will hasten the healing of your
wounds.”

The wine tasted sweet on Lyal’s tongue, but
the aftertaste was bitter and strange. It stung his lips and burned
his throat as it made its way down, and for a moment he felt the
need to retch. But then a cool cloth was placed upon his forehead,
held there by caring fingers, while others massaged eucalyptus oil
into the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders. Lyal felt his
body relax and his mind drift. Again the wine was held to his lips,
but this time his body accepted it without complaint.

“Well done, Lyal,” Whyn said. “You shall soon
feel better.”

The voice jerked Lyal back to reality. The
King was still in the room, he realized, standing near the cask,
watching as the girls massaged the pain and filth from his body.
Lyal swallowed thickly. Heat rushed to his cheeks. For a moment he
thought to cover himself with his hands, but as he looked at Whyn,
he realized he felt no shame or fear toward the handsome young
ruler, only gratitude and affection. It was Whyn who had rescued
him. It was Whyn who would protect him now. No longer did the King
seem like an enemy or an abuser. If anything, he seemed more like
his friend. Whatever of Lyal that Whyn wanted, Lyal would give to
him, and gladly. Whyn was his savior now. And gods willing, Lyal
would be his.

****

The banquet table was covered with more food
and drink than Lyal had seen in his twenty-something life. As he
stood in the doorway, he could not help but gawk at the feast that
filled the room before him. The King had said he would be well fed,
but never in Lyal’s wildest dreams could he have imagined this!
Surely others would be attending, he reasoned; this could not be
for him alone. But other than the dozen or so servants scurrying
about, he appeared to be the only one there.

He was escorted to a massive high-backed
chair at one end of the table and invited to sit. A goblet of wine
was immediately placed before him, the jeweled decanter from which
it was poured well within his reach. An identical chair faced him
on the opposite end of the table, and he could not help but pray
the King would soon be sitting in it.

Lyal moved his gaze from the empty chair
across the way and toward the lavish feast. At the center rested a
mound of roasted fowl, cooked to a golden brown. The aroma of it
was so enticing, Lyal was certain he could see it wafting through
the air. Clusters of fat, purple grapes surrounded it, and on
either side red apples and freshly picked figs were arranged in
bowls as large as wash basins. There were assorted cheeses in
shades of white and yellow and orange, and buttery rolls and
braided breads displayed on large polished plates. Chocolate
pastries and pastel sweets could also be seen, stacked like
miniature castles throughout the lavish spread. The sight and smell
of it filled Lyal with such longing, he found himself battling the
urge to literally attack the table.