The Hidden King

by E G Radcliff

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Ten minutes later, he collapsed onto the cot.

  It hadn’t worked.

  He had poured everything, everything that he had, into fire. He had opened himself wide and let the roaring beast within him sing out like the sun. His hands had thrilled, white-hot, against the blackness of the cell, had illuminated it more powerfully than daylight, but the monstrous bars had responded only with a dull red glow. He’d kicked them. He’d screamed.

  They had refused to give.

  He shoved his hands, smelling of smoke, through his hair and took a deep breath, standing forcefully and stalking across the cell to brace his forearm against the opposite wall.

  It hadn’t worked.

  Defeated and empty, he slid to the ground and pressed his forehead to the cold, damp stone.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Áed awoke to a dry throat, and swallowing provided no relief. He sat up, wondering how long it had been, and felt the dull throb of a headache developing behind his eyes and temples.

  He stood up and leaned against the bars. A chill breeze swept eerily through the passageway; if he listened, he could hear it moaning as it rounded corners, like blowing over the top of a bottle. He shivered, returned to his cot, and pulled his arms deeper into his sleeves.

  Helpless, he sat.

  By nature, he was patient, and so it wasn’t the passing hours that itched behind his dark-blinded eyes and sent his hands scrabbling over the cot like spiders, searching for something familiar. Rather, it was the way time moved as if it were freezing like his breath in the air, the way every heartbeat took longer than the last, and the way the moaning breeze drifted in and out and left naught but profound silence in its wake. There was no buzz of humanity, no thunder, no wind, and not so much as a drip of water to break the silence. Áed hummed tunelessly, tracing a seam in the wall and trying to keep his breathing steady.

  “Ah! Do I hear music? It’s been a long time.”

  Áed gasped and banged his shoulder on the bars with a clang. He stared around him, but his eyes could discern nothing. “Who’s there?”

  The voice was slow to reply, and when it did, it arrived with the cadence of a sigh. “Probably just a voice in my head, by now.” It was a crackly voice, creased with age like a well-worn book, and it seemed to come from one of the cells nearby. “Oh, wait. You mean who am I?”

  “Yes.” Áed stood again, standing against the bars and trying to locate the source of the voice.

  The voice sighed. “A fellow, if you’ve been interred here as well. When did you get here? I must have been sleeping.”

  Áed was surprised that the voice’s owner could sleep through so much, what with the brilliant firelight and the shouting. “I’m not sure. Today.” How many hours, he couldn’t say. The conversation, even with a voice floating in the darkness, washed him with a relief so potent that he shuddered.

  A wheezing sound jerked its way down the hall, and it took Áed a moment to realize that the voice was laughing. “That’s terribly unfortunate.”

  Áed kicked an unyielding bar. “Tell me about it.”

  “I’ve been here seven years, I think,” the voice said dispassionately, and a tremor ran down Áed’s spine. “I once was called Judoc, but nobody calls me anything anymore,” the voice continued with a lack of emotion that both impressed and scared the hell out of Áed.

  “I’m… I’m sorry.” He didn’t have any idea what to say to that. “That’s horrible.”

  Judoc’s wheezy laugh twisted down the hall again. “It is, indeed.” As if to emphasize his words, he accompanied them with a sound like he was sucking his lips to his gums, and Áed shivered again. “But you needn’t feel bad for me, boy.” Áed was about to feel relieved, but Judoc’s voice went on. “You’re in the same stew, I’m afraid.”

  The relief turned to a rock in the pit of his stomach. “No. I have to get out.”

  “Everybody has to get out,” Judoc said matter-of-factly. “But if you’re all the way down here, you aren’t going to.” Áed sat and drew his knees to his chest. “So tell me, boy,” Judoc rasped. “Why are you here?”

  Áed shoved his fingers into his hair again and tried to recall what it was to be warm. “I set the king on fire.”

  Judoc was silent for a moment, and then he cut the darkness with a low, incredulous whistle. “You what?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “My word. I’m surprised they didn’t simply kill you.”

  Áed tried to ignore the chill that ran through him at that. “What are you here for?”

  “Stealing gold, and I’ve made my peace with not seeing the sun again.” Judoc cleared his throat. “It’s good to talk, you know. I haven’t heard another voice in months.”

  Áed winced. “If the last time you had company was months ago, and nobody ever gets out…”

  He could almost feel Judoc shaking his head sadly. “Best not to think about it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It didn’t take long before Áed’s throat was too dry to speak anymore. He tried calling out to Judoc, but he couldn’t muster his voice, and the man didn’t respond. Áed sincerely hoped that the old prisoner simply couldn’t hear him, and that Judoc hadn’t suddenly died.

  It was impossible to think. Áed’s headache had intensified over the course of a few hours, and the mere thought of a dewdrop made his throat clench wishfully. He didn’t know how long it took for a person to die of thirst, but he knew that when he stood, the pitch-black cell whirled around him. Gingerly, he sat on the bed and vowed not to move until water arrived. He considered attacking the bars again, for his spirit was willing, but his body was weakened.

  He dozed fitfully, grateful for sleep’s reprieve. His dreams were fractured. He saw Ronan’s face, then Boudicca and Ninian. He awoke disoriented, his head pounding.

  He was hungry, too, but hunger was familiar. Of every deprivation he’d suffered, he’d never been without water, and he could think of nothing else. Thirst burrowed through his brain and taunted him with images of condensation dripping down a window, bubbling springs, and the sink in Boudicca’s kitchen.

  When the sound of a tray scraping under the door finally skidded into the cell, Áed opened his eyes uncertainly, not sure what was real.

  The guard’s light receded down the hall, but the fading torch revealed the outline of a tin bowl. Not trusting his hands to pick it up, Áed fell onto all fours and drank straight from the dish. The water felt cool in his parched mouth and throat. He didn’t come up to breathe until the bowl was empty, and then he lifted it and tipped it into his mouth so that the last few drops landed on his tongue. It was sweet, sweeter than any water he’d ever tasted, and the sweetness lingered on his tongue like the juice of an overripe apple.

  Relief spread quickly, and he smiled to himself. He ran his fingers around the inside of the bowl just so they would be wet, and then he sat on the edge of his cot and waited for his headache to subside while a weight of weariness bore down on him.

  Sleeping came even more easily when his head wasn’t throbbing. This sleep was peaceful, not fitful; he drifted as if he were floating through soft layers of consciousness, a buoy on the waves of the sea. Even as he slept, he felt the heaviness in his limbs, as if they were pinned to the impossibly comfortable cot. Sounds filtered through his awareness, but he ignored them, succumbing to the peace of sleep.

  For a moment, he dreamed that he was moving, that someone was carrying him, and that their hands were cold, but there was nothing to be done about it. The dream faded to black and didn’t return.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  He awoke to light and squeezed his eyes closed as pain flashed through his dark-blind vision. Blinking, he edged open his eyelids, but the light was overwhelming and everywhere. In the time it took to orient himself, he became aware of other senses demanding his notice.

  He was lying on his stomach against a smooth surface, and his head rested uncomfortably against something hard and flat.
A chill wind breezed over his back, which was no longer warmed by Cynwrig’s gray sweater.

  He blinked, trying not to let himself panic before it was strictly necessary, and attempted to push himself up to his knees.

  No luck.

  His hands were bound beneath the table as if he were embracing it, and his feet were immobilized as well. A tether ran across his lower back, pinning it down.

  His eyes adjusted and brought him nothing reassuring. The glare of metal: the platform to which he was tied. White walls set with silver candle brackets. A table populated with slender metal implements.

  Panic won, and his breathing came quickly.

  “Hello, Áed.” A quiet voice came from directly to his left, but he couldn’t turn his head to see who had spoken. It was an understated voice, calm and interested, but it held an oily tone that left a residue on Áed’s mind like the grime on the docks of the Maze.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Shh,” the voice soothed silkily, but it did nothing to make Áed relax. “My name is Óengus.” A pernicious smile laced through his words, and Áed’s breath caught in his throat.

  “What are you doing?”

  He felt Óengus stand beside him, heard the rustling of fabric as the man moved, and he strained uselessly against the bonds. “You attacked the king, Áed. It is Áed, isn’t it?” His footsteps were slow and methodical as he stepped around the front of the table, and then he paused. Áed still couldn’t see him, and he suspected that this was intentional. “His Highness is suffering greatly. Now, what do you suppose we should do with his assailant?”

  Áed’s mouth was dry, as dry as the fields before rain.

  “The punishment shall fit,” Óengus said in a voice that was far, far too cheerful, and a roll of terror crept along Áed’s spine.

  “Wait,” Áed protested, trying to shift. “I swear to you, I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was a mistake, an accident.” The bonds held firm as he yanked against them, and he recoiled as Óengus took another step, bringing him into Áed’s sight. He was a wiry man with a ruddy face and greasy, pitch-black hair, and he had eyes to match: flat black, the color of darkness.

  “Áed,” he said, and a serpentine smile crawled over his thin, cracked lips. “I have to do what’s right.”

  Áed reached for the ember in his chest and felt his body respond, but his hands were under the cold metal table, immobilized and far away.

  “Oh,” the man said, his thick eyebrows lifting as if he’d only just remembered something. “I thought it was wise to keep your hands out of my way, just in case my king wasn’t imagining what you did to him.” He grinned. “A wise move, evidently. What are you, anyway?”

  Áed snarled, but it was no use. He’d have as much luck begging for mercy, which he didn’t have any intention of doing. How had he gotten to this room in the first place, when he should have fought? He didn’t remember, but then he closed his eyes and remembered how easily he’d slept. “You drugged my water.”

  Óengus shrugged. “I wanted to ensure that it was safe.” That malicious smile crept slowly over his lips again and made them curl in a way Áed didn’t think lips should curl. “That is, for me.” Óengus put his hands on his knees and bent over slowly. “I am the lord of this dungeon, my friend. My place,” he breathed, and the stink of his breath, as sweetly disgusting as rotting food, made Áed’s stomach turn, “is to bring justice.”

  Áed held his breath and did his best to look anywhere but the torturer’s too-close face. Óengus raised an eyebrow, which looked like a fat, black caterpillar inching up his forehead.

  The man examined his fingernails impassively. “Tell me, who is the child who came with you?”

  “Leave him out of this.” Áed jerked against the restraints, clenching his teeth. “Do you have him? If you’ve laid a finger on him, I will kill you.”

  Óengus didn’t respond to his questions, merely regarded him with interest. “If I told you that, what would I gain?”

  So this was to be emotional torture, too. “Fuck you.”

  Óengus laughed and turned to the table, where his fingers selected one of the fine silver implements. He laid a palm on Áed’s bare back, and Áed couldn’t move out from under his clammy touch. “Now, please try to relax.”

  “Leave me alone,” Áed managed.

  Óengus laughed again. “No.” Twirling an instrument expertly, he held it up before Áed’s face. It had a thin handle with a sharp loop at the bottom. “See this?”

  Áed’s gaze couldn’t move away from the tool, and he couldn’t summon a response.

  “Some artists use tools like this for etching clay. It drags across the surface and removes a strip of material as it goes.” He smiled wickedly. “But for clay, they don’t have to be this sharp.”

  He stood slowly, still smiling, and Áed started hyperventilating again. “Wait,” he said desperately. “Please.”

  He felt the cold metal of the tool before he felt the bite. The pain was burning and wickedly sharp, but he bit his lip hard, trying not to cry out even as tears sprang to his eyes. The tool changed direction, slicing a thin strip of skin in another direction, and a shout broke free from his mouth. The torturer didn’t pause. “Good. That was good.”

  Óengus worked his way from Áed’s right shoulder blade, across his upper back, and then down along his spine. Whorls of red swarmed Áed’s vision, and through the blistering haze of pain, through the screams that he hadn’t summoned but that burst forth anyhow, he heard himself gasping, begging. Áed could feel his blood spreading over his skin, dripping down his sides and collecting in sticky puddles on the table.

  He was becoming dizzy as the pool of blood spread, but the dizziness only made his heart pound faster, and he thrashed against the bonds as pain worse than any he could remember threatened to overwhelm him. His voice was leaving him, for he heard his own pleading less often and his screams cracked like breaking glass before they could make a sound, but he couldn’t keep a thought in his head.

  Finally, Óengus sat back and tossed the final tool, brilliant with blood, onto the table. Áed closed his eyes, but could not suppress his weeping. Every cry that wracked his body sent a spasm of agony across his mauled back, and each new wave of pain brought new tears. The torture-master waited patiently for the sobs to quiet.

  “Please,” Áed whispered hoarsely.

  “Please what?” Óengus asked, sitting back. Drops of Áed’s blood rolled down the man’s wrists. “I can’t think of anything I can do for you right now.”

  Áed could only close his eyes, trying to will his mind apart from the pain.

  “Now, tell me,” the torturer murmured, and Áed imagined throttling him, slowly and horribly. Then it occurred to him how much the movement would hurt. It was agony just to lie still on the table. “How does that feel?”

  Áed’s eyes flashed open. “How does it feel?” It was a struggle to form words. Parts of him were numb, but it was painful numbness, a disconnect between will and body.

  Óengus remained still. “I ask,” he said quietly, standing, and looked down his nose at Áed, “because I’m only about halfway done.”

  Áed choked and couldn’t reply.

  The torturer stooped, reached under the table, and brought up two cloths. He laid them on Áed’s back and pressed, eliciting a moan of agony from his subject, then slowly sat down. “Hm. While this part will be over quickly, the pain it causes is far more severe.”

  “Why…” Áed gasped, breathless with pain and renewed fear.

  “This,” Óengus said softly, “is the reward for those who cross the king.” He took from the table a small black pot. Like the other tools, he showed it to Áed. “See this?” He turned it before Áed’s pain-fogged eyes. “This will fill your wounds. Scars fade, but tattoos do not. I am marking you as the beast that you are.” He watched as Áed’s breath hitched in his throat.

  Áed couldn’t stifle his howl as the torturer pulled off the cloths. Their fibers clung
to his raw flesh and tore it away.

  “Ready?”

  Áed had no time to respond before Óengus dipped a finger into the pot of liquid and pressed it, blackened, into an open wound. The torturer repeated the motion, this time tracing the ink down the channel of the score.

  Then the pain submerged Áed.

  The pain.

  He screamed, and the shards of sound flew out of his control. The sensation was otherworldly, cleaving his mind from his body as he writhed against his bonds and distantly heard one of his shoulders dislocate. Agony spread like fire, except that fire was warm and lively, and this was dark, deep, and drowning—it crushed him until he was barely a spark within his own body, overwhelmed.

  His entire being was taken up, thrashing uncontrollably in an attempt to escape. Screams ripped his throat until it was raw, and then he screamed soundlessly, unable to defend himself from the pain that was splintering his mind, suffocating him, trapping him in his own body and spiraling him toward darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  He awoke in the dark of his cell.

  Groaning with pain, he shifted his weight to sit up, but his body was stiff and uncooperative.

  Carefully, he brought a hand to his side.

  He was shirtless, but ratty bandages wrapped around his torso, his arms, over his shoulders. They were wet with blood.

  He hissed through clenched teeth as he slowly dragged himself to a seat, using the bars of the door to pull himself up. With his eyes closed, he rested his hands on his thighs while a wave of agony rolled over him. With it came night-black turbulence, and his mind heaved like churning water. He wanted to be sick.

  “Áed!”

  Áed started, and then cursed at the movement. Seething, he closed his eyes and waited for the hurting to subside. It didn’t, and bile rose in his throat. “Fuck, Judoc.” The wave in his mind was receding now, strangely, blessedly. Something in him separated from the churn.

  “I’m sorry.”