Song of the Fairy Queen

by Valerie Douglas

  Smiling, Haerold’s Queen ran a finger over Kyri’s cheek

  Haerold gestured.

  The pain was shockingly sudden, light pouring out of her in a torrent instead of a stream and Kyri arched, agony shooting through her. Haerold and his Queen basked in it, wallowing in it. Kyri wasn’t even aware she’d screamed until she heard the echoes as she was released.

  At Elisa’s signal, men closed in from each side, taking hold of Kyri’s wings, carefully, as she bowed from the pain, drawing them outward to secure them to the walls. As hard as she tried not to, she cried out.

  Haerold supervised the remainder of the shackling, ordering Patterson to pull her up an extra inch or so, so she would have to stand on her toes to take the pressure off her wrists, shoulders and wings. With her injured and broken ribs it made it even more difficult for her to breathe.

  Nodding with satisfaction at seeing her suspended, Haerold smiled.

  A man crouched before her, fastening weights around her ankles.

  Haerold waved the guards away.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked smiling, looking up into the Fairy Queen’s face. “In an hour, it will. In two, it will be agony and it will be increasingly hard to breathe. In three… Well, perhaps by then, you’ll be more amenable to talking.”

  Morgan.

  How had he survived this for so long?

  They left her then, taking the torches with them, leaving her in the darkness as the strain grew and the pain with it until it was burning agony.

  It was hard work, but Morgan himself and one of his men had the sledgehammers and the stones shattered beneath his determination, desperation and fury. They had to work fast, for even though they were in the bowels of the castle, there was a chance that someone would notice the noise, even with blankets to muffle the harsher sounds of steel against stone. Still, it was taking time.

  “That’s it!” Hart whispered, gleefully, as the last stone fell away.

  It was almost a shock.

  They were through.

  Morgan pulled his shirt back on, sweat drenching him and tucked it back into his trews. He looked at the others.

  Caleb nodded.

  Hart, with his memorized map of the castle in his mind, led the way up through the depths to the chamber with its great cogged wheels where the sluice gates were raised and then across to the corridor that led to the dungeons.

  Somewhere high above a cry of agonal torment rang out, thin, echoing… raising the hairs on the backs of all their necks…

  Morgan closed his eyes and prayed it wasn’t Kyri who had made that terrible sound.

  It was a dark and awful place, if not as haunted or as utterly desolate and hopeless as Caernarvon had been, it was still bleak and grim. Even the rats hurried out of sight. There were no windows, only smoky torches for light.

  They came to a long corridor with an even longer line of iron doors, it seemed, each with a small barred window in it and a slot at the bottom.

  Morgan froze for a moment. He knew this place, he’d been here. Not for long, but he’d been here, if not on this level, then on one of them.

  Hart started to speak and Morgan quickly clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “The guard first,” he whispered. “Stay here.”

  With a glance a Caleb, leaving Hart with the other men, Morgan slipped nearly silently down the corridor, keeping close to the side opposite the distant torch.

  The guard was there, a ring of keys on his hip, standing with his eyes half-closed, fighting sleep. Creeping up behind him, Morgan wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, holding it there, holding until the man’s struggles ceased.

  Caleb snatched up the keys, opening cell after cell.

  There was no sign of Kyri in any of them, but plenty of up yet, as Morgan remembered dimly from his brief stint here.

  Running from cell to cell, Hart called softly, “Richard, Richard.”

  Gesturing to his people, Morgan said, “Open the cells, get as many of them as can walk moving down.”

  They nodded.

  “Morgan?” a voice, scratchy from disuse, said.

  He turned.

  The figure in the doorway of the cell was thin, his hair matted and filthy, barely recognizable. In that moment Morgan had an idea of how he’d looked to Kyri on the day she’d freed him. He understood now the grief, sorrow and guilt he’d seen in her eyes.

  So long as she’d searched though, it was enough.

  “Finn?”

  With an attempt at a sharp nod, Finn said, “Myself, sir.”

  “We’re going to get you out of here,” Morgan said. “Have you seen a prisoner, a Fairy…?”

  Shuddering, Finn looked at him with pity in his eyes. “There was screaming, in the early hours of this morning and again this evening. It fair to broke even my heart after all the time in this place. You can hear them sometimes, above.”

  He looked up, his eyes full of grief and sorrow.

  Kyri. Had it been her?

  Screaming. The thought wrenched at him. What had it cost her then to stand? Fury burned in him.

  With a gesture, he gathered the others.

  Up.

  Slipping past the unconscious body of the guard, Morgan looked up the stairs. They curled upward.

  The next level was no better, the guard only slightly more alert. His belt-knife silenced the man before he could cry a warning.

  Each minute that passed grated on his nerves. Morgan moved silently up the curving stairs, Caleb at his heels as Hart searched for his brother below.

  He could hear voices.

  There was another cry of agony so great he nearly lost control and then he was racing up the stairs on near silent feet.

  There had never been any doubt in Kyri’s mind that Haerold had been right about the pain and there was none now as it seared through her. The muscles in her arms, shoulders and wings were on fire, screaming, her wrists were in agony. He’d told her, she knew, so she could anticipate and then left her in the dark so she couldn’t distract herself from what was to come.

  It was a major effort of will to bite back the moan when the torches surrounded her and Patterson took a handful of her hair to wrench her head back.

  A new pain bit in, too familiar as it drilled into her, the light spilling out of her brightening the darkness and she screamed as her muscles involuntarily tightened, layering pain on pain. Her sight blurred at the edges of her vision. She panted, fighting the urge to weep.

  “Tell us where he is,” Haerold said, “and the pain stops.”

  Kyri shuddered, but shook her head.

  With a longsuffering sigh, Haerold shook his head and said, “A shame. We helped soften her up a little for you, Patterson. We need answers and soon. Morgan has to be coming for her. We need to know where he is. Where Oryan is.”

  Elissa shuddered with pleasure, her eyes closed, smiling as she drew off Kyri’s energy.

  She sighed, turned and walked away to study Kyri, waiting until she’d opened her eyes again.

  “Patterson,” Elissa called.

  The man stepped out of the shadows.

  “Do you have your knife?” she asked, seemingly casually and he handed it to her, grinning.

  Kyri went cold.

  “When it’s time to take her wings,” Elissa said, “you would insert the knife here….” She used the point of the blade to illustrate.

  Horror shot through Kyri at the thought.

  “Just a twist here… work the blade around…”

  Terror shot through Kyri as the cold metal touched her, even past the pain, as it was meant to. The very thought was a violation, a horror.

  She kept silent, made her face show nothing..

  “…and the tendons will give,” Elissa continued. “You can then remove the wing as you would from a chicken.”

  Eying the Fairy Queen, Patterson said. “It won’t kill her, will it?”

  Elissa shook her head. “No, she simply won’t be able to fly.”

  N
ot fly.

  Kyri couldn’t imagine it.

  Her wings gone, not just clipped, but gone. The horror of it made her knees go weak.

  Still dazed, Kyri battled the urge to scream and fight, knowing that was what the woman wanted.

  Once again Elissa stroked a hand over her captive, over the soft feathers, knowing she was aware, that she could hear, even as her body quivered.

  Kyri closed her eyes, steeling herself against the touch, against their words.

  “It will hardly matter,” Haerold said coldly, his eyes on her face.

  “Once we have Morgan it will be only one step toward her execution. The fate she saved Philip of Dorset from will be her own. She will be hung, drawn and quartered. That pretty head will be shaved. She’ll be hung, a noose around her neck, but not so her spine will be broken. She will be shackled and suspended in the air, her wrists bound to the frame and her ankles to the weights. As she hangs, you’ll cut those pretty wings from her while she still lives, so she knows it. She will remain there, suspended, until she dies, as a warning to others. She will be drawn and then quartered as Morgan watches.”

  Morgan listened in horror and rising fury.

  It took every ounce of willpower not to race around the corner at the top of the stairs, but to pause there to peer around it down the length of the hall to the far end…

  …to the torch-lit figure shackled to the wall, her lovely gossamer wings spread wide, glittering in the flickering light.

  Kyri.

  His stomach tightened.

  Two figures stood before her, blocking his view of all but her face, marred by a darkening bruise on her cheek. Her eyes were closed, her face pale and impassive.

  One of the figures was Haerold, the other a tall, lushly built woman in a dress the color of spilled blood, her dark red hair streaming down her back – Haerold’s Queen.

  To one side stood a brown-haired man, vaguely familiar even from behind.

  Two guards stood to each side, as well as those who guarded this level.

  Morgan looked at Caleb.

  Caleb looked sick at what he’d heard, but he was already turning to descend the stair silently. Against so many and the two wizards… If they’d had archers they could have taken the two wizards, but they didn’t.

  He had to wait. It would do Kyri no good if they were caught as well but it was a different kind of agony to listen and watch as they tormented her.

  Hold on, Kyri, he thought, hard. Just hold on a little longer.

  Kyri’s head lifted along with her heart. It was an effort to keep her face impassive.

  To hear him so clearly, Morgan had to be close. Very close. She fought a smile, wishing she could tell him that so close, he didn’t need to shout so very loud.

  How close was he? And had her question answered in the next moment. Close enough to see.

  “A little more,” the woman said and Morgan saw her gesture.

  With a sigh, the woman’s head fell back in pleasure.

  Light filled the room, pouring from Kyri’s breast as she trembled and quivered and then with a wave of the woman’s hand, it stopped. This was what they had meant when they said they drained them, as they had drained the wizards.

  “Where is Oryan, tell us and the pain stops,” Haerold said. “Tell us where Morgan is and this will end.”

  If he could have, Morgan would have pounded the wall in helpless fury. He willed Kyri the strength to hold on.

  Even as the pain ripped through her, the sense of Morgan so close gave her strength. Gave her hope.

  Kyri’s beautiful eyes opened, hazed with pain, to look into their eyes. Her jaw was tight.

  “Know that I love him,” she said, so Morgan would hear it. “I will never give him up.”

  Haerold leaned close. “You will break.”

  Easier to say now. Kyri shook her head, even past the pain. “No, I won’t.”

  Watching, Morgan thought back, ‘I love you, too.’

  Kyri kept the smile from her face.

  The woman turned to the man beside her. “Do as you will, Patterson. Leave her face unmarked. And remember, don’t harm the wings, they’re mine when she’s done.”

  Wings? Kyri’s wings? At the thought, Morgan’s stomach clenched.

  Patterson looked at the wizard Queen and then at Haerold. “I want to be the one to do it.”

  “Answers, first, Patterson,” Haerold said with a thin smile, “Get them and that will be your reward.”

  He held out a hand to his Queen, who took it.

  They swept out of the room and with them, the guards.

  Kyri looked at Patterson.

  “Did you hear?” the man said. “She wants those pretty wings of yours and they’re going to let me take ‘em. I’m going to bone you like a chicken, pretty bird. I’ll make sure the knife is nice and dull. My only wish would be that Morgan was here to watch.” Pacing in front of her, he smiled. “I’ll cut slow and careful, make sure I do the job right…. “

  Kyri wouldn’t show her horror at his words, even knowing it could never happen. Morgan was here. She kept her eyes locked on Patterson’s face and then saw motion behind him.

  A lighter blur at the end of the corridor. Or was she only imagining it?

  Familiar face, fair hair, pale eyes… Morgan.

  She shook her head, blinked.

  Then he moved again and she knew.

  With an effort, she kept her eyes focused on Patterson, so her eyes wouldn’t betray Morgan slipping silently down the long corridor behind him.

  An outcry would bring the guards.

  “So,” Patterson said, speculatively, “I can’t damage the wings. I’ll enjoy cutting them off you, though, slowly, when they hang you, so you’ll feel every moment of it.”

  Kyri kept her eyes still, her expression calm.

  Behind Patterson, Morgan drew closer, moving silently. Every word the man said only increased his fury.

  Patterson. Morgan’s jaw tightened. Punishing Kyri, betraying her and the rebel camp, all for petty revenge. The man had a great deal to answer for.

  “Nor your face, either. Pity. How are those ribs? Shame you won’t see Morgan before they draw and quarter you, or I’d tell you to give him my regard.”

  Kyri’s gaze went over his shoulder and she smiled.

  That smile sent a chill through him. Patterson frowned.

  Morgan said quietly, “How about you tell me yourself?”

  Whirling, Patterson came face to face with him.

  Morgan’s eyes were cold and hard.

  “Morgan,” the man said, his eyes narrowing.

  There was a wealth of emotion in that one word, chief among them hate, but also a touch of fear, especially when those cold, cold eyes met his.

  “Think you can take me this time?” Morgan said, his voice grim.

  Patterson swung, but Morgan blocked it as Patterson drew his knife and slashed. Morgan evaded the blade and lashed out with a quick punch, hitting him fast and hard. It caught Patterson hard in the face and the man stumbled back against the wall, the knife clattering to the floor, as he slid down it.

  Morgan grabbed the man by his shirt and lifted him enough for the man’s dazed eyes to meet his.

  “You will never touch her again,” he swore and hit him again.

  Patterson collapsed.

  Rage nearly hazed his vision, but there was Kyri….

  What they’d done to her….

  Letting the man drop, Morgan quickly turned to her, wincing to see the blood on her.

  He curled an arm around her waist to lift her carefully, taking the strain off her wrists, shoulders and wings, his free hand touching her face. “Kyri…”

  She smiled at him, shakily. “Morgan.”

  That smile, her eyes warming, nearly destroyed him.

  “Caleb,” he shouted.

  Fresh blood trickled down her arms as the pressure on them was relieved.

  Kyri buried her face in Morgan’s throat as Caleb came at
a run and unlocked the shackles, a half cry escaping her as her arms came down, the others unstrapping her wings from the walls.

  She folded over Morgan, her arms around his throat, her face still buried there, her wings outstretched, drooping around them.

  It was agony of a different kind.

  Her voice was a whisper, her forehead buried in his shoulder. “Please, Morgan, help me fold them. I can’t fold them.”

  Oh, dear Gods, Morgan thought. “Caleb.”

  Holding her close around the waist, feeling her flinch from the pain, he and Caleb gently lifted her wings, guiding them into place at her back. Once they were in place, as hard as she fought against it, tears of relief fell as she buried her face once more against Morgan’s throat waiting for the worst of the pain to ease.

  Looking at Patterson, Morgan throttled back a murderous rage.

  Kyri shook her head, bringing one hand to touch his cheek.

  “Morgan,” she said hoarsely, but gently, lovingly. “You’re shouting…”

  He looked at her, at her damaged lip and the dark bruise on one smooth cheek, at her pale and pained face and struggled against his fury.

  “Remember,” she said quietly, “what happens to those who fail Haerold? They go to Caernarvon, Morgan. Alive. He’ll stand guard in the dungeons there…”

  Where Morgan had been.

  “For years, or longer, unless we win…”

  For a minute he stared at her. He took a breath. Then he touched her shining hair, brushing it back from her lovely face as his vision cleared.

  It was a fitting punishment.

  “Captain,” Caleb said as he stepped out of a cell, giving a hand to the man in it. “It’s Porter.”

  The man lifted his head, brown eyes visible beneath shaggy, matted reddish hair. Porter made a visible effort to stand.

  Kyri reached out to touch the man, her fingers gentle. She couldn’t not Heal, they hadn’t taken that from her, weak as she was.

  A tremble went through him and with a gasp, Porter’s eyes focused.

  He looked at her, a little confused and then he looked at Morgan, his eyes widening in astonishment.

  “Morgan. My God.”

  Chapter Sixty Four

  There was another whole corridor of cells, yielding more familiar faces, some Marshals, members of the rebellion and one or two people who had defied or otherwise challenged Haerold or his Queen in some way. Including a former ally or those who had been allies. One was the Ambassador from Caerdonia, the Kingdom to the west and north.