by S. C. Monson
Martt flicked an invisible speck from his sleeve. “Had you been more forthcoming with the truth, we might have avoided this unpleasantness.” He sighed and looked at Kor. “Now we have no choice but to force it from you.”
Taking a lurching step toward Martt, Kor grabbed the man’s jacket lapel. He leaned heavily against the commander, glaring up at him. “I’ll die—before I tell—anything,” he whispered in a hoarse, halting tone.
Martt pried Kor’s fingers from his jacket. “You’d be surprised how persuasive chlorweed and spicer venom can be.”
Eyes wide with horror, Kor slid down Martt to the ground in a heap. He grabbed his inflamed throat. Spicers. He knew the creatures. If this was spicer venom, the torment was only just beginning. Without the antivenom, he would be dead by the next day. Despite his bold declaration just moments before, this stark realization terrified Kor. Then, a promising thought wormed its way through the growing haze in his mind—spicer venom had to be administered through the blood. Kor and Peter ate it all the time on food and it did no harm.
“You’re lying.” He glared up at Martt, struggling to form the words. “Spicer venom has no effect when eaten.”
“Oh, that wasn’t spicer venom.” Martt almost sounded apologetic. “Not yet, anyway. There was chlorweed in the water. It’s like lumbmilk in that it weakens the will and makes it hard to focus, hard to keep one’s resolve. Unlike lumbmilk, however, chlorweed hampers breathing. Cooperate now and we can end this and avoid the spicer venom later.”
Kor set his jaw and said nothing.
Martt closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “Don’t be a fool, Kor.” He waved his hand. “Just answer the questions. Tell me who helped you.”
But Kor continued glaring silently up at Martt. He was fairly certain the commander’s sympathies were a show. Whether he answered or not, he would be tortured.
The door to the chamber banged open.
In a voice too grand and booming for the depressing little chamber, a soldier announced the newcomer. “All hail His Majesty, King Leon of Perabon.”
Martt gave Kor one last entreating look. The forester only pressed his lips together more tightly. Sighing and blinking once in exasperation, Martt spun to greet the king. With both fists slapped to his chest in the king’s formal salute, he bowed low. “Your Majesty.”
King Leon motioned for Martt to rise, then looked at Kor.
Kor’s own gaze traveled slowly up the king’s extravagant form, his disgust and hatred for the monarch growing. While this man and his nobles lounged in luxury, most villagers struggled just to survive. Over the past few years, the struggle had grown worse.
A gem-studded scabbard hung at the man’s hip. The sword’s silver hilt was adorned with precious stones. A scarlet sash-belt was wound neatly around his waist, the ends trailing down his left side. He wore a black vest over his blue silk shirt, and a flowing velvet cloak was clasped over the shoulders with a silver chain. Atop his smooth scalp sat a silver diadem. The band widened at the front, forming a triangular point with a tiny burnt-orange gem nestled in the center. Rubies were inlaid along the top edge of the triangle and around the base of the crown, but it was the gemstone in the center of the triangular point that caught Kor’s attention. Cream veins spread through its reddish-orange color, like hairline fractures. The gem seemed to shimmer and pulse with a glow all its own that drew Kor in.
King Leon snapped his fingers and Kor shook himself. Two soldiers dragged him to the back wall and lifted his chains to a hook. The manacles dug into his wrists as his legs buckled, refusing to bear his weight. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps now. The soldier who had announced the king set a glass bottle, pouch, and miniature waterskin on the ground. At a nod from their monarch, all the soldiers left except Martt.
Leon drew Kor’s pendant from his vest pocket and studied the carving, then cocked his head. “So we have the murderer at last… Kor, is it?” Kor met the man’s dark stare with a glare of his own. The king scanned him and held up the pendant. “Where did you get this?”
Under the chlorweed’s influence, the demanding tone was difficult for Kor to ignore. He clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to respond.
Leon smiled, a cool, cordial smile. “I see.” He turned to Martt. “You say there’s a scar?”
The commander shouldered the chlorweed-laced waterskin by its strap and yanked Kor’s head to the side by the hair to reveal the mark.
The king traced it with his eyes. “How far does it go?”
Martt released Kor and the forester groaned, dropping his head to his chest. Kor’s dagger was still tucked into Martt’s sash-belt. The commander drew it now, cutting away the upper bandages around the prisoner’s chest.
“Looks about the same,” Leon said, eyeing the blemish. “Curves in a hook…” He studied Kor’s face and said louder, “Where did you get the scar?”
No reply.
So Leon picked at the ragged bandages around Kor's torso and tried a different tack. “Who helped you in the village? Tell me and I will waive the penalty.”
Lies. Kor struggled for breath against the rawness in his throat. The chlorweed was taking a stronger hold on his mind, but he managed one word. “Liar.”
The king flicked his hand in an impatient gesture and Martt knelt to uncork the glass bottle and empty the pouch into it. Then he covered the bottle opening with his thumb, and shook until the light swish turned to a viscous slop. Kor watched with growing anxiety as Martt tilted the bottle over the dagger and thick, dirty, green liquid oozed onto it. In a futile effort, he twisted against his chains as the commander rubbed the slime along the blade’s edge with his thumb, then rose and swiped it across Kor’s right forearm.
Kor exhaled hard through gritted teeth. Blood pooled in his new gash and trickled down his arm. Sweat beaded his brow as the wound began to burn.
“That was spicer venom,” Martt whispered coolly, then stepped away.
“Tell me who helped you,” King Leon said. “Answer now, and spare yourself the pain.”
The forester mustered his waning strength and spat in the king’s face. Leon’s composure snapped and he backhanded him across the mouth. Gingerly probing the fresh split in his lip with his tongue, Kor raised his eyes to meet the king’s. The corner of his mouth slid up in a sneer. “I’ll die first.”
“Perhaps,” Leon said brusquely and snatched the bottle from Martt. He covered the opening with his thumb and shook it as he spoke. “Without the remedy, spicer venom usually finishes off the victim in a merciful twenty-four hours. However, we’ve mixed a little siljan root with ours to—prolong—the experience. It may be days before death claims you.” He poured more of the liquid over the cut.
Kor jerked back, pressing his head against the wall as the burning grew stronger. He fought it, struggling to maintain his will, to hold back the answers. His muscles stiffened, then cramped with the spicer venom raging like fire in his veins. He drew a sharp breath.
“The more you cling to your will, the greater your misery will be,” Leon said. “Tell me who helped you.”
Kor squeezed his eyes shut. With an effort, he focused his thoughts on Serah, Eliker, and Peter…even Len. Anyone to distract him. Their images flickered feebly against the influence of the venom and chlorweed. Then they began to fade. Desperate, Kor grasped at them and drew on memories of the forest. He remembered sitting in the highest limbs of the borwood trees, soaking in the forest’s stillness…sprinting through the trees with the breeze buoying his spirits…and the velvet touch of a staghide blanket. With the growing waves of torment, the memories rippled. In one last effort to retain them, Kor strained at his chains. Once they were gone, his will would follow.
The dream voices plagued him. Remember your blood, remember me. A hand reached for his face and he shrank back. Sweat trickled down his cheeks as the voice came again. Rise, Kor. Find the girl. Charm will—
You did this. The deeper, snarling voice cut off the first, fighting for do
minance.
But the gentle woman’s voice persisted, and another young lady’s face flashed in Kor’s mind with it. Find the girl.
His eyes flew open. He thought he recognized the face. Other faces blurred and doubled in his sight—men’s faces, real faces. King Leon and Commander Veen.
Liquid was forced down Kor’s throat. He choked and swallowed. A burning pain lanced his other arm and the questions came again, echoing around him like shouts in a canyon. Still he resisted. Muscles twisted on themselves. His breathing came in short, unsatisfying gasps and fire seemed to sear his veins. It grew difficult to remember why he could not answer, must not answer. More liquid was poured down his throat. The burning grew stronger and the question repeated: “Who helped you?”
Kor’s lips parted. The will to resist trickled from him like the lifeblood of a wounded stag. His tongue, thick and swollen, moved like lead in his mouth. He barely heard the words that came out, the names of his miller friends.
Before he could mention Len, they moved on and asked him about the man in the forest. The man he was supposed to have killed. Again, Kor’s lips parted in response. An eternity seemed to pass and the pendant rose before his face. A hand grabbed the bandages around his front and pulled him forward, the wrenching grip aggravating the claw wounds on his back.
“Where did you get this?” The king’s low, measured tones pierced the fog in his mind and the bone piece dropped out of sight once more.
“Don’t know.” The pendant’s ghostly image still hung in the air before Kor and the ashen hand from his dream reached out to stroke his cheek.
Her words echoed in his mind. Remember your blood, remember me.
He shook his head against the familiar feelings of guilt and fear. “She’s dying. Please, help her.”
“Who? Help who?” With every word, Leon twisted the bandages harder.
“I didn’t do it. Please.”
“Who?” Leon’s voice rose in pitch. “Say the name.”
Kor shuddered as the feeling from his fight dreams returned, adding to his misery. The ancientness whispered in his bones as though trying to awaken something. He pushed against the vague restless sensation. “Don’t know.”
“Lies!” The king fairly roared the word.
Barbs seemed to tear at Kor’s pores from the inside as the commander spoke next. “All due respect, Majesty, but he cannot lie. His will is repress—” The words cut off as Martt leaned in closer. “Sire, his skin…” He sounded fascinated.
With a shove, Leon released Kor.
The barb-like prickling grew worse. Kor resisted, and it vanished along with the restless bone-whispering. His body grew numb.
“Administer the antivenom.” The king’s orders sounded in his ears as though from a great distance. “And before the hearing, give him a drink to clear his senses. I want this scum fully aware for his sentencing.”
The voice faded as Kor’s vision finally went dark.
20
Peter limped down the passage, feeling his way along the wall in the dark. He stopped to rest against it and massage his chafed wrists. His injured leg was bound with the bottom strip of his shirt, his feet wrapped in what had once been his shirt sleeves. He had no idea where in the castle he was, where Kor was being held, or if he was being held at all…though the mercenary’s threat had suggested as much. Time was running out. To top it all off, Peter was starving and parched.
Since his escape, he had wandered around many twists and turns, down declines and up steep ascents, all within the confines of the secret passages. After the kapka insult, the mercenary had roughed him up and left. Peter had fallen unconscious then. Upon waking, he had tried his luck moving the stone in the wall, and succeeded. Once in the secret passageway, he’d shoved the stone back into place to cover the entry. Then he’d sawed off his rope wrist bonds with a sharp rock. Binding up the rest of him had been easy after that.
No torches or lanterns lit the tunnel, and Peter’s left eye was nearly swollen shut, making it even harder to see. His calf still burned where the mercenary had tripped and cut him with the hakuma near the forest. He rubbed his thigh, trying to relax the muscles, and took another step. A spasm of pain cramped his leg. He slid down the wall to the ground. The shivers had become uncontrollable.
Food. I need food. He swept a hand over the passage floor. His fingers brushed the smooth, hard shell of a beetle, skittering across the pebbles. Before it could escape, he picked it up and popped it in his mouth. The crunchy exterior reminded him of the bugs in the forest. He found two more and ate them. Not bad, but not enough either. After resting a little longer, he worked his way up the wall to his feet. It hurt to use the injured leg, but he couldn’t wait for it to heal. He’d starve to death in these passages in the meantime, and Kor would be killed. He gritted his teeth, braced one hand against the wall, and hobbled forward.
Fifty paces down the tunnel, a mouthwatering aroma tickled his senses. He took another step, then stopped and swallowed. Taking a deep breath, he let the scent of fresh-baked bread and seasoned sausages fill his nostrils. He sniffed again and let his nose lead him to a sliver of a hole in the wall. Light and smell streamed through the tiny gap. Every entry to the castle’s secret passageways had a small crack as a sort of peephole. With his good eye turned to this one, he could see the glow of hearthfires and a crowd of cooks bustling around the castle kitchens.
Too many people. Peter dragged himself away from the enticing smell and heat, watching the wall for another pinprick of light that would indicate a different entry. It came a few paces farther. The room on the other side was small and empty of people. Lanterns cast shadows over shelves with no backs. The shelves were filled with objects Peter could not make out in the shadowy light.
He searched the stone around the peephole until he found the two indents. They slid in on themselves when he pushed and he put his shoulder to the stone to move it. The stone resisted at first, then slid forward enough so Peter could release the indents without them locking the stone back into place. He turned and braced his back against the wall, but it barely moved with his efforts. Every inch of him screamed in exhaustion. Old man. His inner voice badgered him. Can’t even move a little rock. He dug his heels into the passage floor. “Probably hasn’t been used in ages,” he said, trying to console himself, and failing. Redoubling his efforts, he strained harder against the stone.
When the opening was wide enough to squeeze through, Peter crawled out and pushed the stone back until it clicked into place. He sat panting on the floor before pulling himself to his feet with the nearest shelf. Sausage links, bread, and bundles of herbs lined the open wooden shelves around him. A pantry of sorts. The sight made his mouth water and he snatched up a loaf. It was still hot. He passed it between his hands, blowing on it before tearing into the crackly crust.
He worked his way around the room, stuffing himself with bread and sausages, peppermint herbs and parsley. Gradually, he felt his strength returning. Halfway through a fat sausage, a jangle of keys alerted him. For a moment, he stared dumbly at the closed door, the sausage protruding from his mouth.
Then his gaze flicked around and found the glass bottle on the shelf beside him. Snatching it by its thick neck, he hobbled to the door—and just in time. As he pressed himself against the wall, it swung open toward him, hiding him from view. The intruder shuffled in, whistling a jaunty tune. Peter leaned sideways to peer around the door. A short, plump man was picking through a bundle of herbs with his back to the woodsman. Slowly, cautiously, Peter pushed the door closed and crept toward him, bottle in hand, sausage still poking from his mouth. The man’s whistling cut off and Peter froze, just two paces away. But the man, oblivious to the danger, fell to muttering as he inspected a stalk of parsley through the thick spectacles on his lumpy nose.
Peter closed the gap, raised the bottle, and struck. The man dropped with a groan and Peter caught him before his body hit the ground. Wincing, he gritted his teeth and dragged the man up agai
nst the wall behind the door. If anyone came looking, the open door would conceal the man from view.
The woodsman sank to the ground beside the unconscious body and bit into the sausage still hanging from his mouth. He nibbled at it between breaths, resting to restore his energy and waiting for the pain to ease as he studied the man beside him. The man was dressed in the general ensemble of a cook: white beret, mask, and waist apron, paprika-red wrap-around tunic with long sleeves, green leggings, and black ankle slippers. The colors and the plump man under them put Peter in mind of a winter festival hog, ready for feasting.
His stomach gurgled and he finished his sausage as an idea came to him. He stripped the clothes off the cook. Prisoners ate, didn’t they? And someone had to cook the meals and take them to them.
The cook moaned and stirred. Peter tapped him again with the bottle, and the man sank back. Working quickly, Peter unwound his own bandages and removed his outer clothes. He rebound his leg, then donned the cook’s attire. The leggings were wide. Too wide. They hung in loose folds around him, which was good for his bandaged leg, but the waistband barely reached his hips and refused to stay up. After ripping a hole in the end of each stockinged foot, he pulled them on again. His bare feet poked unashamedly through the holes, but at least the stockings’ waist could be pulled up to his hips now. Gathering the extra material in the wide waistband at one side, he tied a knot to be sure the stockings didn’t fall down. The slippers were enough to cover his bare feet.
He folded his own clothes and slipped them in his tunic, then reached for the man’s spectacles, and hesitated. Never be able to see through those bottle lenses, he thought. Abandoning them, he pulled the face mask up over his beard and nose, and adjusted the beret. The rim hung down over his black eye and covered the worst of his bruised and beaten face. Next, he uncorked the glass bottle and took a whiff. A fruity aroma tickled his nostrils. Perfect, he thought, pouring it over the man and leaving the bottle cradled in one chubby arm.