by Greg Curtis
“Surely there is no reason to doubt your brother. He is an honourable man. Even if he chose not to send warning of the attack to the kingdom.”
Edouard gasped. For a brief moment he'd almost thought the dark figure was defending him for some reason. Until he'd added the last, and just like that he'd gone from being an enemy to a person who simply hadn't tried to help anyone. In some ways that was an even more terrible crime.
“What! I didn't -.”
“Know?” The man looked straight at him and for a moment Edouard almost thought he could see a face somewhere in the shadow. Almost. “Of course not.” But he didn't mean it, and he meant for everyone to know that. He wasn't nearly so clever as Simon with his words. He was just smooth. His voice was oil and blood over water, almost soothing, but in reality not.
“Who are -?”
“Just a humble servant to your brother and the realm.” Edouard wished he'd stop cutting him off, guessing his words even before they'd left his mouth. But that he knew was part of the man's game. And it was a game to him. Like a cat with a mouse he was playing with him. Edouard didn't like that at all.
“And what in the seven hells are you?” Finally he managed to get his question out, and it felt good. He should have known better.
“Concerned.” The figure wasn't disturbed at all by his question. He was ready for it. “Already you have heard several times that your brother is now regent and yet you have not yet once offered your support or bowed to him.”
“What?” Edouard was caught completely off guard. “Simon can't be regent. He's not in line to the throne.”
Edouard shouldn't have said it. He knew that the instant the words left his mouth. So did the whole court as there was a collective indrawing of breath. He knew it more when he saw the sudden flash of anger whitening Simon's cheeks. That was why the oily tongued figure had let him say it. But it was the truth.
“You deny me?!” Simon almost started shouting. “The king was a fat old failure who on his death bed did one right thing. He ceded the throne to one who he knew could repair the mistakes he'd made.”
“And he made certain that all the papers were signed and witnessed. See for yourself!” With a flourish he produced a pile of parchments and held them up for Edouard to see.
But Edouard didn't need to see them. “They're forgeries. King Byron would never yield the throne. Least of all to you!”
“Guards!” Simon lost his temper as he bellowed at the guards, and a heartbeat later Edouard found himself grabbed and held in front of him. Suddenly he was a prisoner.
“You do not acknowledge my right?” It wasn't a question. It was a threat. And yet Edouard had already committed himself. He couldn't stop.
“What right? You cannot be king. King Byron despised you!”
It was the truth and everyone knew it, even if no one was brave enough to say it, and the truth should have been enough. Inside though he knew it wasn't, and he braced himself for whatever nightmare was coming.
“The stocks!”
Simon bellowed at his guards, his voice echoing around the throne room. It was a command and Edouard realised with surprise that he was about to be dragged out to the stocks in the square and left to rot there while the people pelted him with rotten fruit. It was a shocking thing to do to one of noble birth and he couldn't believe that anyone would actually do it. Especially that his own brother would do such a thing to him. The two of them weren't close but that was something that was only done to criminals. Street thieves and pick pockets. But he abruptly discovered that things were actually worse than he'd guessed.
The court silently parted like waves before the bow of a boat, and suddenly Edouard could make out the stocks standing in the throne room itself. A sight he would never have expected to see. Not in the throne room! Why were they there? But he quickly realized as the guards dragged him over to the device, that the more important question was what were they going to do to him? Somehow he couldn't imagine the rest of the court would be throwing bad fruit at him. For a start they didn't seem to have any fruit on them. And what he could see of their grim faces didn't look good. They weren't there by choice.
And then there were the stains on the ground in front of the stocks. Dark stains that he had a horrible feeling were blood. Tomatoes? He wanted to think so. But the stains didn't look like their pulp and he couldn't think what else it might be unless it was blood. But thrown fruit didn't normally break the skin.
The guards lashed him up by the wrists to the overhanging beams, his arms stretched out high above his head, and tightened the bindings until his feet could barely touch the ground. That was common enough he knew, though normally they didn't lift the prisoner as high up as they had him. Normally the prisoner could stand on his own feet instead of hanging, and the weight of his body pulling down on the leather straps lashed around his wrists was painful as it caused the lashings to cut into his flesh. He'd heard of other realms where the stocks were designed to require the prisoner to bend forward and have his head and arms locked into a wooden board, and he suddenly had to wonder if that was any more comfortable.
“Simon!”
He shouted to his brother, wondering if this was all some sick sort of jest, but the new pretend king didn't answer. Instead the guards who'd lashed him up to the wooden frame began tearing his clothes off. Cutting into his jacket and waistcoat with their knives, they ripped their remains off him and then tore his clean linen shirt apart, scratching him more than a little as they did so.
“Simon!” He was worried by then, terrified of what was coming. None of this seemed even vaguely funny, and his wrists were already aching.
“Ten.”
“Ten what?” But that was as much as Edouard got to ask as he discovered what his brother meant a moment later. He heard the crack of the whip and felt the thin leather bite into the bare flesh of his back, and cried out in shock.
It was more than just the pain that shook him. It was the understanding that he was being flogged. No one had ever done that. No one would ever dare. He was a lord! The bite of the lash was terrible. So terrible that he would have screamed. But even as he was drawing in his breath to do just that, the delicate tip of the whip sliced into him again and he choked on the cry instead. All he could do was gasp.
It was then that Edouard reached for his spark, all pretence of civilization gone. Anger and hatred fuelled him in a way he had never known, burning in his soul even more terribly than the pain. He wanted nothing more than to burn this hideous contraption, the whip and the man holding it, and his brother and the dark adviser to the ground. Quickly he found it and sent it first into the ropes binding him. He needed to be free. But it wouldn't release. He didn't understand that. Why wouldn't it flow? He had his spark; he could feel it coursing through him, aching to be released, but for some reason it wouldn't leave him. Even as he tried to make sense of that the whip bit into him again and the pain destroyed his concentration.
He reached again, calling for his fire and finding it as ever and desperately tried to release it into the bonds around his wrists. But again nothing happened. And again, just as he was trying to make sense of it the lash stole his concentration from him. It sent him back to the beginning.
After that it was simply more of the same. The whip kept lashing him, tearing into his soft flesh like a lion biting into its prey, and though he tried to release his fire he simply couldn't. He couldn't scream either. He couldn't find the breath. Instead he had to endure it, silently cursing his older brother's evil with every agonising touch of the weapon, and praying that it would end.
Somewhere before the end he could smell blood, and knew it to be his. He finally knew where the dark stains under the stocks had come from. The other victims of his brother's madness had been strung up, just like him. Other nobles no doubt. No wonder the Court was frightened.
Eventually it ended. Everything had to end, and he found the strength to try to breathe again. His back was on fire, burning where the lash had
touched it, and if he'd had the strength he would have cursed his brother. But all he could really do was hang there, trying to draw breath, trying and failing to release his fire, and hope it was over. Of course it wasn't.
“Now little brother, do you still deny me my right to the throne?”
When he opened his eyes again, never having realised he'd closed them, it was to see Simon standing right in front of him, grinning as though he'd said something amusing. And just then Edouard hated him. He hated him then more than he'd hated anyone or anything in his life. All he wanted to do was punch him. To beat him to the ground and then bash his grinning head in with a rock. But he couldn't do that. So he settled for the next best thing, and spat on him.
“Bastard!” It was a mistake. Edouard knew that. But he couldn't help himself. The hatred and fury was robbing him of his common sense.
“Ten more!”
Simon screamed out the command as he stepped out of the way, his face wrinkled up with disgust and hatred, and that was a good thing. But when the tip of the whip sliced into his back once more, Edouard knew it had been a mistake. He should have said something. He should have said yes. But he just couldn't. He was far too angry. And with each new gash the whip tore out of his soft flesh his anger grew and it became impossible. So much so that when the torturer had finished with his work, and the court had gone silent again, he cursed Simon openly once more.
“Vile demon! Usurper!” Edouard gasped it, noting that at least his brother’s smile had gone. And then, though it wasn't at all what a noble should do, he spat at him again. He had to do something.
“Another ten!” Simon screamed it at the torturer, his face white with rage.
The response was everything Edouard should have expected by then, and it came as no surprise when the lash again tore into his back. The only real surprise was that it still hurt. He would have thought that at some point the pain would meld into a solid block. That each new injury would simply add to the total. Especially when he looked down to the marble floor beneath his toes and saw the blood stains growing. It wasn't just spray from the cuts; there were now actual puddles forming under his feet. That could not be good.
“And now little brother?” Simon was suddenly once more in his face, though out of spitting range, and Edouard was caught by surprise. He hadn't seen him move. But then he realised, he hadn't noticed a lot after the whip had started again.
“Burn in the seven hells traitor!” Edouard spat it out at him, no matter how little breath he had. It was a stupid thing to say. Why couldn't he just say what his brother wanted? But he couldn't. He'd meant to. He'd intended to say exactly that. But the words had somehow come out wrong.
“Twenty!” Simon was angry, and he screamed it at the torturer like a man demented, his voice high pitched and hysterical.
But that was good. And somehow, even as the lash bit into him again and again, Edouard found the strength to laugh. He wasn't sure what he was laughing at, or even why he was laughing. Maybe it was madness. It was hard to be sure when the room seemed to be turning black and there was a wind roaring in his ears. But for some reason Edouard just couldn't seem to stop, and as the lash kept biting into him he just kept laughing, and somewhere in the distance he could hear his older brother screaming with rage.
It was a good sound.
Chapter Sixteen
After the whipping was done and Edouard's limp body had been hauled away to the royal dungeons Simon called a recess. He needed time to think. Time to plan what to do next. And he needed to vent his fury at his advisor who had failed him. Who had also betrayed him.
So he strode boldly to the library pretending a confidence he didn't have while Vesar followed him a few steps behind, perhaps sensing his anger. Of course the court remained where they were, locked in the throne room with his new royal guards, no doubt gossiping like old women about what they'd seen. But at least they were frightened old women.
All the way down the hall to the library he said nothing and Vesar did likewise. In fact the only noise he could hear was the thud of their boots on the polished marble floors and that of the guards greeting him as he passed. But once in the library that changed. He slammed the door shut behind them and started yelling at his advisor. He was in no mood for silence.
“You said he'd yield!”
Simon shouted loudly enough that if any guards had been standing watch outside the library they would have heard it even through the thick doors. But it didn't seem to trouble Vesar. He just stood there calmly, a statue in black robes. He was always calm. Simon hated that.
“With respect Your Majesty I said that Marcus would never yield. That he would fight you in the throne room, likely call a duel and kill you on the spot. I also said that your father would not yield either were he here. And that Thomas was but a child. His yielding would be of no more consequence than that of a woman. Edouard was your best choice. But it seems that he too carries some of your father's obstinance.”
“Some! Some!” If Simon had been yelling before it was as nothing to how he screamed at his advisor then. “He was whipped half to death in front of the entire court and still he refused me! Me!”
By the Seven he was angry about that. His little brother denying him openly! And in front of the entire Court! If it had been a private denial maybe he could have dealt with that with less anger. But in public? His own brother? That was shameful beyond measure. They were family and yet where was the loyalty? If not to him as his brother, then at least to the house?
Edouard had been flogged until he bled everywhere, and still Simon could not find it within himself to think that it was enough. Not for such a betrayal. But he could not concern himself with the personal for the moment. He had a throne to hold now that he had claimed it, and he could not afford a rebellion. Not yet.
He had to make his throne secure. Because the alternative was that he would be hung. Simon had no doubt about that. And it was all Vesar's fault. His advice was as worthless as he was.
“Now the court has seen my own little brother deny me! They have heard his spiteful attacks upon my claim. And they know there is no legitimacy despite what the documents say! They doubt me! They doubt my claim! But more than that they do not respect me!”
“Again with respect Your Majesty, what they have seen is you showing your strength. They have seen that you will not yield. Not for family. Not for mercy. And if some of them do not have respect for your rule they will have discovered fear instead. They know that if you will do that to your own brother, there is no limit to what you will do to them.”
By the Seven the priest was an oily bastard Simon thought. His words were considered and smooth, but possessed not an ounce of truth in them. And then there was the other matter to consider. His betrayal. Something Vesar no doubt thought he'd forgotten in his fury. But he never forgot such things.
“You sent the sprigs to Edouard's door!”
That hadn't been part of the plan. After all how could his little brother have been brought before him to bow to him if he was dead? And Vesar wanted him dead. Not because he was his brother. Not because of any personal enmity. He wanted him dead simply because he had magic. That was what his advisor feared. And it was why Simon had refused to have all the sparks killed. He needed his advisor to be frightened of something. He needed a weapon to use against him as well if things went bad. And he definitely didn't need his ally murdering him before he'd done that.
“Only to convince him of your right to rule. My hope was that when the soldiers arrived to bring him to you, they would chase the sprigs away and he would be grateful for their aid. That it would help to persuade him to your cause.”
Simon could see no truth at all in the priest. It was all lies. He hid his face and he spoke carefully but Simon knew he was lying. He had dealt with liars for many years and he knew their signs. Vesar had tried to kill Edouard. And there had never been a thought of helping him with his claim to the throne.
“Lies! Damned lies! You go too far
Vesar! Do you think me a child to believe such simple minded fabrications? You tried to kill him against my orders and for that there will be a reckoning. Never doubt it!”
“Your Majesty!” Vesar was at once apologetic and wronged. Or at least he did his best to sound that way. But really that was just an act too. There was no truth in the man.
Simon was in no mood for his games. He wasn't fooled either when he saw Vesar's hand go to his chest. It was no sign of fealty. It was him reaching for his magic. He kept something there under his robes. An amulet maybe. And he was scared. Scared enough to use it. That was enough to tell Simon that he had to be wary. The advisor had magic and this wasn't the throne room. The stone of silence was far enough away that his magic might work.