by Greg Curtis
“Get up!”
A man – the gaoler he assumed – yelled at him for some reason, and when Edouard didn't move because nothing seemed to be working properly he found another bucket of water and hurled it at him. Maybe that was a good thing Edouard decided. When he could smell the thick cloying odour of blood and the sickly sweet aroma of festering meat and knew it was him, fresh, pure water to clean out the wounds had to be good. It was a pity it didn’t feel that way.
How long had he been here? Edouard didn't know but it felt like days. Days during which he'd drifted in and out of consciousness. When he'd dreamed of the seven hells and burned with pain. Days during which he had seen his brother's laughing face and heard his mocking laughter. When he had known he was laughing at him.
“What?” He tried to find out what was happening from his gaoler, but what came out was more a grunt than language.
“Visitor.”
His work apparently done the gaoler thumped his way off to the cell door, and slammed it shut behind him with a heavy thud. It was a very final sounding thud, and Edouard knew that it was meant to be. Very likely he would be staying here until he died. It made no sense, but very little did as he lay there in the dark on the cold stone floor.
“Edouard?”
Edouard knew the woman's voice. He knew it very well in fact and he was infinitely grateful to know she was there. Leona was always welcome in his home. Though of course, this wasn't his home. In fact he slowly realised as he remembered where he was, he didn't want her here at all. He wanted her somewhere far nicer than this.
“Precious.”
Somehow he managed to squeeze the word out, though it wasn't her name. It probably wasn't really even language. But when they'd grown up together, when she'd practically raised him, being a few years older than him, it was what he'd always called her. It seemed right somehow. And she understood.
It took all of his strength, but somehow he managed to roll over a little, so that he could look up at where her voice was coming from. But it was a sad view. He could just make out her face in the darkness, pressed up against the bars of the tiny little window in the solid oak door. No doubt she was standing on the tips of her toes just to see in.
Luckily she probably couldn't see too much. It was simply too dark in his cell. Especially when the only light in it was coming from the tiny window her head was filling. That was for the best. Leona would have been upset if she could have seen his condition. And for some reason he didn't have his vest on. She wouldn't have liked the sight of the rats he could hear scurrying around either. She hated the creatures. She would have been upset and he didn't want her to be upset. Not for him. He couldn't have stood to have seen tears in her eyes or heard her sobbing. Besides, with his mind finally starting to work again he knew what would happen if she did realise how bad things were. She would go to see Simon. From there it would only have been a short journey to her own cell in this terrible place.
There was something wrong with Simon. Terribly wrong. Just the memory of him in that throne room told him that. The anger and malice in his face. The cold, chill of his voice. It was so much more and worse than anything he'd ever known of him before. And whatever evil now gripped his soul in its bitter embrace seemed to have replaced his love of family. But then had he ever truly loved them? Did he love anyone? Or did he only love gold? Edouard wasn't sure. This seemed like a step down into evil even for him, but his brother had never been a good or honourable man to begin with.
Just the memory of his grinning face standing in front of him as he'd been flogged brought the anger flooding back to him. So much anger. It was all Edouard could do to control it as he needed to. And he did need to. He could never show such dark emotion in front of his sister. He could never let her think less of him. Nor could he allow her to get involved as she threatened to.
Edouard told her not to worry; that he was all right. Something she surely knew from what little she could see was clearly untrue. But it was the only thing he could tell her and the one thing she absolutely had to hear. Of course she didn't believe him. And she proved it by promising to do the one thing he couldn't let her do.
“I can talk to Simon. He'll listen to me.”
Edouard panicked. She couldn't do that. The very thought of his sister being locked up in this dark rat infested hole filled him with dread. And that was exactly where she'd end up if she tried to talk to Simon. Worse she might end up being whipped half to death first. Edouard had no idea what had happened to his brother, but he knew it had left him somewhere beyond reason. Beyond any form of decency. Maybe even beyond humanity.
“No! You can't!” He shouted it at her though he never wanted to shout at her at all. But he had to stop her doing something so dangerous. “Whatever hold that black robed advisor has on him, it can't be broken.”
“Then we'll break you out. Innosen says he's going to get you out of here. He has a plan.”
“No!” More fear shot through him and suddenly Edouard was wide awake as he understood what his brother in law intended, and what would happen if he did. It would go wrong. It would go very wrong, and his brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews would pay for it with their freedom or even their lives. He could never allow that.
“But -.”
“No! Simon and that black robed advisor of his will expect it. They're probably already waiting for you to try. It's a trap! Leave me. Get yourself and the rest of the family to safety. Especially the children! Go to Bitter Crest. You're all in danger. I can get myself out of here.”
And he could. He didn't quite know how just yet, but he was suddenly certain that he could. That he had to. It was the only way he could repay Simon as he intended to.
“You're hurt. You're sick. And you're locked up in here.”
Naturally she didn't believe him. Edouard wasn't that sure he would even believe himself. It sounded like madness even to him. But it still had to be.
“I'm a spark. People forget that. Simon's forgotten it. But I am what I am and it's a mistake to forget it. Now get our family to safety; all of them. And don't come back. No one comes back. Promise me that.”
He had to be firm with her he knew. Leona was soft hearted to a fault; a wonderful fault. And though it might cost her her life, she would still return if she thought she could save him. And as for his brother in law, like Marcus and their father he was all about honour and doing the right thing. He would also want to rescue him, no matter how terrible the price. Unless he had another duty that prevented him.
“No! You can't get out by yourself. You need help. We're not leaving you.”
Leona refused and Edouard should have expected it. Of course she could never agree with his demand. But she had to. He knew why she had to. And he knew what might persuade her where nothing else would.
“Yes. You will. You're a mother and you have children to protect; Britta and Henk. You have a husband, Innosen. You have brothers and sisters, a mother and step mothers. All of them are going to end up in here if you don't get them to safety. Is that what you want?”
“Simon would never …” Her voice trailed off as she realised that Simon had already done what she would never have believed he would do. She had no idea what else he was capable of.
“You're a Severin. You are of the House of Barris. And you know Simon's claim to the throne is false. That he is a usurper. We all do. He can't allow that. He's in a precarious position as he works to legitimise his coup. He's desperate, because he knows that if it fails he'll be killed. Hung as a traitor.”
“Simon can't allow any of his family to speak against him. But I've already spoken against him. Marcus will do the same. As will Father. He knows that. And now you want to speak to him as well? To ask him to release someone who openly denied his claim in the Court?”
“He would never agree. He can never agree. Simon will not commit suicide. You know that. Just as you know that sooner or later he's going to come for all of us. That includes you and Innosen and Britta and He
nk. And he'll do it any way he can.”
“You have to run. Run before he decides to strike. You have to look after your children and the rest of our family. Get them to safety and keep them safe. Nothing can come before that.”
“Besides, when I break loose from here, all of Therion is going to know about it. Simon will come hunting, and that black robed advisor of his will come hunting too. You have to be well gone before that happens.”
“But what about you?” She wailed at him, her voice filled with horror and despair. “You can't get out of here. You're hurt.”
“Yes I can. But I can't do it while the rest of you are here. I can't put you in that danger. Now leave. The sooner you escape, the sooner I can.”
Bold words of course, and he knew she had to doubt him. How could she not? Which was why he summoned a small flame and let it dance in the palm of his hand. Everyone knew he was a spark but they forgot it when they saw the inventions he was constantly tinkering with. So had Simon. He thought he was helpless without his weapons. Without his technological devices. His toys as so many called them. He would learn otherwise in due course.
“Don't say that! Don't lie to me!” But even as she said it there was finally a hint of hesitation in her voice. She was listening.
“Then don't doubt me Precious. I can escape and I will. But if I escape too early it'll place everyone else in danger. Because Simon will come for you to find me. He will come for your children and the rest of the family. I need to know that that won't happen. Promise me you'll leave the city today. All of you.”
“But -.”
“Promise me! No one gets left behind. No one tries to rescue me. Just go to Bitter Crest and I'll find you in time.”
It took more words and more pleas to get her to promise, and a lot of tears before then, but eventually Leona promised him as he knew she had to. And after a while and even more tears shed she left him. He hoped and prayed she would do as he asked as he heard her leave. But all he really knew was the sound of her foot falls on the cold stone floor outside his cell growing quieter.
After she'd gone and the silence had returned, he was left alone in a cold, dark cell, wondering if he could actually do what he'd said he could.
It wouldn't be easy. There were a lot of stone walls and veiled soldiers standing between him and freedom. And even before that there were the demons of illness and fever to overcome.
The cold water and his sister's love had driven them away for a little bit, and the anger was helping to keep them away, but he knew they would be back. Already he could feel his strength draining away. And he knew that when they came they would drag him down once more into that dark place from whence he had just come. He might not be able to return.
That could not happen. He had to escape this dark, dank hole. He had to kick Simon off the throne he'd stolen and make him pay for his crimes. He had to destroy that dark advisor of his. And then he had to beat his eldest brother into a pulp. Burn that mocking smile off his face and listen to him scream. But he couldn't do any of that if he was dead.
First he knew he had to get well, and unlike Janus he wasn't a healer. He had no gift for it. But what he did have was fire, and he knew he could use it. First to close the open wounds on his back, to cauterize them as a soldier sealed a wound with a hot knife, and then to drive the demons of poison and fever from his body. It would not be pleasant though.
Resolutely he called his fire, summoning it so that it surrounded him, running from his head to his toes. It came easily enough, but then it always did. And it was actually quite nice to finally see the limits of his cell, the dark stone walls with moss and water running down them; the cold grey stone floor, and of course the dark oak door that kept him from leaving. Then he shaped it, letting it dance only over the worst of the injuries on his back.
Finally, stealing himself for the pain to come as best he could, he let the fire touch him. That was something he had never done before. It was one thing that no spark or flame ever did. They controlled the magic with their thoughts, and they never let it – especially not the harmful magic – touch them physically. It was madness. It was so dangerous that it was unthinkable. But not for him, not this day.
The flames touched his tender, broken flesh, and it was as terrible as anything he'd ever known. It was as bad as when the torturer had whipped him, save that it was his entire back that burned and it wasn't just for a few terrible heartbeats. He would have screamed if he could have, even knowing that it might bring the gaoler. But for some reason the cries couldn't make it past his throat, which had seized up. Instead what came out was a gasp that wouldn't stop. An animalistic sound that he wouldn’t have thought a human throat could ever have made. He would have writhed in pain, save that all his muscles had twisted up into knots and left him unable to move at the first touch of the fire. He was locked in a rictus of agony. And he so wanted to stop. He wanted to do anything he could to end his suffering. But he couldn't. It was this or death. And he had to survive so that he could have his vengeance.
Somehow he bore it. He found the strength within his soul to endure, and he did. Edouard held it for as long as he could, counting the long torturous seconds as his back burnt, hoping that it would be enough, and when he smelled flesh cooking he hoped it had been. He didn't know. He couldn't see his back, and pain no matter how terrible was still just pain. He just had to hope that these few precious seconds of fire – seconds that had seemed like an eternity – were enough. He had to hope that the wounds if not completely closed over would be at least partly dried out and no longer weeping.
He couldn't hold it forever. He endured it for as long as he could but finally there came a moment when the pain drove away the last of his ability to concentrate and the fire failed. It was then that he let it go, and shortly after that he managed to start breathing again. Panting like a dog and wanting to howl like a wolf. Then, as he started gasping for breath, finally able to draw in the glorious air once more, he hoped and prayed that he had done enough. Because he knew he didn't have the strength to do this again. To endure the pain. Not for the moment anyway. Maybe never. The cure was as terrible as the flogging itself. And it had robbed him of every ounce of his strength.
Edouard lay there for a while, gasping as though he'd just run some great distance, and wondering if he'd just saved his life, or sealed his death. If he'd closed the wounds or burnt his back off. He had no way to know which he'd done. But at least he knew for the moment that he was alive. He held that thought to himself as he tried to restore some sense of order to his chaotic thoughts.
In time the worst of the pain passed, and he knew that it at least was over for the moment. He could breathe again. But there was still more to do. The demons of poison and disease had entered his flesh. They had got in through the open wounds, and though the wounds were now closed – he hoped – the demons had not gone. As everyone knew, there was only one way to fight them: Fever.
Normally a man would be placed in a hot bed with hot stones replaced hourly, and thick wrappings. Left to bake in his own flesh until the fever finally broke. But these weren't normal times and this wasn't a normal place. He had only one way to bake, and it had to be through his own fire. Again.
It took time for him to summon up the courage. Time for the pain from the first attempt he'd made to heal his wounds to ease back to a dull ache. But when it did he took a deep breath and pulled his fire to him once more. This time though, instead of letting it touch his skin, slowly and infinitely carefully he let it suffuse his entire being.
That was something he'd also never tried before, having only ever read about in the journals of some ancient and truly desperate sparks. People like him. It had to be done, and it had to be done perfectly. But it was tricky. Too much and he would die, cooked from the inside. Too little and the fever would continue to rage through him and he would die. But how much was too much? And how little was too little? That was the real question.
Little by little he raised his fire
within him, and at first it was actually quite pleasant. The cell was cold after all, and a little warmth was a good thing. But it couldn't stay that way, and soon the warmth had become a fever all of its own. He began sweating, the water from his body leaking out through his skin in a desperate attempt to cool him. But it couldn't. He couldn't let it. And so the sweat quickly dried on his skin and he grew hotter.
So hot that his forehead felt like it was burning. So hot that his eyes were cooking inside their sockets. So hot that he wanted to faint. But he couldn't faint. He couldn't allow that. If he fainted he would die. Either from the demons ravaging his flesh, or from the fire being let loose within it as he lost control of it. So he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and used the pain to keep himself awake.
Edouard kept the fire going. Second after second, minute after minute he kept his flesh simmering, working out how long it was taking by counting. A ten count, ten counts of ten, and then a hundred counts of ten. He kept going. He wished he knew how long it would have to run to banish the demons from his flesh, but he didn't. The only other spark he knew of who had ever tried this before him, or at least the only one he knew of who had survived and written it down in his journal, had counted to five thousand. An hour and twenty some minutes. But Edouard didn't know if he could last that long.