The Heir of Eyria

by Osku Alanen

  Ronan returned to his room, slamming the door close behind him.

  ***

  “Stop. Pleeeeease stop it,” the man screamed, spit mixed with blood pouring down his chin. He fought back, every muscle twisting, jerking. He tried to squirm away from his tormentor, but the chains around his arms and legs held true.

  “Stop?” Alessia smiled with menace. “But we have only just started, my dear.”

  Alessia took a pair of tweezers, lodging the man’s fingernail between the cold metal. With a rapid twist of her arm, the nail broke loose and pink, tender flesh appeared. She was growing skilled at this—and to think she had only gone through five of the man’s fingers. It seemed to take the man a while to register what had happened, but when he did, he screamed—just like before. Alessia found it fascinating how slowly the body reacted to pain. She smiled.

  Rubaron looked at Alessia, eyes pleading. “Please,” he repeated, weeping. “I’ll do anything. I’ll say anything. Just… make it stop.”

  The old Alessia would have felt sick at what she was doing. But that woman was gone, thanks to Rubaron, and a new Alessia was forged in the flames of the old one. And when this Alessia saw the weeping, pathetic man in front of her, she felt no remorse, no pity—only curiosity. This, too, was an experiment. Granted, it was different from her previous experiments, but then again, variety was good for the mind, too. It gave her a fresh perspective.

  Alessia knew the High Inquisitor must have had his fair share of… subjects, just like Rubaron, here. Men who had threatened his father. She had heard only whisperers about the man’s work, but from what she had gathered, he had been methodical, efficient—and utterly without compassion. When Alessia had asked to borrow his facilities, he had agreed with great enthusiasm. She should thank Everny somehow, shouldn’t she? She still disliked the man, but he had helped Alessia reach her full potential. Torture was, after all, a delicate art.

  A door in the distance opened, shining light into this dark, secluded chamber.

  “Who is it?” Alessia shouted, voice grating. Why couldn’t they understand that experimentation needed peace and quiet.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to join the feast, my lady?” a familiar voice asked with a quiet, wavering voice.

  Alessia turned towards the speaker. When she recognized her handmaiden, the lines on her forehead vanished. “Oh, Leah. I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice.” She noticed how the woman stayed near the door, refusing to come in.

  “That’s alright, my lady,” Leah replied.

  Was the girl shaking? Alessia raised her hands to motion her to come closer, but when she did, she noticed how her fingers had been stained crimson. Gods, were those truly her hands? It was no wonder to poor girl was so shaken. She probably thought Alessia had lost her mind. “Tell my father I am currently occupied,” Alessia said. Somehow, joining a feast didn’t feel… proper for her. How could she socialize, drink, laugh when she had something this important to do?

  She could see the girl was slowly closing the door. “On a second thought, tell my father that I might stop by later.” That was better, wasn’t it? Yes. What she was doing here was, undoubtedly, important, but she couldn’t just forsake her duty, could she? But before that, she needed to exact some information about the invading force soon at their walls—a gift to her father.

  “Yes, my lady,” Leah said, retreating from the chamber.

  Silence returned once again into the chamber. She felt a presence shift in the corner, analyzing, judging.

  “How am I doing so far?”

  “Your progress has been nothing sort of astonishing, my lady. You would make a fine inquisitor one day, if I may so myself.”

  Alessia snorted. “Please.”

  This silent observer had been the only string attached to her deal with Everny. He had lent her his tools, his chambers—and his advice. According to Everny, this one was his protégé—a novice Inquisitor with exceptional skill. He had proven to be an adequate teacher, just like Alessia could expect from a man studying under Everny. The methods the inquisitors used were vile, vulgar, horrific. Then again, during her quest to cure the incurable, she had learned every muscle, every ligament—all thanks to the excellent tutelage of Doctor Meridian. He would disapprove, surely, of what she was doing here, but this was a man who deserved no pity. She had cut and stabbed and stretched every part of the man’s body, pushing it past the point of breaking. And whenever she heard his screams, she rejoiced.

  “Are you sure you don’t wish to join your father now, my lady? I am more than happy to take over during your absence.”

  “I am fine, thank you. I am not done with this man yet.”

  Alessia wiped her sweaty forehead. She felt something sticky and warm stuck to her fingers, so she brought them towards the light. Blood. She had smeared blood all over herself. She flinched, thinking that poor Leah had seen her like that. No wonder she retreated with such haste. What would the other ladies think of her if she were to show up to the feast in her current attires, smeared in blood? Alessia chucked at the thought; it was only a thought, after all. Let them feast without me for a while longer. I have my own party down here.

  “Tell me, my dear, how does General Rud’ak plan to take the city?”

  Alessia pressed a dull knife with a barbed tip into the naked assassin’s flesh. It took quite a bit of force for it to pierce the skin, which, Alessia had learned, multiplied the pain. The slower she worked, the worse the pain was.

  Rubaron replied with a scream. “I don’t know. I don’t know, damn you!”

  Alessia withdrew the knife, giving the man a brief respite. She pursed her lips, remembering the words of the General and Raven.

  “This… stolen prince. What do you know of him?”

  “What do you want to know?” the assassin answered, weeping. His face contorted, twisted. How could she have liked this pathetic creature, even if it had been but a mask? The thought brought her anger back to the surface, and she drove the knife in to Rubaron’s flesh, careful not to hit any vital organs. Screams filled the air.

  “Everything,” Alessia mouthed.

  “I’ll tell you… I’ll tell you everything I know. Just make it… stop,” the man pleaded.

  “Then start talking. Where is this stolen prince?”

  The man coughed, voice hoarse from dehydration. Alessia handed him a cup, allowing the assassin to drink a single sip, but not more. He took it hungrily, yearning for more, eyes pleading. If the man was to talk, Alessia would have to treat him with occasional kindness. Relentless torture yielded nothing but hatred—Everny’s first advice for her. Oh, and of course, she bound the wounds she inflicted right away. It simply wouldn’t do for her to kill her patient this fast, now would it?

  “He is here, just as the General no doubt told you. I only know what he shared with me: two strangers with battered and disheveled faces dressed in worn-out robes were seen entering the city. Our spies have not been able to locate him, but they search for him relentlessly. I don’t know… the current situation, you know, given my current predicament.”

  There are spies amongst us, even now? Alessia bit her lip. Of course there are, why wouldn’t there be? Spies from every nation—ally or enemy—no doubt walk past by me every single day.

  “But where is he now? Answer me.”

  The man motioned towards the cup of water with his shaking, pleading fingers.

  “You’ll get another sip after you tell me where he is.”

  “I don’t know,” the man whispered, looking at the cup with hunger. “All I know is that the magus can track him. He carries a pendant with him, gifted by his mother. It is no ordinary jewel, and it grants its bearer great strength.”

  “Avalon.” Of course. But if Avalon can track the boy, why didn’t Raven tell me that? I’m missing something. But what?

  “Y-yes.”

  Alessia massaged her temples. All the unanswered questions were giving her a headache. “And what are you pla
nning to do with him once you find the boy?”

  The man looked at Alessia with a puzzled look on his face. “To return him to his rightful place, of course. That has been the desire of the Empire all these years. It’s what drove General Rud’ak ner Aldruin to convince the Emperor to send half his force to the Eyrian Kingdom in the first place.”

  Alessia frowned. That was exactly the words the General had used. Could this truly be what the Emperor wants, to right an old injustice? That cannot be it. All her life, she had been thought that the Nubian Empire were warmongers, only interested in expanding their already vast lands. Those were his father’s words—that they seek to swallow Eyria, to make it theirs. If they were just, surely, they wouldn’t have disposed of her siblings so easily? There must had been another way. Diplomacy. Bargaining. Why did you never discuss this with me, father?

  The Inquisitor standing in the shadows moved with silent swiftness towards the door. He pressed his ear against it and listened. He held his breath, as did Alessia.

  “My lady,” the Inquisitor said, sounding urgent.

  “What is it?”

  “Something is happening upstairs. I hear shouts.”

  “What?” Alessia said. She had heard nothing. “Go check it out.”

  The man obeyed, wordlessly, leaving behind the whimpering assassin and his new tormentor.

  Whatever was happening upstairs, surely, they didn’t need her for it. And now that the Inquisitor was gone, it was time to ask other questions. “What do you know of this Raven?”

  “The man who knocked me unconscious and delivered into your hands?” the assassin spat on the floor, a mixture of saliva and blood, grimacing. “I hate him. I hate the man.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. Who is he?”

  The man swallowed. “A man, who one day, appeared in the court of the Emperor. I don’t know where he’s from, but for some reason, the Emperor favors him still. Others hate him; the General can’t stand him. But I know he swore to the Emperor that he would deliver him the missing boy for years now. And I also know that he hasn’t delivered. And I know Avalon is loyal to the bastard, but as for why, well, I haven’t the slightest clue. The magi never follow men.”

  “I see,” Alessia muttered, sighing heavily. This was all a tricky puzzle—A puzzle with some of the pieces missing, impossible to solve. But she was determined to solve this one. All she needed to do was find the missing pieces.

  “And what does Raven want?”

  “I don’t know; the man’s an enigma. He’s a highly capable mercenary, I know that much. But I never liked the man, not really. He values his secrets too much.”

  “That’s a funny thing for a spy to say,” Alessia said, snorting.

  The chamber door opened suddenly. The same brooding, pale Inquisitor hurried back in, sealing the door behind him, the lock clicking ominously. His calm and composed face was gone; the man breathed heavily. Had he been running?

  “What is it? What has happened?”

  “The feast, my lady, something… strange is happening upstairs. The doors to the throne room are sealed shut. The guards are all gone. I thought I would hear something, anything, from inside the throne room, but all was quiet.”

  “That’s odd,” Alessia whispered, biting her lip. “Normally the feasts my father arranges are nothing if not loud.” She had a bad feeling about this.

  She paused just before leaving from the interrogation chamber, casting a final glance at Rubaron’s direction. Was he looking relieved? She didn’t like that one bit. Oh no. That wouldn’t do at all.

  “Inquisitor?”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Doren Markaltis, my lady.”

  “I have a task for you, Inquisitor Markaltis. I know there must be a reason Everny left you with me. I take it you are well-versed in anatomy?

  “Tremendously so, my lady,” the man said, smirking. “It is a requirement with the job.”

  Alessia nodded. “Excellent. You have a chance to prove it to me now.”

  She pointed a finger at Rubaron’s head, slowly lowering it towards the floor. Rubaron followed the finger nervously, sweat covering his forehead.

  “The prisoner here has behaved terribly, I fear, and I think a punishment is in order. And now that he is our guest here for the foreseeable future, I doubt he has use for a certain appendage of his.” Alessia paused for a moment, gauging Rubaron’s reaction. “Remove it, why don’t you? I trust you know my meaning. But please be careful, I wouldn’t want him to leave us prematurely.”

  Markaltis bowed, picking up iron forceps from the table. He walked, slowly, towards the furnace in the corner. He placed the foreceps in the fire, and they soon glowed crimson. “Oh, I believe I understood you quite well, my lady.”

  The assassin went pale as snow. “No, no, no, no. You can’t. Please, princess, you cannot do this! Pleeeeease,” the man whimpered as Alessia shut down the door behind her, heading towards the throne room.

  “I will see you later, my dear,” Alessia said, suppressing a smile.

  ***

  Nijakim laid on the ground, unmoving. His blood had long since dried, as were the tears of the man holding him tightly.

  The dried blood smelled like iron. His hands shook still. He tried his best to treat Nijakim’s body with tenderness. Slowly, he withdrew the blade that had pierced Nijakim’s chest, careful not to disturb his body. Nijakim had endured too much—far more than a single man should. And now he was dead, by the hand of his closest friend, no less. You did not deserve this end, brother. I will make this right. Somehow. I swear it to you.

  Nijakim’s eyes were now devoid of life, staring into the distance, right past his weeping friend. Arin crossed Nijakim’s arms on top of his bloodied chest, kissing his forehead gently. And for the first time, Arin looked around him, and he saw that the arena was devoid of people. The guards were gone, and so was the High Inquisitor.

  The show was over, and the men and women went back to their lives, caring nothing for the tragedy they had witnessed—like Arin’s and Nijakim’s life had meant nothing to them. For the men and women of Eyria, they had been nothing but a showpiece. An afternoon delight. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought.

  Arin’s words turned into a whisper. “I will come back for you, brother, when I have made things right. You will receive a burial fit for a king. I will not forget you. Nor your words. This is my oath to you.”

  Arin walked away with slow, determined steps. He looked back only once. Nijakim was gone and it was too late to help him, but the old man still lived.

  Arin would not fail him, too.

  ***

  “Ronan.”

  Ronan could feel the anger inside him boil over like a kettle about to overflow. The girl kept pestering him, telling him to do something, anything. Why should he do that, when he could just sleep through his grief and misery, emotions numbed by the bitterness of stale ale?

  “Ronan,” the voice repeated through the door.

  “What,” Ronan shouted, groaning.

  Rust entered together with Rose. They both looked battered and tired. And for some reason, Rust’s eye was blackened, bruised. A fight? They had obviously gone through an ordeal of some sort during his misery, but Ronan was too drunk to care. “So, you live,” Ronan muttered, casting one, quick look at his friends before closing his eyes again.

  “Aye, we do,” Rust answered. He closed the door behind him, exchanging a look with Rose before shutting the door behind him. Whatever he was about to say was to be between the two of them.

  “So, I reckon you’ve come to tell me what happened,” Ronan answered bitterly. He didn’t need this… pity. And now Rust had come, with more guilt for him to bare. He knew something must have happened after the meeting with the King, but he didn’t want to think of it. His son was dead.

  “I ran into Ivy. What a coincidence, eh?” Rust muttered with a low voice.

  Ronan shook his head. It
was hardly a coincidence. “Did she tell you why she’s here?”

  “Aye.” Rust frowned, as he couldn’t meet Ronan’s eyes. How very unlike of him. He knew this man and knew him well. He never shone away from saying or doing the right thing. But here he was, hesitating to say the words. “It’s a mistake… it has to be. Raven wouldn’t do something like that. He’s a good man, Ronan. This is not like him. At all.”

  “A good man,” Ronan repeated the words of his friend, baring his teeth. He slammed his fist on the desk by his bed, almost shattering it. “A good man does not murder a friend’s son. A good man does not pretend to be his friend. A good man does not lie to a friend’s face.”

  “Like I said,” Rust said calmly, “it’s a mistake. It must be. I’ve known Raven for years. He’s never done anything like this. Not once. He’s as good as they come.”

  “If he’s your definition of good, then I guess the whole world’s fucked.”

  “So, your plan is to drink your way out of this world, is it? The world may be fucked, but it’s you who’s giving up.” Rust said, raising his voice.

  Ronan shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I give up on the world? It’s not like there’s anything left for me here.” He scratched his disheveled hair, considering if the stale, lukewarm ale in front of him was still good. He saw his reflection on the surface staring back at him. Was it truly him? Gods, his eyes were bloodshot. He was a mess.

  “You have us,” Rust muttered, unable to meet his eyes. He stood up. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I intend to see him. Let him tell you who’s the liar here.”

  “See who?” Ronan frowned.

  “Raven.”

  “Raven is… here?”

  “Aye. He’s in the castle, feasting with the King as we speak. I couldn’t believe it myself, but somehow, he made it here to warn the King in time. He even brought the King’s daughter back. Unharmed. That doesn’t strike me as an act of an evil man, does it?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Rust judged the man for a moment, but then nodded, hesitantly. “Raven will set things right. I know he will.”