What she was doing was tricky. A Sorcerer usually couldn't weave weaves on herself, but Keritanima was weaving on herself in an indirect manner. She created her weave to manifest in a physical way, and that physical effect was what was causing her wound. She had to be very careful not to let the physical manifestation go too deep, or the flows powering it would merge with the magic inside her, and make all her weavings fizzle. The Illusion would drop, and it would probably also disrupt the Ward, leaving her open and vulnerable to the remainder of the lashes.
The second lash hit her just above the first, making more fur fly and forcing her to conjure up another Illusion and slice. This was why it was going to be such a challenge to her, to create an Illusion, then alter the existing Illusion ninety-nine more times while at the same time weaving a cutting spell of Air to coincide with each Illusion, and do it so fast that both were complete before the lash dropped from her back Then she would have to hold the Illusion for the long walk back to the Palace. Again, she did not flinch at the lash, and it seemed that the onlookers were beginning to notice that.
Resolutely, her face nearly meditatively serene, Keritanima stood there and remained completely motionless as the punisher methodically applied the lash. To the onlookers, her back became a bloody zigzag of long wounds, and her fur laid around her feet in thick clumps. But the immense drain on her was beginning to make her sag slightly, a drain that was only amplified by her overextension the day before, and she began to react to the strike of the whip. That was only logical for anyone watching, as the compounded pain from the lashings took their toll on her body. The platform became peppered with bloody clumps of fur, and it began to stick to the whip, forcing the punisher to pause to clean it off between lashes.
After what seemed an eternity of counting, Keritanima counted the hundreth lash. It struck her squarely in the buttocks, right over the base of her tail, and he had aimed there on purpose. She was forced to conjure the appropriate Illusion and cut herself right across the backside. The indignation of that roused her from her bone-weariness, an exhaustion that had caused her to get lost in the seeming endless repetition of altering her Illusion and slashing herself with a razor-edge of Air to bring out real blood from the inhibited whipstrike. After that hundreth lash, her entire back burned and throbbed. One hundred cuts created a patchwork over her back, and almost all the fur had been stripped off by the whip. It made moving her arms or tail a painful procedure, and she could feel the blood oozing through the fur on the backs of her legs and down her tail. She gave the punishing Wikuni an evil stare, then crossed her arms and looked at the witness expectantly.
"Well? Make your declaration so I can go home," she told him impatiently. The pain of the cuts she'd put in her own back was merging with her exhaustion to draw her face, and make her pant heavily when not actively speaking. Her tongue lolled out from the side of her maw for a moment, but she recovered herself and put on the appearance of a Princess, a supposedly super-Wikuni figure impervious to such things as mortal pain.
He gaped at her. After one hundred lashes, she should have been laying unconscious on the platform! But there she stood, obviously in pain but trying to look only mildly discomfited by the flogging. It made her seem super-Wikuni, larger than life, and it made him forget his duty for a moment and stare at her in shock. She could see what he was thinking in his eyes. That she was obviously hurt, but she wasn't about to give her father the satisfaction of seeing her faint, grovel, beg, or in any way knuckle under to his punishment. Her standing there after one hundred lashes was a defiant display, a testament to the intense, passionate hatred she had for her father, a hatred so intense that she would push herself past her physical limits just to spite him.
"I declare the punishment to be rendered," he called in a startled voice.
That was when she noticed the silence. She turned partially and looked out over the crowd, looking at their faces. Fur, leather, scale, and feather, as the old saying went about Wikuni crowds. Those faces stared at her in surprise, in awe, and then someone in the back shouted her name. "Keritanima!" he called. "Keritanima!"
More than one took up the call. In seconds, nearly the entire crowd was chanting her name rhythmically, pumping their fists in time with the cadence. "Ker-ree-TAH-nee-MAH!" the crowd shouted in unison, clamoring forward against the guards there to keep them from the base of the platform.
She had no idea why they were doing it. She stared at them in genuine surprise and dismay, staring down at thousands of faces fervently chanting her name. Why would they do such a thing? They should be afraid of her, afraid of her being able to withstand a punishment that would put the hardiest man on his knees. But there they were, chanting her name, surging forward against the guards in an attempt to get closer to her. Why, for the gods' sake? Why?
Then it hit her. These were the common people, the masses which had struggled under the heel of her father's oppressive rule. The people who had to endure the crushing taxes, the long hours of labor for noble-owned companies, the people who saw their children go hungry in order to pay the crown its fair share of their bounty. The backbone of their nation. And they saw her as something of a heroine. The defiant daughter of the king, who wasn't as bratty as she pretended to be all those years, who was willing to stand up to his punishments and his power, to spit in his face and do the one thing that all of them wanted to do.
To tell Damon Eram to go piss up a flagpole.
She may not be their savior, but at least her defiance gave them a feeling of satisfaction, and that was why they were chanting her name. They knew that Damon Eram would be livid that he had failed to break his daughter, and the people took great satisfaction from that simple truth.
"Well then," Keritanima said lightly to the witness over the din. "Now that we've entertained the people, I think I'd like to go home now."
The royal servant stared at the chanting people in surprise, then looked at Keritanima and nodded solemnly. "Bring up a coach!" he shouted to one of the guards.
"No," Keritanima said, trying to keep her knees from wobbling. "I walked here, I'll walk back, and I'll be damned if I give my father an excuse to say that I didn't accept his punishment."
Keritanima found herself surrounded by guards, who were themselves surrounded by a throng of accompanying citizens, escorting the princess home as they shouted her name and called to her. Keritanima tried to ignore them, focusing all her concentration on fighting off the pain and retaining the Illusion that her back resembled ground meat more than a living body. She put one foot in front of the other, repeating it over and over again, letting the guards guide her home. Those guards didn't wander around as they escorted the princess back home. The shouting crowd caused them to turn straight up the Boulevard, the fastest way back to the Palace. She was drained, exhausted, in considerable pain--but a great deal less than if she'd really been whipped!--and had to struggle to maintain the Illusion. But she made it back to the Palace, leaving the crowd behind, escorted right back to the door to her apartment.
Back in Market Square, those who watched the flogging talked about it to each other the rest of the day. Some of the more daring rushed onto the Block and collected up tufts of Keritanima's bloody fur, rushing away with them. Word spread throughout the city about the Crown Princess, how she had stood on the Block, naked as the day she was born, and took one hundred lashes without fainting. How she had stood in defiance to the King by refusing to fall to the whip, then had bravely refused to be carried home, deciding instead to finish her father's punishment by walking back to the Palace. Her statements also were recanted over and over, about how a father could possible order his own child flogged, and dimming the already dark opinion the people had for their King. Damon Eram was notorious for his ruthlessness and viciousness, and his crushing taxes and oppressive laws made more than a few of his subjects grumble and mutter when his name was spoken.
To them, Keritanima's display of outright defiance was bolstering, was heartening. It told the peo
ple that at least one person in Wikuna wasn't afraid to stand up to Damon Eram.
Keritanima gasped and flinched from the cold cloth soaked with vinegar placed on her back. Binter seemed unimpressed by her display, continuing to very gently wash out the cuts that Keritanima had inflicted upon herself during the flogging. She lay on her belly on her bed, a pillow under her chest and propped up on her elbows, holding as still as she could to get it overwith. Kalina, Azakar, and Miranda attended her, Azakar keeping his back turned modestly and making a show out of watching the bedroom door. Keritanima was still nude.
"Ow!" Keritanima barked. "Binter, you don't have to be so rough!"
"I barely touched you, Highness," Binter chided in his deep voice. "Hold still. I don't see how this can hurt more than what I see here."
"The wine stings, you blockhead!" she snapped. "Why did you soak it in wine?"
"Vinegar," he corrected. "It cleanses the wound and prevents infection."
"It's going to kill me!" she declared in a woeful voice, flattening the bridge of her muzzle on the bed and hissing as he applied the cloth again.
"What possessed you to let them whip you, Keritanima?" Kalina asked curiously.
"I didn't let them whip me," she said in a hissing voice. "But I had to make it believable. I had to make sure they believed they were whipping me."
"So what are these? Love bites?"
"Slashes," Binter said. "Done by something like a razor, from the neatness of the wounds."
"Something like that," Keritanima winced. "I used Sorcery to do that."
"You cut yourself?" Kalina asked in shock.
"It was the knife or the whip," she replied bluntly, sucking in her breath and flinching against the cloth. "If I'd have chosen the whip, I'd be ten times worse off."
"Keritanima used her magic to make it appear that they were flogging her," Miranda explained. "The loss of her fur and the blood were vital to making that performance look real."
"I can understand that, but to cut yourself up," Kalina said with a shudder. "You're a better man than me, Keritanima."
"Thanks," she drawled.
"Why don't you just heal yourself, like you did for Miranda?"
"I can't heal myself," she grunted. "Believe me, if I could, I'd be doing it right now. Sorcerers can't use their magic on themselves."
"Why?"
"Do you really want the explanation?" Keritanima asked pointedly.
"Uh, no, nevermind," Kalina said. "I'll take your word for it."
"Good. Ow!" she gasped, flinching from the cloth as Binter placed it on her buttocks.
"I've been bitten there, but never cut," Kalina remarked absently.
"I'm sure my world would have ended if you wouldn't have told me that," Keritanima snapped waspishly.
"I think you should go before you upset her Highness," Binter suggested to the fox Wikuni.
"She already has!" Keritanima said with a hiss.
"I'll go now," Kalina noted calmly, then scurried out.
"Fine!" Keritanima snapped. "Ow! Binter!"
"Hold still," he said adamantly, putting a huge hand on her shoulder and pushing her down into the mattress. "The more you move, the more this will hurt, and the longer it will take."
"I saw the crowd from the window," Miranda mused. "What was that all about?"
"Beats the bloody hell out of me," Keritanima replied in a curiousy amazed voice. "They were cheering me at the end. I think it's because they're starting to get very unhappy about the new taxes and the rough treatment they're getting from my father. I think they saw me as a rallying point to voice their displeasure."
"That's good for us."
Keritanima nodded. "It'll give my father something else to worry about."
"Now what happens?" Azakar asked from the door.
"Zak, you don't have to be so modest," Keritanima told him. "If I was so worried about you seeing my butt, I'd have a sheet drawn over it."
"Someone has to watch the door, Kerri," he said calmly.
"Be that way then," she giggled, then she hissed. "Ow! Binter!"
"I am nearly finished," he said calmly. "These require bandages."
"I know. It's how I'm going to hide the fact that I'm not as hurt as it looked," she agreed. "It's going to itch like crazy."
"Better itch than pain," Azakar remarked from the door.
"At least they didn't take any fur off my tail. A girl has to have at least one vanity." She put her muzzle on her folded arms and relaxed a bit. "Anyway, Zak, as to what happens now, the answer is not much," she replied. "I need out of this room to start the next phase. After whipping me, my father will probably keep me in here for a couple more days, then lift my restriction and demand I attend court."
"Why would he want to do that?"
"To look at me and know he had me beaten, for one," she replied calmly. "He'll also want to see who I talk to and what I do, since he can't rely on spies to watch us in here. He knows I'm up to something, so he'll allow me to carry on with it so he can get an idea of what it is and try to put a stop to it."
"Just like sending scouts to determine the size of an opposing army," the Mahuut reasoned.
"Something like that," she agreed. "Bringing me into court is exactly what I want him to do. So far, he hasn't disappointed me, so I doubt he will over this either."
Azakar looked in her direction, then blushed and turned away again. "How can you manipulate him like that?" he asked.
"I'm not. I just know my father," she replied. "He's actually a rather clever person, but he's somewhat cautious when it comes to political intrigue. The most cautious thing to do in his position is let me out of my room and let me plot, so he can see it coming. The only way to completely stop me is to throw me in prison, and that's something that he won't do. At least if I'm out in the open, he knows he has a chance of intercepting my plans and countering them."
"So, you're making your plans based on what you think he's going to do."
"Exactly."
"And you have plans in case he does something else."
"Of course. An unprepared general usually loses, Zak."
"Why wouldn't he throw you in prison?"
"Because I'd just break out of it, Zak," she smiled at his back sweetly. "He knows he can't hold me, and if I break out of prison and vanish, then I'll be on the loose and he'll have no idea what I intend to do. He'd much rather have me where he can keep an eye on me. There's an old saying that--"
"'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,'" Azakar interrupted.
"Exactly. I'm too dangerous to let loose unsupervised. He'll want to keep me where he can have people report every word I say in triplicate."
"I guess that makes sense."
"I'll make a spy out of you yet, Zak."
"I hope not," Azakar grumbled. "I don't have the patience for this stuff. I'd rather just march up to someone and stick a sword in them. It's much simpler."
"True, but that's what makes anarchy different from civilization," she chuckled.
In one respect, Damon Eram surprised his daughter.
She sat in her room and stewed for nearly a full week.
She needed the time, she had to admit. The cuts weren't deep, but one hundred of them had taken their toll on her. She had trouble moving around, and it made her short tempered. She had refused repeatedly any attempt to have the Royal priests heal her with magic, instead allowing them to believe that she had healed herself. She couldn't do that, but they didn't know that, and a bit of artful misinformation worked in her favor on that matter. They had seen her up and about the very next day, wearing a robe tied very loosely and obviously having bandages on underneath. It was obvious that she was in pain, but she wouldn't allow them to inspect the wounds, so they had no idea how badly she was still hurt, but had obviously done something magical to herself to allow her to be standing so soon after taking such a brutal punishment. She had politely refused their invitations to heal her, and refused them three times a day for the n
ext six days. They came with each meal brought to her room, to offer their assistance to her.
That surprised her. She thought that her father would leave her to suffer, and would bring her into court just as soon as she could stand without fainting as a very visible reminder to everyone that he was in charge, and that he could deal with his daughter's disobedience. That he would back off and give her time to mend, even allow priests to come and offer healing, was unexpected. It seemed to her that he was jeopardizing his position by doing it, so she had to sit back and think about it for quite a while, imagining the situation through her father's eyes and considering all the information she could get from Miranda. Though punishing her more would indeed reinforce his power to court, she realized that now he was dealing with much more serious issues. The public reaction to her flogging had been a political disaster, she'd found out from one of Miranda's many excursions to gather news and gossip. The people had taken a very ugly view of the Crown Princess being so blatantly humiliated, and there was even some disapproval from the noble houses. Not that Keritanima was punished, but that if Damon Eram had the nerve to do that to the heir to the throne, then he wouldn't have any mercy to anyone else. Damon Eram had been trying to establish his dominance, and it had backfired on him on more than one level.
So, taking that into account, she could see the logic in her father's actions now. He was being considerate to her needs to mollify the noble houses and try to establish some damage control with the commoners. Her father didn't fear the possibility of a revolt, but for him, any distractions right now were major. He was still reeling from the assassin's scythe she had swept through his more trusted advisors and servants some months before, and the current major events were making his precarious situation even worse. Damon Eram had, on the average, about three plots against him by various noble houses to topple him from the throne and rise a new house up to the monarchy at any given time. Those too were probably wearing at him, forcing him to work with fewer resources to protect himself. The fact that he he had raised taxes so high was a clear indication of how desparate he was. House Eram's trading business was sagging, due to some major losses of ships and their cargos over the last few months, due to sabotage. Some other house had begun to attack Damon Eram through the ability of his noble house to make money. That was another reason he raised taxes so high. Without the income of the house to help fund his political operations, he had to find that money from somewhere else.
The Questing Game Page 62