by J B Cantwell
How did Bevyn end up here?
She looked around the room, and she had a vague recollection of having spent time in there before. But it must’ve been many years ago, as her memories seemed almost like a dream. For all these years, she’d spent her meals eating with her mother beside her in the room they shared. Locked up, not unlike Bevyn.
Bevyn. It was then that she looked at him, saw the pain on his face, and realized what she was in for.
“Well, look at you,” her father said. “You look familiar to me. Tell me, what have you done with Gwyn?”
Phalen and Varik laughed but didn’t dare speak. Their father glanced at them, and they quieted.
“I asked you a question.”
“It was Mother,” Gwyn said nervously. “She wanted to make sure I looked… appropriate.”
Her father smiled wide, and there was something about his teeth that looked different than before. She couldn’t quite place the change, but she had to shake herself a touch to keep from staring.
“You look very… appropriate,” he said. “Please sit.”
Gwyn walked to one of the chairs and tried to pull it out from the table, but it was heavy, clumsy like she was. Finally, a servant ran up to help her, and she gratefully sat down in the upholstered chair. Her dress was a mess, so big and bulky around her legs. She felt certain she was doing something wrong, but she always felt that way, really.
“Would you like some champagne?” her father asked. “We’re celebrating.”
Champagne?
“I—I don’t think I’m old enough for champagne, am I?”
“You’re old enough if I say you’re old enough.” He was smiling again.
“Then yes, please,” she said nervously.
You are more powerful than all three of them combined.
That was what her mother had said five minutes ago. Had it only been five minutes? It felt like years since she’d felt safe there beside her mother.
A servant scurried over with a glass already poured. But she was clumsy, and she tripped, spilling half of it onto her dress.
The laughter of her brothers was infuriating, and she could feel little sparks of electricity on the tips of her fingers.
“Oh, miss,” the servant said, the same servant who’d helped her into the chair. “I am so, so sorry.” The servant looked up at her father, and Gwyn could see her bottom lip trembling with fear.
For a moment, Gwyn thought she might cry, too. But then she remembered her mother’s words, and she did her best to be a lady.
“It’s no trouble,” she said to the servant.
The woman grabbed for an extra napkin, and she began plotting the spilled champagne from Gwyn’s dress.
“Please,” Gwyn said.
At that moment, the servant understood that they were both burning bugs beneath the same magnifying glass, and she stepped away.
“Well,” her father said. “Shall we toast?”
He stood up, and so did her two brothers, but she didn’t try to move again, and Bevyn was mysteriously quiet and still. She wanted to stare at him, to find out what was wrong. But when her father spoke, she knew it would be worse for everyone if she were to ignore him. So she lifted her glass and listened.
“Today marks a new day in our family,” he said. “For I have decided that we shall all eat together from now on. It makes no sense for us to stay separated any longer.” Then, he seemed to be distracted and stared down at Bevyn. “Raise your glass, boy.”
It was then that she realized that not only did Bevyn not have a glass of champagne but that his hands were shackled together at the dinner table. She was guessing that his feet were also probably shackled to the chair.
Was this some sort of gift? Some sort of twisted idea to hurt her?
No. This wasn’t about her. At least, not completely.
Her father stepped toward Bevyn, and for a moment, she thought he would strike him. Instead, he did something so unexpected that it left her with her mouth hanging open.
He gave Bevyn, his youngest and most hated son, his own glass of champagne.
Bevyn looked up at the glass and then at his father.
“Take it,” Torin said. “By all means.”
It was a trap. She knew it was, and so did everybody else in the room. She begged silently in her mind.
Please, please, please don’t take it.
But she knew there was no other way. No matter what he chose to do at that moment, he would be paying a terrible price.
He took the champagne.
Her father walked back to where the bottle awaited him, cradled in a silver vase. He picked up the bottle, half-empty, half-full.
Suddenly, she knew what was going to happen, and she knew she had to be the one to get in the way. Before her father could strike her brother with the bottle, she stood up and threw what was left of her champagne into her father’s face.
Everybody froze. Nobody spoke. The champagne dripped down from his face, pooling at his chin.
“Father,” she said steadily. “I seem to have emptied my glass.”
She tried desperately to keep it from happening, to keep her power pushed down deep within her. But it was just like her mother had said; she was untrained. She’d never had a chance to practice, and that meant she had little control. She could feel the electricity pulsing between her fingertips. She set her glass down on the table and sat back down, hiding her hands within the folds of her dress.
Her father grabbed a dry napkin and patted himself with it. He looked surprised. Surely he was used to getting into fights, hurting other people, maybe even getting hurt, himself.
But humiliated away from his home kingdom, that was new.
He slammed the bottle back down onto the table and sat. Phalen and Varik were shellshocked, their champagne glasses held loosely in their hands. Only Bevyn used his brain, taking the opportunity to drink the entire glass of champagne in just a couple of gulps. Because really, who knew when he would eat or drink again?
Her father stared at her, and she could see it, his mind trying to work out what to do next.
“Bevyn,” she said, gesturing to the champagne bottle.
May as well have a little fun.
He understood her meaning, and he leaned forward, gripping onto the neck of the bottle and passing it across the table to her. At first, she thought to pour herself another glass, but that seemed too easy. So instead, she did something reckless. She tipped the bottle back, and she drank straight from it.
Phalen and Varik both laughed, then clinked their glasses together and drank deeply. She knew this was quite a show for them, but she didn’t mind it so much. She would pay the price for this dinner no matter what she did now. The fact that she had dared to show up was enough to warrant mistreatment. And if she had declined to show up, nothing would’ve been any different.
She gulped from the bottle, and though she’d never had champagne before in her life, she felt certain it would not make her drunk. She could drink it like water; all she had to do was refuse to be affected by its properties. So she did drink it like water, and when she was done, she threw the bottle over her shoulder and listened to it shatter as it hit the stone floor behind her.
She couldn’t remember anything, and the only thing she knew now was pain. She was lying in bed, and she had a vague sense that her mother was with her, a comfort. A cool towel gently blotted her face, and she felt certain there must be an injury there. She tried to move, tried to roll over, but pain, unimaginable, overtook her.
“Be quiet, little bee,” her mother whispered. “My power has been gone for many years, but I was a healer once. Give me some time, and I will be able to help you of the pain.”
She felt a warm hand on her forehead, and vaguely behind the warmth, she felt a blossoming sort of sensation in her head. Was it real?
The throbbing ebbed.
“What happened?” she asked quietly.
Her mother smiled back at her, but she was crying. This wor
ried Gwyn in a place deep in her mind, in a place too far away from her right then.
“Your father. He did this.”
“And Bevyn?”
“I do not know.”
Her mother reached out again, and this time she put both hands on Gwyn’s head.
Heaven.
She woke hours later to find her mother unresponsive next to her. Gwyn felt better, at least no longer like she might be sick. She had a vague memory of that, being sick. She had vomited on someone somewhere in the castle; she just couldn’t remember whom.
She hoped it was her father.
She reached out for her mother, put one hand on her shoulder, and gave her a slight shake.
Her mother moaned, but she didn’t speak.
“Mother,” Gwyn said. “Mother, wake up.”
But her mother wasn’t waking up.
Gwyn placed her head on her mother’s chest and listened. There, a heartbeat. She was breathing, but barely, and cold ice ran through Gwyn’s veins.
She stood up from the bed, realizing she still had on the green dress, though it was ripped in several places and badly stained. She wanted out of it desperately, but she needed something else first. Her mother kept a treasure deep in the wardrobe. She’d shown it to Gwyn once a year ago. She’d explained about her power, about how weak she’d become since meeting her father. Riona used to have the power to heal, and Gwyn now realized what had happened to her mother the night before.
She’d tried to heal Gwyn. She’d succeeded.
And now, she was nearly dead for the effort.
Gwyn rifled through the armoire, searching for the little vial of turquoise liquid her mother had told her about so long ago.
“Never use it,” Riona had said. “Only if you’re on the verge of death. And never, never tell your father.”
Never tell her father. Never tell him anything but a lie. At all costs, hide the truth.
Gwyn unstoppered the small vial and approached her mother’s bedside. She tilted her mother’s head back, then looked at the vial. The liquid within seemed to have a life of its own. It was aquamarine, and it swam around and around through the glass container.
How much to use?
She looked down at her mother and made the decision.
She only gave her a little bit at a time, not wanting her to choke. Then, when her eyes fluttered open, Gwyn tilted the rest into her mouth. She knew her mother would be upset, knew she wouldn’t have wanted Gwyn to use it on anyone but herself.
But to Gwyn, it was worth it. Life without Mother would be unimaginable. So when her mother sat up in the bed, and comprehension dawned upon her face, Gwyn just smiled and threw the glass vial over her shoulder like an empty bottle of champagne.
Year 11
Gwyn was in the same dress she’d worn years before on that fateful night when she’d first been attacked by her father. Since that day, he’d expected her to join them at dinner every night, but he would not allow her to wear any other gown than the one she’d worn for two years. The gown was not permitted to be cleaned, though the servants desperately wanted to do so. When she would pass them in the hall, they would look at her pityingly, and no matter how much Gwyn tried to keep her chin held up, she couldn’t help but feel shame.
Without the help from the servants, the gown was ripped and stained with blood and remnants of food and wine that had been splashed upon her. She stank, and while she understood that this was part of her punishment for acting out against him, it always surprised her that he was willing to live with the smell.
Torin was standing over her chair, and like always, she marveled at how tall he was compared to her.
Maybe he just seemed that way since she was still so young.
Not a child, though. Not anymore.
He bent over and placed his hands on the armrests of the dining chair.
“I want you to show me what you showed your mother last night,” he said. “I know you’re hiding from me.”
Her head was throbbing from the blow she’d taken when she’d fallen onto the stone floor of the dining room. Her brothers had laughed, then. Not Bevyn, of course, but the other two. She wondered what their father was trying to prove. And to whom.
She wondered if her father was frightened.
This thought kept her from letting the tiniest spark of magic come through her fingertips. If he didn’t know what she could do, he didn’t know what he might have to face in the future.
Besides, Mother had always told her to keep it secret, though Gwyn had never understood quite why. Maybe it was because her anger brought out the magic within her. Maybe her mother was frightened of her as well—frightened of who she might have become under her father’s tutelage.
But she didn’t want to think about that. All she wanted was to be left alone.
“Gwyn,” her father said dangerously. “You know I’ll find out one way or another.”
When she stayed silent, his eyes grew wide, and he began shaking the chair.
She couldn’t help it; she was scared of him. Tears began running down her cheeks, and her head gave a nasty twinge.
Stop it. Just stop it, she thought. Please.
But he wouldn’t stop; she knew he wouldn’t. Without someone there to protect her, she was on her own.
The boys, Phalen and Varik, were laughing, though Bevyn stayed silent. As usual, he was shackled to the chair. She wondered if it was better for him to come to the dining table and be allowed to eat or if he preferred his usual place down in the dungeons. At least there he was left alone.
But Gwyn was never left alone. Her injuries followed her everywhere she went, and she frequently wondered what it would be like to be beautiful. She rarely looked into a mirror anymore; she knew an ugly, scarred face would stare back at her.
The truth was, she hadn’t shown her mother anything the night before. Mother preferred to stay in the dark with regard to Gwyn’s talent. Maybe she thought it was safer for Gwyn that way. Though Father never tortured her mother, only the children.
Gwyn looked over at Bevyn and saw him watching her, unable to tear his eyes away from the theater her father was creating.
“I didn’t do anything,” she said, and it was the truth.
It had been years since she’d shown her mother any of her magic. And it had been years since her mother had been able to heal her effectively. Sometimes, when her injuries became too much to bear, her mother would place her hands upon her head and let whatever magic she had left within her transfer to her daughter. Gwyn was conflicted when this happened. Her mother’s healing was enough to result in her own sickness, and it would sometimes put her in bed for weeks, as weak as she was. Torin traveled enough that he hadn’t yet figured this out, the bond they shared.
But it was only a matter of time.
“Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!”
With each word, he picked up her chair and slammed it down again until her head was rolling, scrambled.
Finally, when he determined she wasn’t going to give up any information, he did the thing that he always did.
“Fine, then,” he said.
He stood up and turned to look at Bevyn. The moment his father’s eyes fell upon him, Bevyn looked down at the table. Like a dog, if one were to look into Torin’s eyes for too long, he could be seen as a threat. And their father loved a good threat.
Torin casually made his way around the dining table on his way to Bevyn’s seat. Bevyn squirmed, and Gwyn knew it was up to her to save him from whatever punishment was headed his way.
“Father! Stop!” she cried. “I’ll show you. Come back.”
But her father didn’t come back. Instead, he sauntered around the room, allowing his fingers to gently touch the surfaces as he passed. A dining chair. Varik’s head. The rounded edge of his dinner plate. And finally, he came to Bevyn’s side.
“Look at me, boy,” Torin said.
Bevyn shook his head. Gwyn knew that he must be weighing his options. To disobey was bad en
ough, but to pose a threat would be worse.
“I dare not look at you, Father,” Bevyn said.
Gwyn felt a rock fall into her stomach as she waited to see what Bevyn’s punishment would be.
Finally, after Torin had looked at him for a few moments, he decided. His hand gripped a lock of Bevyn’s hair, and he ripped it from his scalp.
Gwyn gasped. She could never get used to seeing another one hurt on her behalf.
But Bevyn didn’t scream, another calculated defense against further abuse. To scream might’ve given Torin what he wanted, to reaffirm his power. To stay quiet might invite further attacks.
There was no winning.
Blood from where the hair had been pulled began to drip down what remained of the hair still on his head. For this punishment was a favorite of Torin’s, and Bevyn had splotches of raw scalp all over. The spots were healed inexpertly by Gwyn during their quiet moments in the dungeons, but it was never enough.
She gripped the armrests of her chair, trying hard not to let even the smallest amount of magic out. She could’ve killed him just then, could’ve killed them all.
But she knew she mustn’t.
Someday she would, though. She knew that for sure.
She dropped her head, for a moment unwilling and unable to watch the torture scene before her, because of her. But after a quick few seconds, she looked up again. She knew it wasn’t her fault, what was happening to Bevyn. Her father would find a way to hurt him no matter what she did or didn’t do. Torin’s thirst for blood was never to be underestimated.
She was surprised, as always, when not a single tear dropped from Bevyn’s eyes. It felt like she was crying all the time, unable to keep her emotions in check. At least when she was injured. When she was angry, it was another story.
Now it was a combination of anger and fear and pain. She had pain in her own head, and while different from Bevyn’s, it always seemed that he got the short end of the deal.
A moment later, Torin picked up Bevyn’s chair with unnatural strength and heaved it across the room until it was on its side, sliding upon the polished rock. The place where Torin had taken the lock of hair left a smear of blood on the floor as the chair came to rest.