Firebrand

He fisted his hands. Refused to speak. He would not let her get to him.

She chuckled. “So determined you are not to give me satisfaction. How admirable. You are an honorable man, King Zachary. I like honorable men—they are so much more pleasing to break. You see, I will get satisfaction, even if I must wait. In the meantime, Grandmother will not begrudge me a little blood.”

She peeled his blanket away to reveal his chest. “I see your old arrow wound healed well enough. Yes, I heard about that. By the time all is well and done, you will be wishing that assassin had proved successful.” She then walked away, humming. He could not see what she was up to. When she returned, she showed him a whip with multiple thongs. She separated one from the others. The leather appeared to be stiff with crusted blood. She showed him the knot at the end of the thing, twisted with wire so the ends created sharp barbs. Barbs that had clots of skin adhering to them.

“This has tasted the blood of your Greenie.”

He started to bellow his rage, but it turned to a sharp cry of surprise and pain as she jabbed the barb into his chest and ripped it across and through his nipple. She stepped back to admire her handiwork, then to his revulsion, dipped her finger in the blood that welled up from the wound, and tasted it.

“This pleases me,” she said. “Is it not interesting how closely aligned pain and pleasure are? I cannot say I have tasted royal blood before. Your Greenie’s was fine, too.”

He strained against the straps.

“Yes, she is more than a mere messenger to you, isn’t she. Grandmother will find that interesting. Too bad your Greenie is gone.”

“Gone?” he whispered.

She nodded and dropped something on his chest. “Something for you to remember her by.”

It looked like . . . Looked like brown braided hair. Karigan’s? What had they done to her? The rumors he’d heard of an intrusion on the encampment must have been a wishful dream—he’d been beaten into a stupor, then made to carry that log on his shoulders, and there was no accounting of what was real and what was not. Had they killed her?

“No . . .”

“No, what?”

“What did you do with her? Where is she?”

Nyssa shrugged. “Does it matter? Grandmother will be here soon and you won’t care about anything, not even your Greenie. Now, I am going to go check on my guards. You are a special prize, and there is no way anyone is going to get past our safeguards. No one will rescue you. You are ours to do with as we wish. You may be a king, but here you have no power. You are nothing.”

She turned and left him then, and as far as he knew, he was alone inside the building. The sting of the wound across his chest was nothing compared to the other abuses he’d received, but he didn’t care about himself. They could do whatever they wanted to him. What burned him inside was his rage, rage for whatever had been done to Karigan.

He fought his restraints anew, but they only seemed to tighten with his struggles. He sighed and relaxed. Karigan’s braid, if it was really hers, and he saw no reason for Nyssa to have lied about it, rose and fell on his chest with his breaths. How often had he wanted to stroke that long, brown hair . . . He closed his eyes, pictured himself doing just that, drawing her to him in a kiss . . . The pleasant vision gave way to imagining the many ways he’d murder Nyssa, how he’d defeat Second Empire, how he’d obliterate not only this encampment, but all of them so his realm could remain at peace.

Currently he was in no position to do anything. He would preserve his thwarted rage, use it when opportunity presented itself. If it ever did.

• • •

Voices talked over him. He must have drifted off, exhausted as he was in spirit and body. He did not open his eyes or move. Let them believe he was still asleep.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the braid?” Grandmother asked.

“I forgot about it,” Nyssa replied, “after everything happened.”

“You know I find such things useful when I work with etherea. Do not forget again.”

“I’m sorry, Grandmother. I won’t.”

“Of course you won’t, dear.”

How would Grandmother find Karigan’s braid useful? Did it mean that Karigan had escaped, after all? If she were dead, what use could the braid possibly be? No, she had to be alive. He must cling to that hope.

“He is feigning sleep,” Grandmother said. “I can tell. Young man, open your eyes.”

He looked up at the women who stood on either side of the table.

“Well, well,” Grandmother said. “The great king of Sacoridia, the warrior who has fought us on the border, does not look so impressive at the moment. No armor, no guards, no sword. You are just flesh and blood, after all, aren’t you.”

“He doesn’t talk much,” Nyssa said.

“That will change over time,” Grandmother replied. “Do you know I had to undo the entire scarf I made for Lala in the fall just so I had enough yarn to work on him?”

Scarf? Yarn? Then Zachary remembered that Grandmother somehow worked her magic into yarn, made spells of the knots she tied. The opening and closing of a door announced the arrival of someone else.

“There you are, Lala,” Grandmother said. “You will help me with the knots.”

A girl appeared in his peripheral vision, her expression neutral. Grandmother let this girl help with—with whatever she was going to do to him?

“Young man, I recommend you open your mouth.”