Capture the Crown

by Jennifer Estep

  “Just a mild bit of torture,” Maeven said. “Don’t damage her too badly. She’s no use to me dead.”

  Milo sneered at his mother the same way he had at me. “You wouldn’t have said that sixteen years ago. You would have fried this Andvarian bitch to a crisp with your lightning in the throne room for everyone to see.”

  Maeven shrugged. “Older and wiser and all that.” Her face hardened, and magic crackled in her eyes. “Do not disobey me in this, or there will be consequences—ones that you won’t enjoy any more than Gemma is going to enjoy what you do to her. Do you understand me?”

  Milo gave his mother a wary look. “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” Maeven’s voice was pure ice.

  A muscle ticced in Milo’s jaw, but he tilted his head to her ever so slightly. “Yes, my queen.”

  His words slithered out as a low, angry hiss, but Maeven didn’t seem to mind her son’s obvious lack of sincerity and fealty. She eyed him a few seconds longer, then motioned at the three guards. To my surprise, they took up positions along the wall. Apparently, the queen didn’t trust her son not to kill me. How considerate of her.

  Maeven left the workshop. Delmira scurried after her, still not meeting my harsh, accusing gaze. The doors closed behind them, leaving me in the workshop with Milo, Wexel, and the queen’s three guards.

  Milo ignored the captain and the guards and circled around me. He did that several times before stopping behind me. A cold finger of unease slid down my spine. Something rustled, and a faint, ominous creak sounded. What was that—

  Agony exploded in my back.

  The pain was so sudden, so intense, so blindingly shocking and searingly white-hot that I couldn’t even scream. All the air dribbled out of my lungs, and I scrambled to get it back. I managed to suck down a surprised breath—

  The pain came again.

  And then again. And again.

  Dully, in the back of my mind, I realized what was happening.

  Milo was whipping me.

  The crown prince stood behind me, out of my line of sight, and every soft creak and then resounding snap made me flinch. Sometimes, he cracked the whip against the flagstones, or an empty table standing nearby, or my back. There was no hurry in his attacks and no pattern to them either, but the worst part was not being able to see them coming, not being able to brace myself for the whip slamming against my skin and peeling away another strip of my flesh.

  Desperate, I reached for my magic, trying to do something, anything, to stop it, but the coldiron shackles dampened my power. All I could do was stand there and take the blows, each one so hard and vicious it stole my breath, leaving me unable to scream out any of my pain.

  Finally, the whipping stopped.

  Red-hot ribbons of fire seared my back from top to bottom, as though coral vipers were writhing through my skin, biting and poisoning me over and over again. Blood also trickled down my back, adding to my misery. The steady stream of it matched the tears cascading down my cheeks. My breath puffed in and out in choked, ragged gasps, and I struggled not to whimper.

  Milo stepped in front of me, holding a long whip. The handle was made of ordinary black leather, but the whip itself was a shockingly bright orange-red. Just looking at the vivid color made the ribbons of fire in my back burn a little hotter.

  “Do you like it?” he purred. “I stole this from Uncle Maximus’s workshop years ago. I used to sneak in there as a child and watch him play with the people who displeased him. Sometimes, if I was lucky, he would let me play with them too. That’s when I first learned what true power really is—having your enemies helpless before you.” He cracked the whip against the floor to punctuate his gruesome point.

  So Maximus had had a hand in warping Milo. I wondered what Maeven had thought about her brother teaching her son how to torture people. If she’d been horrified by the idea. If she’d tried to stop it. Or if she simply hadn’t cared.

  “Maximus had an extensive collection of whips, but this one was always my favorite. It’s made from the skin of coral vipers. The whip’s magic is designed to make you feel like your skin is on fire, even more so than it would anyway from the sting of the actual wound. Just like coral-viper venom makes people feel like their blood is boiling inside their veins.”

  He expertly twirled the whip around, and I couldn’t stop myself from shuddering.

  “The wounds can be healed, but supposedly not even the most talented bone master can get rid of the scars that the whip leaves behind,” Milo continued in a light, conversational tone, as if he were talking about how sunny it was and not about the horrible torture he had just inflicted on me. “Leonidas would know. Uncle Maximus used this whip on him all the time. Sometimes, if I was very, very good, Uncle Maximus would let me use the whip on Leonidas too.”

  I thought of how ashamed Leonidas had been for me to see the scars on his back. How he wore layer after layer of clothing like a suit of armor. How he didn’t like to be touched. How he was always so gentle and careful with me. My breath escaped in another ragged gasp, and more tears streamed down my face, but this time, they weren’t entirely for myself.

  “Those truly were magnificent times.” Milo’s eyes gleamed, and a smile slithered across his lips, as if he was remembering all the terrible things he’d done to his own brother—and now to me too.

  I was going to kill Milo Morricone.

  I didn’t know how, I didn’t know when, but I would kill him. Even if it was the last thing I ever did, even if I died in his horrid workshop in the next five minutes, I was going to find a way to fucking take him with me. My silent vow didn’t ease the pain in my back, but it gave me something else to focus on besides my own misery.

  “What’s the matter, Gemma?” Milo mocked. “Strix got your tongue? You were full of witty remarks earlier, but now you’re so strangely silent. I wonder why that is?”

  He tapped a finger against his lips, as if contemplating his own question. “I suppose it’s because I’ve beaten all the wit right out of you. Why, you’re nothing but a broken doll now.”

  If I’d had the breath for it, I would have laughed in his face. Yes, Milo had beaten me, whipped me, wounded me terribly—but he had not broken me. The Seven Spire massacre had broken me, but this pompous, arrogant, sadistic prince would not. I added that vow to the cold, murderous one already beating in my heart.

  “If only your people could see you like this,” Milo sneered. “You’re a bloody, blubbering mess. They wouldn’t call you Glitzma now.”

  He drew back his arm, as if to snap the whip against the front of my body, maybe even my face, but one of Maeven’s guards loudly, deliberately cleared his throat. Milo shot the man an angry glare, but he lowered the whip. No matter how much he wanted to hurt me, he didn’t want to risk his mother hurting him in return. He was even more of a fucking coward than I was.

  Milo motioned at the three guards. “Do something useful. Put her on the table.”

  I was hoping that Maeven’s men would ignore his command, but the guards stepped forward. Two of them held me upright while the third man unhooked my arms from the chains dangling from the ceiling, although he left the coldiron shackles clamped around my wrists.

  I frowned. Why wasn’t the guard putting a coldiron collar around my neck like the one Wexel had used on Leonidas in Blauberg? Maybe the Mortans didn’t realize what kind of magic I had. Princess Gemma was thought to be a metalstone master, and I had never shown anyone at Myrkvior my true mind magier power, except for Leonidas and Reiko. A spark of hope ignited in my chest. Perhaps I could use this oversight to my advantage—if I stayed alive long enough.

  The third guard undid the chains from around my feet. Then the other two guards dragged me over to an empty table, picked me up, and laid me down flat on it. To my surprise, the stone actually had a cooling effect on my back, and tears of relief leaked out of my eyes as some of my pain eased.

  The guards spread my arms and legs out into that five-pointed-star position again, the
n chained my limbs down to the table. They stepped back, and Milo loomed over me. I yanked on the chains, which had a bit more give than the other ones, but I couldn’t do much more than wriggle helplessly, like a worm caught in a strix’s beak.

  Milo drew something from his pocket, then held it out over the table where I could see it. A tearstone arrow glinted a dull gray in his fingers. “You have such a keen interest in my arrows that I thought I would show you what they can truly do. Would you like that, Gemma?”

  He smiled at the growing horror on my face. “Oh, yes. I thought you would.”

  Milo leaned forward and drove the arrow all the way through my right hand.

  Flesh ripped. Muscles tore. Bones broke. Pain exploded in my hand just like it had in my back. Only this time, I had enough breath to scream. And scream. And scream . . .

  “What do you think, Gemma?” Milo said, when my cries finally died down. “Will my arrows help me destroy my enemies?”

  I didn’t have the breath to answer him. More tears streamed out of my eyes, and my hand throbbed and pulsed with every frantic beat of my heart.

  Milo grinned, moved around the table, and held another arrow out where I could see it. Then the bastard grinned and drove that one through my left hand.

  More pain, more screams, more tears.

  He waited for me to get my breath back before he spoke again. “You’re probably wondering why I went to so much trouble to steal tearstone just to make arrows out of it. Let me show you.”

  Milo lifted his hand. I tensed, thinking he had yet another arrow to drive through my body, but purple lightning flared on his fingertips. He gave me another cruel smile, then flicked his fingers, shooting small bolts of lightning at the arrows embedded in my hands.

  Tearstone was known for its ability to deflect magic, but Milo’s arrows didn’t do that. Instead, they acted like lightning rods, absorbing his magic and then shooting it out into my wounds. In an instant, my hands felt like they were on fire and being electrocuted at the same time, and the sensation zipped up my arms and out into the rest of my body. I screamed and screamed, but I couldn’t stop the searing agony of his magic . . .

  I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew, Milo was looming over me again. His lightning was gone, and he was studying me with a curious expression, as though I were a bug trapped in a jar that he was going to scorch with a magnifying glass—again.

  He gave me another wicked grin. “And now, for the really fun part—my favorite part.”

  All my strength was gone, and all I could do was stare at him dully, wondering what new horror was coming next. Milo grinned again, then reached down, took hold of the arrow in my right hand, and yanked it out.

  I hadn’t thought anything could hurt worse than the coral-viper whip peeling the skin from my back, the arrow punching through my hand, or the tearstone conducting his lightning through my body.

  I was wrong.

  The hooked barbs lining the arrowhead dug into my skin, ripping and tearing and chewing through my muscles, tendons, and bones, and doing as much damage as possible.

  More pain, more screams, more tears.

  Milo held the arrow up where I could see it. My blood coated the weapon, turning the tearstone such a dark blue that it almost looked black.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Gemma,” he said, seeing my horrified expression. “I don’t have Uncle Maximus’s mutt ability to absorb magic from blood, so I have no interest in drinking yours. Although it is rather amusing to watch it spurt out of your body.”

  He tossed the arrow onto an empty table across from the one I was lying on. The clank-clank-clank of the projectile sliding across the stone made me shudder.

  “And lucky for me, I still have one more arrow to go,” Milo purred.

  He took hold of the second arrow and ripped it out just as brutally as he had the first one.

  More pain, more screams, more tears.

  Then everything went black, and I finally, mercifully, passed out.

  * * *

  One moment, I was drifting along in the sweet black void of unconsciousness. The next, I was standing by the table, staring down at my own tortured self. I sighed. Thanks to my severe injuries, I was ghosting again. Terrific.

  One of the workshop doors creaked open. I glanced in that direction, although my real-world body didn’t move. To my surprise, Delmira slipped into the chamber carrying a small basket.

  She glanced around, but Milo, Wexel, and the guards were gone, and I was the only one in here. Delmira shut the door behind her, then rushed over to me.

  “Oh, Gemma,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  A few tears dripped off her cheeks and spattered onto my right hand, and a little jolt of power, of magic, pulsed through my wound. Even stranger, it eased my pain, just a bit.

  Delmira wiped her tears away, set her basket down, and started pulling items out of it. A bowl of water, a tin of salve, white bandages. Not what I’d expected.

  The princess cleaned the wounds in my hands, then opened the tin and dipped her fingers into the salve inside. She talked to me the whole time she worked, the way that people sometimes did to sick loved ones. She must have thought that I could hear her. If she only knew.

  “This is liladorn salve.” Delmira smeared a light purple cream all over my injured hands. “I made it myself from a recipe I found in an old book in the palace library. It will close and heal your wounds, although they will probably still scar.”

  The purple salve started glowing with a faint, almost translucent light, but Delmira didn’t seem to notice it, and she kept rubbing the concoction all over my hands. Cool, soothing tingles rippled out of the salve and soaked into my skin, and the soft scent of lilac filled my nose. I wondered how much magic was in the salve—and how much of it was Delmira’s own doing.

  My bones straightened, my tendons realigned, and my muscles pulled themselves back together. A few minutes later, the ugly wounds in my hands had healed to bright red scars, as though someone had painted crimson starbursts onto my skin.

  “I begged Mother to let a bone master heal you, but of course she refused,” Delmira continued talking. “She never should have let Milo torture you. Sometimes, I don’t know who is the bigger monster—Mother or Milo.”

  She slathered a final layer of liladorn salve onto my hands, then bandaged them. Next, she turned me over onto my side, grimacing at how the chains clanked. Her lips pinched together as she saw the whip wounds on my back, but she cleaned and bandaged those as best she could through my tattered gown.

  “I used to bandage Leo’s wounds after Uncle Maximus hurt him,” Delmira said, still talking to my body. “Uncle Maximus was always jealous of Leo’s mind magier power, and he would have Leo brought to his workshop. He claimed that he was teaching Leo about magic, but we all saw the marks on Leo’s back, and we knew that Maximus was really trying to take Leo’s power for his own. He never succeeded, but Leo still suffered terribly. My uncle had a whole collection of whips, and he used them all on Leo. Milo too, from time to time. And me, once.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she stared off into space, as if remembering that horrible event. Delmira shuddered and rolled me onto my other side so she could reach the rest of my wounds.

  “Of course Mother tried to stop it, but Uncle Maximus shipped her off to Seven Spire. He said it was so she could spy on the Blairs, but we all knew that he wanted to get her out of the palace. She thwarted him, though. She sent Leo and me away from Myrkvior before she left for Bellona.”

  Surprise filled me. I had always assumed that Maeven had wanted to go to Seven Spire, that she had been eager to orchestrate the massacre, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

  “You must hate Mother and Milo and probably me too,” Delmira continued. “Not only for tonight, but also for what happened to you during the Seven Spire massacre. And rightly so. But please don’t hate Leo. He truly does care for you. I can see it in his face
whenever he looks at you and hear it in his voice whenever he speaks about you. Mother just twisted the situation around to her own advantage, the way she always does.”

  Bitterness dripped from her voice, and misery flooded her face, as though she was speaking from personal experience. What cruel thing had Maeven done to her own daughter to provoke such a reaction?

  “Leo didn’t realize that Mother knew who you really were until she called him out in front of everyone at the ball,” Delmira continued. “She trapped him, and you too. And you’ve both suffered for it.”

  My eyes narrowed. Leonidas was suffering? How?

  Delmira finished tending to my wounds, laid me back out flat on the table, and returned her supplies to her basket. Then she leaned forward and smoothed my hair back from my face. “I wish I could do more for you. I should have told you to flee the palace the second I saw your gargoyle pendant. I recognized it at once. Plus, I’ve heard so many wonderful stories about Princess Gemma Ripley, the queen of fashion and style and everything else beautiful in Andvari.”

  A wistful look twisted her face. “You were so kind to me, even though you probably didn’t want to be. We could have been friends if things had been different. If I had been braver, stronger.”

  She laid her hand on my forehead, and her pain, conflict, and anguish trickled down into my body. Despite everything that had happened, my heart softened. She was a good person trapped in a bad situation who was just trying to survive.

  Delmira removed her hand, gathered up her things, and snuck out of the workshop, but she didn’t leave me alone. As soon as she vanished, a familiar presence filled the air.

  I stiffened and glared into the shadows in the far corner. “I know you’re there. I can feel you oozing about. Like pond scum.”

  “Pond scum?” a voice murmured. “I was hoping that I would at least merit a physical form. Perhaps a coral viper.”