A post had been driven into the sand, ropes dangling from the top. A fire crackled under a shallow brazier, an iron heating in its grip.
“You’ll be marked,” Brogan had told him the night before.
Movement killed the thought. Kane paced in the open circle, an almost feral smile crossing his face when he met Rhys’s brief stare. It was the same expression the man had worn during the full day of interrogation Rhys had endured at his hand.
Rhys had thought he’d understood torture until he spent a day with Kane.
The soldiers had to force Rhys to move again, finally jerking him to a halt in front of the post. They unlocked his manacles and stripped him of his shirt roughly, the salty air stinging in the oozing, exposed cuts and gashes that pockmarked his skin.
“Kneel.”
He barely registered the command before his knees were kicked from under him. He thudded to the sand, just trying to breathe as his arms were yanked overhead and tied.
It’ll be over soon.
It was only thought he seemed capable of. He glanced up and saw Alan’s strained face. He stood next to Brogan, whose own expression remained an impressive mask.
Alan. His best friend. A brother in all but name. He stood by and did nothing now, though his eyes were wide with horror.
I’ll do whatever it takes to get you home. Brogan’s reassuring words spoken before the trial were his only hope at the moment.
He wouldn’t be able to go home for a while, but he could eventually. On that day, he could explain everything to his family. To Sean.
The official called out to the crowd surrounding the post. “Rhys MacDuffy has been declared guilty of the murder of Prince Seabright, the last of his line.”
Angry cries echoed from the gathered crowd, shouts of hate and rage louder than the crashing waves of the ocean.
“The council decrees that there has been enough death in this war,” the official called to another angry chorus of furious shouts. “The council will not stain the prince’s legacy even with the death of a traitor. Therefore, Rhys MacDuffy will receive the mark of dishonor, thirty lashes, and the brand of a traitor so that every soul in Alsaya may know his crime.”
Rhys forced a breath. Then another. But his muscles froze when Kane circled around him, a long whip uncoiling in his hand. The torturer smiled and passed out of his view.
Breathe. Just breathe. It’ll be over soon.
Pain seared through his back and his body jerked of its own accord. The second strike freed him from the shock, and a cry clawed at his throat.
In the crowd, Alan’s face paled, his expression stricken and his fists clenched tight. Surrounded by a crowd of raging onlookers, Rhys had never been more alone. He smothered a cry as the third lash cut into him.
It’ll be over soon.
The gasping, strangled sounds in his throat grew raspier, deeper with every lash, but he didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. Not for the fifth lash. Not for the tenth. Not even for the fifteenth. But his resolve began to waver as the sixteenth lash was called.
A small trembling cry escaped as a sheen of red stained the sand around him.
Will it ever be over?
He sagged against the ropes, his body jolting with every new blow. Another cry escaped with twenty, louder this time. And then it seemed he couldn’t stop, even as darkness threatened his vision.
Then it stopped. He sobbed for a breath as his body shook. Blood slicked his back and a small breeze stung. The scent of burning forced its way into his battered senses.
“Not done with you yet, traitor,” Kane’s laughing voice whispered in his ear.
His right arm was wrenched around to expose his forearm. He didn’t have time to think before fire engulfed his arm. From the corner of his eye he saw the angry yellow and red iron pressed against his arm. Holding, searing, burning. Then released.
His skin had been warped and scorched into a T, facing out to the world and declaring him a traitor.
Finally. It’s over. It’s done. He found some relief as his body throbbed in agony.
“You still awake?” Kane yanked his head up by his sweaty, blood-streaked hair. “Because I want to see this.”
Rhys couldn’t puzzle a meaning as his hands were untied and they dragged him away from the post. He remained on his knees, the soldiers pinning him in place.
What’s happening? It’s over.
Brogan came into his narrowed field of vision. He held a bundle of cloth. Blue and yellow checkered.
“Rhys MacDuffy, you stand accused of treason and murder. You’ve dishonored your clan.”
What is he doing?
Brogan ripped the cloth, the rending of the fabric somehow louder than the crowd’s infuriated roar.
No.
Time seemed to freeze. Brogan took something from a clansman, and Rhys recognized his sword. But a deep notch had been cut into the blade.
No.
He wanted to scream, to beg, to plead, anything to make Brogan stop what was about to happen. But the words locked in his chest and he watched in horrified silence as Brogan set his notched blade beneath his foot and broke it. Something snapped deep inside him as the echo faded across the silent beach.
“From this day forward you have no father, no brother, no sister, nor mother within the seven Clans. Your name shall not be spoken again unless to curse and you will be forgotten. You are outcast.”
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Liar. He lied to me.
The soldiers released his arms, and he swayed without their sudden support. Above the roaring of the breakers, Rhys could barely hear Alan shout from somewhere in the crowd.
Brogan turned his back on him and walked away. Kane stepped into view, a wicked smile on his face. He raised his hand, clenching the butt of the whip, and brought it down.
Fire exploded across his face and he tumbled to the sand, new blood dribbling from his temple. Grit clawed into his wounded back, but he didn’t care. He could hardly feel the pain through the shock. Darkness began to take him, but not before he saw boots stirring the sand in front of him. A bundle of plaid clattered to the ground.
“Come on.” He barely heard the words. Movement sent every injured nerve screaming in protest.
Just let me die, was his last thought before the darkness took him.
“Baron.” Alan’s voice jerked him back to the light. Rhys unclenched his hands, palms throbbing from where his fingers had dug into skin. He shuddered a breath and focused on the white sands of the beach that stretched beyond the harbor. From the height of their room, the sweeping curve of the harbor was visible, filled with ships of every design, and guarded by a towering lighthouse rising on the cliffs at the harbor entrance.
He rested a hand on the windowsill, taking another deep breath.
“This was his room, you know,” he said. “This is where it happened.”
“Dialan,” Alan whispered, glancing around at the wide room they’d been escorted to after being told that Lord Adam would speak to them at the evening meal. Guards tramped through the halls, leaving little doubt that they were, in effect, prisoners.
A prisoner once again within the castle walls. He’d asked for death, and they’d given him a brand and a curse.
He’d been trying to die ever since. But Neil MacCullough hadn’t let him. Neil had stood forward as Alan was dragged away with the Clan. He’d knelt by Rhys, wrapped the sword in the tattered cloth, and carried the broken blade and the broken man away.
He’d stayed until Rhys was strong enough to travel on his own. They said goodbye at the Raven’s Tooth, and Rhys began his journey to the mountains.
Alan’s chair squeaked against the stone floor as he stood. “If I had known that my uncle was going to exile you, I would have told you.”
“He should have told me himself. It was the least he could have done.” Fire came back to Rhys’s voice. There had been plenty of opportunities.
“Rhys.” Alan moved to his side.
“To flames with my uncle and his laws! I don’t care about them anymore.” Alan slammed his fist against the wall with a curse. “You were my brother, Rhys, and I shouldn’t have abandoned you.”
“What could you have done?” Rhys whirled to face him. “Did you have evidence to clear my name? Any proof that I didn’t murder him? No one did. It was my word against theirs, and it still is.”
“The prince counted you as a friend out of all of the guards.” Alan sagged. “You had no reason to kill him.”
“Friend.” Rhys scoffed. “I sounded desperate with stories of another assassin who couldn’t be found as I stood there with the blade that killed him. No, there was nothing to be done.” Rhys turned away, unable to hide the despair that crushed him. His world had been shattered that day. He’d never been able to rebuild it.
“I still shouldn’t have left you.”
Rhys shook his head, moving away from Alan. “No.”
“If I was in your place, you would have done it for me.” Guilt darkened Alan’s voice. Rhys hated it.
“If you’d helped me, you would have ended up just like me.” He backed away again. “It’s better this way.”
Alan opened his mouth to keep arguing, but the door’s latch scraped. Rhys tensed as two guards entered, another two visible outside the door.
“We’re to escort you to dinner,” the guard with the two horizontal lines of an officer stamped into his right shoulder plate spoke. “Leave your weapons.”
Rhys exchanged a look with Alan. As one, they undid their sword belts and laid them on the table before allowing the soldiers to escort them out.
Chapter 12
Rhys walked next to Alan as they were led down a winding staircase and across a smaller audience hall.
Rhys pressed his left arm against his side, reassured by the pressure of the knife under the hidden slit of his jerkin. The strap of another knife wrapped around his calf inside his boot. He slowly relaxed his arm, turning his focus onto the castle around him, allowing the memories of every passage and hall to return. They might need that information later.
Long tables stretched the length of the dining hall, reaching toward the table set atop the raised step at the head of the hall. Men, women, and children filled the lower tables. Most were in the livery of servants or higher ranked members of Adam’s household. Six druids sat in a cluster of green robes at the end of the table closest to the dais.
Tapestries hung along the walls depicting scenes of hunts and revelry in bold colors, light from the torches between them glinting off their gilded edges. Rounded chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the iron ornamented to look like raised seagull wings supported the dozens of candles casting extra light on the tables below.
A gaunt druid sat at the head table at Adam’s right side. Uniformed captains and men in the finery of noblemen filled the other seats.
The officer led Rhys and Alan all the way up to the high table. Adam greeted them with a smile as if they were honored guests and waved them to two empty seats on his left.
Heads turned as Rhys sat, and he caught more than one whispered mention of Baron. The title lent him some reassurance and strengthened the icy barricade against the anger that proximity to Adam stirred.
“Ah, thank you for joining me.” Adam smiled.
As if we had a choice.
“I hope your accommodations are to your taste.”
Rhys’s hand strayed down toward his boot. Alan kicked his leg.
“Yes. I’d forgotten how impressive the castle is,” Alan said smoothly.
“Indeed. It’s a shame that we no longer have royalty to grace its halls, is it not?” Adam toyed lazily with the silver-filigreed knife by his plate.
Rhys fisted his hand against his thigh. “Makes me sad to see how far it’s fallen since the war.”
Adam chuckled, but it came a little forced. “From all reports the Clans have had a prosperous year.” He looked past Rhys to Alan.
A muscle twitched along Alan’s jaw before a tight smile emerged. “We have.” His gaze sharpened. “Now, to business please, Lord Adam. Have you considered the terms?”
“Ah, I find I don’t agree with most of them.” Adam turned to Rhys. “And I feel a little offended that the Clans would send you to deliver them.”
“No one else would treat with you,” Rhys said. “It seems they didn’t want to meet a pretend lord.”
Adam’s eyes narrowed for a moment before his features smoothed. “I’d take care who you call pretender—traitor.”
Rhys matched his glare. “What of the terms?”
“They are too rigid for my taste.” Adam reclined in his seat with a smile. “I must refuse.”
Rhys clenched his jaw and briefly considered joining the war against Adam.
“So, you won’t release the Seer?” Alan rested a hand against the table, carefully enunciating each word.
“No, he can be useful to me. As can the two of you,” Adam signaled to his guards. Two guards stepped behind their chairs in a quick rush. Rhys refrained from reaching for his knives again.
A hush settled over the hall.
Alan turned to Adam, still outwardly relaxed even with the sudden proximity of the soldiers at his back. “You realize you’ve just declared war against Clan MacDuffy? We have the full strength of the seven clans behind us.”
A slight smile played across Adam’s face. “I do.”
“When I do not return, the Clans will begin their march.”
“Understood,” Adam said calmly, as if discussing the changing of the tides.
Alan’s face betrayed no surprise or anger at the turn of events.
Rhys clenched his fist against the arm of the chair. The Clans knew it would come to war. As Brogan said, we’re just the distraction. Did he even believe we’d get Sean out?
“Now, there’s no reason we can’t be civilized and finish supper, especially as you two will be my guests for some time.” Adam snapped his fingers. The soldiers relaxed their stance, but still flanked Rhys and Alan. Servants began to bring out dishes and lay them on the tables. Conversation gradually resumed along with the clatter of dishes.
Rhys forced his hand to unclench. Bryn, Rorie, and Jes are still outside the castle. We planned for this. We’ve gotten out of worse situations in the past.
Beside him, Alan shifted in his chair, a quick exhale escaping. Not unexpected for him either. Neither of us is where we want to be right now. Wonder why Brogan sent him if they knew this would happen?
“Been practicing diplomacy, have you?” Rhys murmured to Alan. He took several pieces of warm flatbread from a platter, scooping a mixture of tender lamb and thinly sliced carrots and onions on top—a recipe adapted from the Karanti, and the only good thing to come from the wars.
“Figured someone needed to model it for you.” Alan pushed his wine glass forward for a servant to fill it.
Rhys rolled his eyes and sprinkled more spice atop his food.
“Still ruining the taste of perfectly good food, I see.” Alan reached for the braised venison and roasted red potatoes.
Rhys clamped down on a retort. He couldn’t fall back into the easy comradeship with Alan. It wouldn’t last, and he wouldn’t give Adam anything else to use against him.
“So, Baron.” Adam half-turned to him. “We’ve heard all these terrible stories about the Dragon Keep. Is it true that you take in other murderers and traitors?”
Rhys forced his shoulders to stay relaxed. “Why? Looking for a new place to live?”
Adam scoffed a light laugh. “No, just trying to determine who to have my soldiers look out for. You don’t expect me to believe you came alone? Or does loyalty mean as little to your band of criminals as it did to you?”
Rhys wiped his hands on a cloth napkin, easing out a breath to control his urge to stab Adam. “I’ve seen more loyalty with outlaws that I ever did in your men.”
Lines hardened around Adam’s mouth. He
took a sip of his wine to cover it up.
“Since we’re being so informal now, you might as well tell me why you took Sean,” Rhys said.
“I’m sure both of you remember how useful the Seers were during the Sea Wars. What else would you need a fortune teller for?” Adam poured himself more wine.
Rhys arched an eyebrow at the term fortune teller, something only someone not raised in the clans would call a Seer. Sean will be flamed to know Adam calls him that.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Adam said. “Let me introduce you to Alisher. He leads the druids in Deronis’s name. He and Sean have had some—conversations.” Adam smiled smugly as he gestured to the druid.
Dark eyes glimmered above the druid’s thin cheeks, boring into Rhys with a startling intensity as if trying to search out his deepest secrets. A faint smile lurked on his bearded lips, giving the uncomfortable feeling that he had in fact, found those secrets. Rhys blinked slowly before deliberately turning his gaze away.
“Yes, our discussions with the Seer have been—informative,” Alisher said.
He’s the one that’s been bleeding Sean.
Discomfort prickled down his arms. This druid was nothing like the one they’d encountered in the inn. But anyone who hurt Sean was going to pay.
Rhys had in his service a Darvani—a sea-faring race, the misborn offspring of the Karanti and their conquered nations—who whispered tales of the cult that reigned in the southern deserts of Cressa. After Sean’s warning, and seeing the head of their order—were the tales indeed true?
He finished the last of his wine, wishing instead for the dark ale of the Keep. Alan tossed his napkin down, his gaze darting over to Rhys and passing to Adam. The lord nudged his plate away and sat back, nursing the last of his drink.
“I look forward to speaking to you tomorrow. We have a little unfinished business.” Adam waved his hand and the soldiers closed in around them.
Rhys slowly stood, turning the full force of the glare that cowed hardened outlaws at the soldiers, daring them to touch him. They shifted back enough to let him lead the way to their room.
They said nothing until the door closed behind them and the lock turned.
Oath of the Outcast Page 8
