The captain heaved himself up, catching Nylan by the arm and yanking him out of the cell and to his feet. His fingers sank into the boy’s arm, pressing more bruises into the soft skin.
“No one’s coming after you, little prince, so if you want to survive this, you’d better do as I say. I’m the only one who can save you.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” Nylan looked up to meet the man’s frightening eyes. “I’m not even the heir.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, princeling. You’re the Voyan heir—we mustn’t forget that. Not that I care much either way. I’m just doing the job I was paid to do.” The pirate captain eased his grip and reached out with his free hand to catch a stray lock of Nylan’s raven-black hair which he fingered thoughtfully.
Nylan bit his lip again, fighting back the urge to shout at the man. Never before this day had anyone dared touch him without his permission. He was a prince of the blood of SanClare—not to mention of Voyavel, the most ancient and highest-born family in all the world. It was against the law to touch him. Against two laws, for he was SanClare and a Sensitive. His father would hang these men from the highest scaffolds ever built for what they had done to him. If he knew...if he cared.
The captain let go of Nylan’s arm and reached around to undo the clasp holding the boy’s hair back. Freed, his long hair fell around his face in limp strands, and he unconsciously tucked it behind his ears where it only half-stayed. The captain studied the clasp, seeming pleased with it.
“Give it back.” Nylan tried not to cry. “Please.”
The captain raised an eyebrow, the cruel smile flashing once again. “His Highness said ‘please’ to me. We are making progress.”
“It’s mine. Give it back!”
Anger struck him first, followed quickly by the back of the pirate’s hand. Nylan staggered and fell to his knees, his hands holding his throbbing face, but he didn’t make a sound. His eyes had closed reflexively, and he kept them shut, trying to find his silent center and block out the captain and his mind and everyone else on the ship. Blood filled his mouth and dribbled in a tickling trickle down his chin. The pain distracted his efforts. He wanted to scream—had screamed, in fact, but he’d trapped it in his throat, stopping it before it could escape and betray him.
“Everything on this ship is mine, Highness, including you and everything you think you own. You’d do well to remember that.” The anger had vanished already, replaced by a jarring satisfaction.
The huge, rough hand imprisoned Nylan’s arm again and a noise escaped him, something between a sob and “no.” The captain dragged him across the tiny hallway, shoving him into the cabin opposite his cell. Nylan stumbled a few steps then caught himself and stopped.
“Clean yourself up,” the captain ordered. “There’s water in that tub, enough for you to take a bath. And there are some clothes for you to change into once you’ve washed.” He gestured around the cabin, pointing to the appropriate things. “I’ll guard the door, but don’t dawdle. I’ll be back in when I think you’ve had enough time.”
The moment the door closed behind the man, Nylan staggered to the tub, grabbing hold of a chair back and the table’s edge to steady himself against the ship’s constant rolling. Leaning against the tub’s edge, he yanked off the ragged remains of his clothes, and then climbed in.
The cabin was small but much larger than his tiny cell. He felt rushed and frightened of not being finished when the captain returned, and the clock hanging on the wall, loudly counting off every passing tic only made him feel more rushed.
As a consequence, he took in very little of his surroundings, but he thought it must be the captain’s sitting room or office or whatever they called such a thing on a ship because a large table piled with papers and valuable-looking trinkets and baubles dominated the dark, wood-paneled room.
The tub was small and round but big enough for him. The water was lukewarm and chilled him immediately, but after he’d rinsed his aching mouth several times, he washed his face, then scrubbed at his skin, using the harsh soap and rough cloth provided. He ducked his head under and rubbed the cake of soap on his head then did his best to wash his hair. He hadn’t realized he was so dirty, but the cleaner he became, the darker the water grew.
He climbed out, dripping, onto the cabin floor, and dried off as quickly as he could with the equally rough towel while steadying himself against the tub’s edge. The water had awakened the scrapes and cuts he’d suffered, and they stung and hurt, pulsing in time with his heartbeat as his nerves took up their duties again. Blood welled up in a few places, staining the skin around the wounds and staining the towel. He could see the bruises on his arms clearly now, and he almost cried then, the fear suddenly choking him.
How can this be happening? How can Jarlyth be dead? What are they going to do to me?
Still damp and with drops of water running down his back from the ends of his hair, he pulled on the clothes he’d been left. They were much too big for him, but he made do, tying the drawstring trousers around his slender waist and rolling up the cuffs. The blouse hung down past his knees like a night shirt, and he had to roll the sleeves several times to uncover his hands.
The door opened, and Nylan whirled around to stare wide-eyed at the captain. A younger man stood behind him, craning his neck.
To get a good look at the royal prisoner, Nylan thought. He could feel the younger man’s anger from across the room.
“What right’s he have to such luxury?” the young man demanded.
“Go on. Get back to work,” the captain growled. He turned back to Nylan and said, “I had them sweep out your cell and put a chamber pot in there. You’ll have a blanket, too.”
“Thank you,” Nylan breathed. He could feel himself beginning to shake, though he told himself it was from cold rather than fear.
The pirate captain grinned. “Only one little lesson and already His Highness has learned such pretty manners.” He crossed the room, placed an oddly gentle hand on Nylan’s shoulder, and guided him back to his cell. Nylan didn’t resist. What could he do, after all? Even if he could escape the pirate captain, the boat was filled with men who might be even worse, and beyond them lay only the treacherous waters of the Gulf of Souls.
From then on, Nylan kept track of the days by counting his meals. The captain visited him twice every day, bringing him water and some sort of strange, hard bread and carelessly calling that a meal. The man allowed him one brief respite from his tiny cell each day, too, during which he could run a comb through his hair and make use of a bowl of cold water and a cloth to wash up. That was when the room was swept out and the chamber pot emptied, for the captain didn’t allow any of his men to enter Nylan’s cell when he was there.
The blanket proved to be thin and completely inadequate to the task of keeping him warm. His hunger only made him colder, and it seemed to Nylan that he was given smaller and smaller bits of bread at every meal. By the third day, he was hungry all the time.
He could smell the wonderful odors of the hot, rich foods the captain ate in his cabin just across the corridor, and that made his hunger worse. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t given more food—not even more bread. He didn’t understand any of it, but he knew better than to ask.
In spite of the hours he spent trying to find it, his silent center was proving elusive, too. I’m too young for this. I’m too young to be away from Tanara. Don’t they know that?
But he was not too young to understand how bad his situation was. He’d been raised as a prince, and princes had to grow up quickly, or so Jary had always said. He’d sounded sad when he’d said this, but he’d never wavered. He’d been determined, he’d said, to prepare Nylan for whatever he might face once he left Tanara for good.
Thanks to this, Nylan understood complexities and dangers far beyond those a normal child his age would. And he knew that, away from the safety and protection not only of his own warder but of Tanara Priory itself, his chances of survival were very
poor. He shouldn’t even have been exposed to the painful din of non-Sensitive minds until he’d learned to access his silent center—something that only rare Sensitives had ever done before their tenth year.
Aside from Healer Bairbre and Flannery, he’d had no contact with anyone outside of Tanara. Well, I’ve met Durran a few times, but... His brother’s visits had been short and formal. Even with the Llorkas, Jarlyth had always been there with him, blocking out the noise of their minds for him, making it possible for him to spend time with them.
Nylan couldn’t find his silent center; he couldn’t block out the pirates’ minds; but that also meant he couldn’t shut his mind to anyone seeking him.
If the wizards are looking for me, they shouldn’t have any trouble, but he’d felt not even the lightest glimmer of a magical touch from across the waters.
Oh, Vail, I’m too young for this. I’m too young to be alone. Please let them find me. Please let them!
But days passed and nothing changed except the portion-size of his two daily hunks of bread.
On the ninth day of his ordeal, a storm overtook the ship, tossing him around his tiny cell unceremoniously. Thunder cracked as if it were right on top of the ship; lightning flashed so often, the world seemed to move in odd, flickering jerks; and water dripped down on him through the creaking boards that made up his cell’s ceiling.
When at last the storm began to die down, Nylan curled up in his damp, threadbare blanket and tried to sleep and forget where he was. For once, he didn’t want any more food, and he felt cold and ill and sore, exhausted and defeated.
The rattling of the door woke him from his hard-earned slumber, and he sat up, startled, as the door swept open to reveal not the captain but the young pirate from the first day.
“What are you doing here?” Nylan flinched back into the corner of his cell, trying to escape the burning hatred radiating from the man.
He growled out a taunting reply. “The captain’s a bit busy, what with the storm and all, and I thought ye might need some comforting.”
He leaned in and grabbed the boy’s arms, lifting him to his feet as if he were a cloth doll. Then, with no more warning, he threw him back against the cell wall.
Nylan’s head hit with a loud crack, and he felt the world drop out from under him as hundreds of stars burst into life around the edges of his vision. When he was able to focus again, he found himself pinned against the wall with the man’s unshaven face rubbing against his like coarse sand scratching away. The pirate’s hands moved down, undoing buttons and stroking the boy’s chest; and his tongue pushed at Nylan’s lips, forcing its way into his mouth.
Face flaming, Nylan’s shock held him motionless against the assault. His stomach hurt as if he’d been struck again, and he wanted to throw up. The man loosened his hold for a moment as he stood back, and his eyes raked over the boy’s body. He licked his lips and sneered as he moved in again.
“No!” Nylan shrieked. He tried to dart around the man, but he was starving and weak while the pirate was well-fed, strong, and used to the ship’s movement. He caught Nylan easily and shoved him back against the wall again.
“Such pretty spoils,” the pirate growled. The world hadn’t righted itself, and Nylan’s head throbbed like a pounding hammer where he’d hit the wall. Something warm and sticky trickled down his neck, frightening him even more. “And rules say I’m owed.”
“Why?” Nylan managed.
“I lost a brother to yer protector.” He said this as if his assault were only a logical reaction to such a loss. But the man’s mind replayed his memories of that moment, and Nylan saw that he’d stabbed Jarlyth in the back just as Jarlyth had delivered the death blow to his own opponent.
“But you killed Jary—my protector,” Nylan argued. He struggled against the man’s bruising hands, trying to use the moves Jarlyth had taught him, but the man just laughed and tightened his grip.
“Don’t matter,” the pirate replied. “My brother’s worth more’n your protector, and I’m owed. He died to save ye, so I figger if I nik ye bloody, he’ll’ve died for naught an’ we’ll be square.”
Though he wasn’t sure what the man’s words meant, his thoughts were far too clear for Nylan not to understand what the pirate intended to do to him.
He sank his fingernails, grown long and broken in captivity, into the man’s cheek and scratched him as hard as he could, feeling the cuts burn across his own face as he inflicted them.
The man lurched back, clutching at his bleeding face. His fury lashed out like a hand and slapped Nylan back into the corner. He crouched there, holding his head in his hands and sobbing.
.:Jarlyth! Jary, where are you? He’s hurting me, and I don’t know what to do. Help me! Please!:.
Nylan flailed and kicked and struggled when the man came at him again, but it was no use. His own screams rang in his ears, and he lost all sense of why he was fighting. He only knew that he must fight.
But the man was too strong, and he pinned Nylan to the floor and hovered over him, breathing in heavy gasps. Sweat poured down his face, tinged red by the bloody scratches Nylan had inflicted.
He wiped at his face, his anger pulsing, filling the tiny room, and he growled, “That’s just more you owe me, ye little bastard!” as his hands reached for the drawstring of Nylan’s trousers.
Nylan stared into the man’s eyes, horrified by everything he saw there, everything he felt boiling in the man’s mind and heart. Never before had he faced such relentless cruelty, and he lay helpless, too terrified even to cry.
Something rushed past Nylan, right in front of his eyes, and he suddenly couldn’t draw breath. The man’s eyes widened then froze as his head fell from his body. As a searing pain sliced all the way through his neck, Nylan opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The weight of the man’s body collapsed onto Nylan’s chest and blood poured over everything.
His eyes met those of the pirate captain who stood over him with a bloodied sword, and the look of disgust on the man’s scarred face shifted to blank shock.
Can’t breathe oh Vail blood everywhere help me Vail please he’s dead Vail help me breathe please BREATHE!
But there was no way out that he could find. He’d been looking right into the man’s eyes.
I’m going to die.
Trapped in the dizzying downward spiral the man had disappeared into so abruptly, he convulsed from the effort of trying to breathe, trying to scream. The captain shouted orders, looking as panicked as Nylan felt, and the body was lifted off of him.
It didn’t help. All he wanted was to breathe again, but it had been too long since his last breath, and the darkness closed in, finally swallowing him whole.
The next thing he knew, he struggled up from unconsciousness, rolled over the side of the bed, and vomited before nearly blacking out again. His head hurt more than he ever would have thought possible. The usual, constant mutter of voices now sounded like shouts, and his throat ached horribly.
He didn’t notice the softness of the bed he lay on nor the improvement in his surroundings, taking it all for granted in the few moments after waking and before he remembered where he was and what had happened to him.
.:Jary, I feel so sick. And I had such a horrible dream.:.
“I thought you wouldn’t wake,” the pirate captain said softly. His hands were gentle as he eased the boy back onto the pillows and wiped his face with a cool cloth. Nylan wanted to fight him off or scream at him, but he found he just didn’t have the strength to do more than glare at the man.
“That’s why he told you not to look. Isn’t it?”
Nylan closed his eyes and let himself wilt into the bed’s soft pillows. He didn’t answer for several moments as his memories reasserted themselves. The feel of the sword slicing through him, the feel of the man’s last, panicked tic of life, suffocating, the head falling, the blood...
Everywhere...Vail, it was everywhere.
He wanted to scream and not stop until he we
nt mad or until they gave up and let him go.
Maybe they’d take me back home. But he knew this thought was silly and impossible even as it ran through his head. Besides that, he couldn’t dissolve into hysterics. A SanClare prince wouldn’t do that.
At last, he whispered an answer. “If a Sensitive looks into the eyes of someone who is dying, he can become trapped and die, too.”
“Why didn’t you die, then?” The man frowned.
“I don’t know.”
“You must be very strong.”
Tears stung Nylan’s eyes. “No,” he breathed. “I’m very unlucky.”
“You were unconscious for days. I thought you were dying.”
Maybe I should have. Holy Vail, what’s happening?
“What are you going to do to me?”
The captain hesitated. “We’ve reached our destination,” he said at last. “I’m sorry.”
Nylan opened his eyes, releasing a single tear, and met the captain’s pitying gaze. “Why should you be sorry? You’ve just done your job.”
“I no longer believe you deserve your fate.”
Nylan sensed the change in the pirate captain’s feelings, but he didn’t understand it. And how could he, an eight-year-old, priory-bred child, have done anything to have deserved any of this? Nylan looked away.
“Where are we?” he asked. “What happens to me now?”
“Worldsend.”
The word sent a chill through Nylan’s veins.
Once called Seladyn when it had been a beautiful, lush land and the home of several prosperous settlements, Worldsend had been devastated by a cataclysmic magical battle that ended the Second Blood War four centuries before, and it had never recovered. Now it was home to pirates, outcasts, rogue warlords, and very little else.
SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows) Page 4
