Brother, Betrayed

by Danielle Raver

  The man’s face lost expression. Syah turned away from him and continued towards the table. He stopped before it, but before he could visualize its danger, he turned to another prison keeper. “You will bring me a gag,” Syah ordered.

  A look of disgust came over the guard’s face, as if sensing vulnerability in the boy. His tone was equally disdainful as he replied, “We do not let prisoners…”

  He stopped. The boy’s sharp gaze was like a knife at his throat. The guard caught his breath. The boy’s expression hardened, all his thoughts and commands visible on his face. The guard felt he looked on the king himself. He quickly lowered his gaze, nodded slightly, then turned and left them.

  Syah closed his eyes a moment and turned back to the table. He swallowed and reached for the bottom of his shirt. As he pulled it over his head he felt his skin shivering. He tried to occupy his mind, but his gut roiled painfully. Turning to face the soldiers and the guards, he felt his heart pounding harder in his chest. The men around him were silent, staring at him as if they were unable to move. Each of them stood watching him, his youth more visible to them now as they gazed at his bare chest and back, his thin arms. They saw his young skin, tender, unscarred, untainted. Syah studied their expressions and knew.

  He blinked, then raised his gaze past them till he found the knight’s face. Denire stood, his face and stance showing the conflict inside him. Syah tightened his jaw and raised his head. “It is time,” he said.

  Turning back to the table, Syah stood quietly beside it. In a moment, hard hands gripped him and lifted him up. They laid him on his stomach on the table and pulled his arms above his head. He tried to slow his breath as they bound his arms and legs tightly to the wood beneath him. Someone moved so that Syah could see the twisted piece of cloth before him. Syah nodded and lifted his head. He looked up at the man above him, who avoided the boy’s eyes as he placed the cloth inside Syah’s mouth and tied it behind his head. Syah felt a brief tingle of panic and his breath quickened, but he closed his eyes and tried to stifle the feeling. The man left him. Syah laid his head back down on the wood.

  They left him and then the room was quiet. His thoughts flew desperately, far away from that place… beyond the room, the dungeon, the castle… to stories, to legends, people, things from books. Theories, maps, equations… but his mind kept returning. His body started to shake, hearing the large room’s strange silence.

  There was the crisp sound of paper unfolding. The echo of a voice flooded him, “According to verdict of the king, Syah, Prince of Arnith, is sentenced to twenty lashes to be inflicted by the dungeon keepers of Anteria. This punishment is issued as reparation for deliberate endangerment to the future throne of Anteria and disobedience to King Algoth. Upon delivery of this punishment, Prince Syah shall be pardoned of all misdeeds and will return to normal duties.”

  You see, twenty lashes. It will be over quickly. The thud of footsteps approached and then stopped beside him. There’s nothing you can do about it now. Pain exists only in the present. Rise above the fear; soon this will be a faint memory. He let his body settle as he felt a swell of acceptance, still tinged with fear. He heard the shift of the prison keeper and braced. There was a startling crack of the whip and Syah flinched. But he felt nothing; the whip hadn’t touched him.

  Denire’s fists clenched, remembering when the same had been done to him. He watched the prince, seeing him shift and brace again.

  The torturer struck. All Syah felt was burning, searing pain. The knight jerked at the sound, feeling a quick, forgotten sting across his own back. The slash was brief, but the pain intensified, spreading across Syah’s back. Choking with pain, he tried to draw breath, but it was forced out as a muffled scream. He tried to see the bindings through his tears and pulled frantically on them, feeling that they were worsening the pain.

  With each respiration the pain sharpened. Part of him fought to hold down this pain, but the other fought to breathe. A force inside him struggled to sustain his life. Though now it was an existence of deep suffering, this drive fought to continue it, forcing him to fill and release his lungs.

  Denire saw Syah struggling with the pain. The knight’s eyes went to the burning red streak that now lay across the boy’s back. Denire felt a weakening flush. This is wrong. He felt an ache on his back, along the scars. Scars of a criminal. And now the boy is scarred the same. The sight of the wound locked his gaze. You must stop this. The knight stood rigid, his gaze fastened on the prince, shaking.

  Syah’s breathing slowed. The pain had eased, a little. His body trembling, he remembered the whip master. He found him, standing within his sight, waiting. The whip was in his hand.

  The prince looked back up at the torturer. A pleased expression came over the guard’s face. The same drive that was striving to keep life pumping through him now pressed him to give in. Tell him, beg him, plead with him… stop this. Syah looked at the man with desperate eyes. End it. The man smiled.

  No. His vision became unfocused. A voice inside him strove to be heard over the pulses of pain and the shiverings of fear. He felt the pain overtaking him as he turned away. Choking on his resolve, he made himself forget about the prison keeper. Biting down on the cloth, he braced himself and closed his eyes.

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. His hand gripped the whip tighter. Syah felt a force of hot air in his chest and throat. The burning riddled across his back again. He imagined thorns cutting in and dragging across his skin. His hands ground on the wood of the table. He cringed, pulling at the bindings.

  Just as he thought he could stand it, another tearing slash ripped across his skin. His arms, face and torso pressed so hard against the wood he could feel each grain of it pinching his skin. But he pressed against it harder. This was a new pain, his pain, and he tried to use it to keep himself from panic.

  Then the burning spread deep across his shoulders and he lost his control again. His neck and arms twisted in agony. His head flushed with hot fear and his gut wrenched as if a giant had grabbed his insides and squeezed them. The fresh wound burned and all of the previous cuts hummed with it. He could feel beads of sweat or blood form on his skin and trace down his sides, his shoulders, his arms, like fingertips inciting sensation and pain in their wake. He imagined the cuts were so deep they had shredded his muscles to expose his bones.

  He turned his head, scraping his face against the wood. His forehead pressed hard into the table as he released a shuddering breath through the cloth. The whip struck him again. For a moment he thought he could stand it; the pain was wicked but he was still able to breathe. But the torturer must have realized the last strike’s lack of potency for he only paused a moment before releasing another slash overlaying the last one. The shock of pain was so intense that the thoughts wisped from Syah’s mind, taken over by a dark, unbearable agony.

  With fear yet hope, Syah realized the torturer, who he had forced himself to forget. He tried to turn his head. He would ask, beg for mercy now, but he couldn’t move. A recent strike had claimed his shoulders and movement tripled his awareness of it.

  The pain was about to return. He sensed the torturer was ready, probably drawing back his whip that moment, and there was nothing he could to stop him. All of the fear Syah had ever known, of eyes in the forest, of strangers, of capture, of exposure, of his father’s anger or his brother’s distrust, of the unknown or unexplained, all of it was trumped by the fear he now felt for the next strike. Courage did not matter. Duty did not matter. He turned his head, despite the pain it caused him, and screamed though muffled by the gag tight across his face. He was unable to see the soldier and guards, though he knew they were there. He would have pleaded, begged for release, for them to end it, to kill him, but he couldn’t. Instead he cried through the gag, desperate, pleading.

  The whip cracked across his back, sending his body twisting against the bindings and wood. And then the whip struck again, and again until he was clutching the wood. It will go on forever. His mind somehow cleared be
neath the flood of fire and pain. He wished he would die, that his mind did not exist, that his consciousness would not continue. What had he done to deserve this? If he had enough strength he would have lifted his head and smashed it down on the table, to try to snuff out his thought forever.

  But then his thoughts dis-evolved, returning to despair and torment. He heard, despite the pounding of blood in his ears, the shift of the torturer. Despite his panicked breath, he could hear the whistle of leather as it glided through the air towards him. He clenched every muscle and limb and buried his head in wood, trying to hold himself against the coming pain.

  The prison keeper didn’t make it to twenty lashes, though Syah never knew. At the twelfth lash the torturer noticed that the prince’s screaming was silenced. As his arm drew back for the next strike, he held. The boy still had not breathed. The guard’s eyes stayed on him, something working inside him beyond his thoughts.

  Syah’s body fell limp, his head and limbs settling on the harsh wood. The guard’s insides wrenched, but he didn’t heed them. His focus was on the boy, on his torn back red with welts and blood. The room was deathly quiet as the soldiers and guards observed the wounded prince. Then the boy’s body moved, subtly, barely lifting and falling with a shallow breath.

  All eyes went to the prison keeper. The man’s face paled and the whip hung awkward in his hand. He hesitated, his eyes growing wider as he stepped shakily backward from the boy’s body. A look of horror came over his face, as if the next slash to be dealt would cut himself. Then his hand weakened…

  As the whip hit the floor, Denire started down the steps. He reached the prince’s body with the other soldiers. They paused a moment, seeing the blood stream down his sides onto the table and then across it onto the floor. Denire closed his eyes a moment, then reached to remove the binding on Syah’s wrists. The guards and soldiers untied the other straps holding him down, while Denire untied and removed the cloth from his mouth.

  Syah still hadn’t moved. Denire stood over him, watching his still body. “You were very brave,” the knight said softly. Denire took off his cloak and folded it over Syah’s tattered skin. The other guards stepped back as Denire turned Syah’s body and lifted it over his shoulder. The knight turned and nodded to them and they obeyed, standing still and afraid as they watched the knight carry their young prince back up the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  SCARRED

  A group of maids stopped in the corridor, the blood draining from their faces as Denire walked towards them, carrying the bloody prince over his shoulder. He stopped and they stepped back. “Fetch me some clean linens and hot water,” he said.

  They hesitated a moment, then one of them said, “Yes, sir.” She touched the shoulders of the other two and they turned back down the hallway.

  Denire could feel Syah’s shallow breath as he paused there a moment. He started towards his quarters, down the hall. He carefully laid Syah’s unresponsive body face down on his bed. The servants came in with a pot of steaming water and white, folded cloths. “Bandages,” Denire said to them, “and ale.”

  Denire turned back to the prince. He took in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. As he reached for the cloak covering the prince’s back, his fingers felt it was damp with blood. He pulled it away slowly, revealing once more the deep bleeding gashes. He dipped the linen in the steaming water and held it over the bloody stripes. “Don’t wake now,” the knight said above him, beginning to clean the boy’s wounds with the cloth.

  Denire’s hands paused as the door to his room was thrown open. A cry came from the doorway, but he didn’t look over. His hand started moving the thread again, stitching up one of the last deep gashes on Syah’s lower back.

  “What happened?” the voice from the door demanded.

  Denire held his gaze without reaction. “Keep your voice down, or you will wake him,” Denire said in a smooth tone.

  Fasime approached the bed. He gazed down angrily at Syah. His hand shook as it lifted to touch some of the pale skin left on his brother’s back. His anger was still great, but he spoke quietly. “Who let this happen? Why didn’t someone tell me?” Fasime’s gaze searched the knight’s face.

  Denire said nothing. He continued stitching the cut and tied off the string. Fasime’s breath caught in his throat and he gagged, his hand clenching into a fist. “Syah, you stubborn fool!” Fasime said, shaking his head. “How could you let this happen?” Fasime demanded, his eyes now not accusing, but sorrowful.

  Denire sighed and looked down at Syah. “He is stubborn,” was Denire’s answer.

  Fasime paused a moment, shaking his head, filled with memories of Syah, his determination to complete his agenda. “Has he awakened yet?” Fasime asked, placing his hand lightly on Syah’s head.

  “No,” Denire answered. “We may hope he will sleep through the worst of it.”

  Fasime woke to the door opening. His eyes opened to his mother’s shocked face. She stood in the doorway, a statue staring down with dread on Syah’s limp body on the bed. Her hands lifted in front of her as if they could push away the nightmare vision that flooded her eyes. Then her gaze went to the bandages, some of them red with blood, completely covering his back, neck, and shoulders. His body lay limp and lifeless…

  “Mother!” Fasime’s voice startled her. She was able to relax at the sight of her middle son, alive and well before her. Fasime stood and went to her. As he came close, she murmured something unintelligible. “You shouldn’t be here,” Fasime said, placing his hand on her arm.

  “Stop,” she said in a startlingly stern voice. She raised her hand for him to hold. She took in and let out a shaky breath, moving away from Fasime, towards the bed where her youngest son was lying. She stopped a few steps away from it, swallowing, her eyes unblinking. “Does…” her voice faltered a moment, “does he yet live?”

  The sound of the words sent chills through Fasime. He choked on the response, but said quickly, “Yes, Mother, he lives.”

  The queen’s eyes closed as he said it. She lowered her head and placed her fingers over her eyes, feeling them quake.

  “Come, Mother, we will tend to him,” Fasime assured her, taking her arm again.

  She shook her head and moved to the side of the bed, steadying herself as she gazed with horror at the full extent of Syah’s wounds.

  “Your majesty.” The voice startled her. She turned, and saw a knight.

  “You!” Her voice shook with anger, its tone accusing.

  He bowed deeply and replied as he rose, “He will heal.”

  “And it is your fault this happened to him!” the queen raged at him. She wished the anger twisting inside her could take form, overwhelm and swallow him.

  The knight nodded, eyes closed.

  The queen’s anger was hers to keep. But it was submerged beneath her concern. Her eyes finally moved from Denire, back to her son’s bandaged wounds. There were deep lines of pain on his face, though he was asleep. It was her son’s face, still, but it had changed. The pain had darkened it. She knelt unsteadily before him. Her hand, lifted to touch him, paused in the air, hesitating above his head.

  “My son!” she whispered. “How could this happen to you?” she demanded, blinking away her tears. Her mind saw his little head again, his soft hair, as a boy, sleeping and peaceful, so many cycles before. The warm memory only pained her, his tormented body now before her. She buried her head in the bed beside him, her hand resting atop his heatless skin as she wept.

  After a while she began to calm, though her pain and anger were still great. She thought about Fasime and the knight, but as her eyes started to search for them, they returned to Syah’s face. Her hand had felt Syah take in a sudden breath. His eyes were still closed but she sensed he was coming to consciousness.

  “Oh, no,” the queen said stiffly. “Sleep now, my son.”

  Syah’s eyes were opening. The tightness in his face eased a little and he blinked.

  “It’s all right now, Sy
ah,” she told him as she ran her hand through his hair.

  The young prince caught his breath, then took another quick breath, gasping. His face changed, showing his desperate struggle against coming pain.

  “No,” she pleaded with him, shaking her head. “Sleep.”

  “Your majesty.” It was the knight. “You should not be here at this time. We will tend to him.”

  The queen knew that Syah recognized her. For a moment his eyes were questioning, but they became more desperate, pleading, begging for relief. “No, Syah,” the queen said sternly. He forced out unintelligible words from between his clenched teeth. “Get some brandy,” she ordered angrily, desperately. The knight moved away from them.

  The queen’s gaze quickly returned to Syah. His eyes were closed now as he pushed his face down into the pillow, not breathing. They watched his body cringe and jerk, as if it was trying to get away from something.

  Seeing the knight return, Fasime took his mother’s hand, grasping it tightly and making her meet his gaze. She finally nodded and stood, letting Fasime and the knight turn Syah over. He cried out, then screamed as they lifted his shoulder off the bed.

  “Drink,” Denire told Syah when he quieted. He lifted the bottle to Syah’s lips. Syah shook his head.

  “My son,” the queen gasped, grabbing his arm. “You do not have to endure this. You have lived through the torture once; you must not live it again.”

  Syah’s gaze shifted to her. He was still choking as he tried to breathe deeply. Denire lifted the bottle and poured a small amount of the brandy in Syah’s mouth. The prince struggled to swallow it. They made him drink, until his eyelids fluttered and his breath softened.

  “We are going to lay you down again,” said Denire softly. Syah wasn’t afraid of them, but as they moved him, the intense pain clenched his body again. He cried out as he settled on the bed, trying to catch his breath.