A Crown of Lilies

by Melissa Ragland

  Courage. My mother’s voice.

  I forced my panic down deep. We had one last gambit in play: the assassin. There was no doubt in my mind that Solomon would see me tortured for information before I was put to death. He would want to stamp out any lingering threads of opposition before they had the chance to resurface. I had to hold my tongue.

  There are ways to break even the hardest stone.

  They left me alone, that first night. I received no food or water, though I heard adjacent prisoners being given as much. Some called out to me, trying to engage me in conversation, others babbled madly. Those who had seen me led past their cells whispered lewd entreaties into the darkness. I kept my silence and eventually they gave up. I slept, shivering on the cold dirt, wrapped in my cloak.

  I dreamed of home.

  The rattle of keys woke me as guards opened my cell the next morning. A boot in my ribs encouraged me to my feet, and I was hauled off down the hall to a large, windowless chamber lit with braziers. All around me, the implements of interrogation glinted in the firelight. Solomon was waiting, standing patiently with his hands folded in his sleeves as the soldiers secured my wrists and ankles to a whipping cross. The hard wood dug into my back as I stood prostrate before his sneering face. The soldiers retreated and he paced slowly before me, dark eyes gloating.

  “You very nearly had him, you know,” his voice lilted conversationally. “Your grieving orphan bit was quite powerful.” He ceased his pacing and squared up before me. “Unfortunately, you are very much out of your depth.” A few short steps put his dusky visage right up close to mine. “Who else attended your heathen gathering?”

  I spat in his face.

  He stepped away, wiping the spittle from his cheek. One soldier paced forward and struck me hard across the face. Spots sparkled in my vision. He made to strike me again, but the priest held up one hand to forestall him.

  “Your true nature reveals itself,” he sneered at me. “You will tell me, you know. It is up to you how much you suffer before that time comes.”

  I lurched in my bonds, seething. I’d already chosen the words, lying on the dirt floor of my cell. They were the words of my redemption, a reminder of those I’d lost, picked specifically to spite him and bolster me.

  “I am the heir of Lazerin,” I snarled. “You cannot break me.”

  His lip curled. “We’ll see.”

  At that he left me, splayed and bound, taking his guards with him. It was nearly an hour before someone else came. Soft footsteps on the stone alerted me first. I strained my ears. Slippered feet shuffled timidly down the hall toward me. When I finally caught sight of him, I was a bit relieved. A small, unassuming man, the Persican priest in his bright red robes looked almost innocuous. His hair was cropped close to his scalp, hands clutching a leather tool case to his chest, cradling it like a child. Shortly on his heels, two Origin soldiers followed obediently, taking up their posts at a discreet distance.

  At first, he wouldn’t look at me, crossing instead to a nearby table and setting his bundle gingerly upon it. I watched, willing my heart to steady, as he slowly unrolled the case.

  “I am a servant of Al’Rahim,” his soft voice cut through the long silence. “And I am here to save you.” I snickered bitterly, clinging to my anger to give me courage. Dark eyes glanced over one shoulder at me, filled with unsettling calm. “I have never failed to redeem a soul under my care. Be assured, I will not fail you either.” There was compassion in his tone and a deep conviction that terrified me. This man truly believed he was doing good. He turned back to his tools, adjusting them lovingly before leaving them to approach me.

  “You’ll not break me, snake,” I growled at him.

  He nodded, dark eyes lit with resolve, and smiled gently. “You are plagued by the hateful demons of your false gods and your life of sin.” He touched my cheek with tenderness. “I will help you free yourself from these burdens, and guide you to the Light of His Divine Truth.” He crossed to a rack of implements opposite his table. From it, he took a pair of rusted shears. “If you would assist, Brother,” he addressed one of the guards. Armor rattled as the soldier approached, one hand closing on my throat to hold me still as the priest cut my cloak from me.

  He wrapped it methodically into a bundle in his hands, eyeing my attire. “You dress as a man. It is unseemly.” His gaze quickly found mine as he revised his statement, an apologetic tone in his voice. “Oh, I understand why you would want to deny your sex. Women are weak, jealous, petty creatures. I cannot blame you for wishing you were otherwise.” He set the remains of my cloak on the table beside his tools. “Nevertheless, it is a blasphemous falsehood at its core. For this, you must repent.”

  I was released from my bonds, then, and forced to my knees on the hard stone floor. The guards held me still as the priest took his shears to my long sable locks. I clung to my hate as the dull blades chewed through it, dropping hunks of black hair to the floor around me. He recited scripture as he worked, and when it was done, took a few steps back to consider me.

  “This shame you feel, it is the gateway to your redemption, child.” His voice was gentle, eyes filled with tenderness.

  I poured venom into my words as I glared up at him from the floor. “The only shame I feel is for not killing your master when I had the chance.”

  He nodded sadly. “Yes, we have much work yet to do.” He gestured to the guards, who hauled me to my feet, turning me and shoving me face-first back onto the whipping cross. One held me in place as the other secured my bonds once more. “Many say the scourge of the flesh was the turning point for them. I hope it is so for you as well.” Gauntleted hands tore the back of my tunic asunder, exposing my tender flesh to the cold, damp air.

  Waiting for the lash to fall was almost worse than the whip itself.

  Almost.

  Samson’s reed switch was a loving caress compared to the brutality unleashed upon my back. I gritted my teeth and cried out at every strike. He paced himself, arm falling at carefully regulated intervals. It went on for a long time. When he finally stopped, I sagged in my bonds, sobbing. I heard the sound of a ewer being dunked, then the priest’s steps approaching. I screamed as he emptied the pitcher of saltwater over my back, and fell blessedly unconscious.

  When I came to, I was alone. I hung there for what must have been another hour before their footsteps returned.

  “How do you feel, child?” the priest’s gentle voice sounded behind me.

  “Fuck you,” I whispered hoarsely.

  I heard him sigh. “A shame. I had hoped to spare you this next bit.” The guards approached once more, flipping me around on the whipping cross. My exposed and mutilated back pressed against the coarse wood as they refastened my bonds. “See to it,” the priest instructed sadly.

  To call it a beating would be reductive. It was, to be sure, the worst thrashing of my life. They spared my face, for the most part, not wanting me to lose consciousness again. Everywhere else, they battered mercilessly with mailed fists and boots. Bound helplessly to the post, all I could do was scream.

  “That’s enough,” the priest raised his voice over the sound of my cries. One soldier landed a final fist to my abdomen, forcing the air from my lungs. I doubled over as far as my restraints would allow, wheezing. Bloody spittle drooled from my lips. Every inch of my body was in agony. A gentle hand cradled my cheek. “You need not suffer any longer, child. Pray with me for Al’Rahim’s mercy, and all of this could end.” I met his dark eyes, pleading before me. “Tell me who your allies are, and be free of this pain.”

  My lungs heaved desperately for breath, every gasp sending sharp pains through my chest. I wanted nothing more than for it to stop. Briad. Ulitri. Guillar. Oristei. The names hovered in my mind, the key to my salvation. All I had to do was say the words. Estentis. Therus. Fumandrel. Vekar. Each House thundered in my head, screamed in silent desperation more loudly than any of my agonized cries. Chamberlain. Aubrey’s face swam in my blurred vision, and I knew I
couldn’t.

  “No,” I wheezed.

  The priest hung his head in genuine disappointment. His hand fell from my face and I heard him cross to the table. The rattle of metal told me he was fetching his tools. Fear gripped my chest with icy fingers. I knew what came next.

  Mother, have mercy on me. Adulil, give me strength. I closed my eyes and focused on the faces of those I’d lost, those I had to protect: Aubrey and Leon, Selice and Reyus and all the others who could still see our plans through. My father’s stern visage swam in my memory. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, singing cradle songs and telling me to be brave. Shera’s bracing hands gripped my shoulders and shoved my sword belt into my chest. Quintin’s steely gaze pierced into mine, commanding me to focus.

  I am the heir of Lazerin, and you cannot break me.

  They tried their best. I’ll not detail the miseries that followed. Needless to say, all the myriad instruments I’d read about while sitting in a plush chair in the Chamberlain study, I experienced firsthand. My sinful feet walked this earth in open defiance of Al’Rahim, so he drove metal stakes through them. My hands were the tools of the false gods, committing treason against my holy king, so he burned my palms with a red-hot iron. He had just finished breaking all the fingers on my left hand one by one when Solomon returned.

  My red-robed tormentor bowed low before the High Priest.

  “Has she confessed?” his slithering voice queried.

  “Our work continues, Your Holiness.”

  Cold eyes appraised my barely conscious form, still strapped to the whipping cross. “Let her hang for the night and consider her next words wisely.” He took a few steps toward me, tilting his head. “Unless you have something to say....”

  I gasped through my misery, every breath laborious and excruciating. My voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible through my swollen face.

  “I…am the heir of Lazerin…”

  He sneered and stepped back. “Rest, Brother,” he addressed the red-robed priest. “You’ve done great work for Al’Rahim. I’ve no doubt you’ll redeem this lost soul yet.”

  “Thank you, Holiness.” My nameless interrogator bowed again, favoring me with an encouraging smile before following his master off into the darkness, their guards in tow.

  I wept, then, sagging in my bonds, a screeching, moaning lament of utter despair. My mind was a cracked shell, ready to shatter and betray everything.

  “Please just let me die. Please,” I begged the darkness, sobbing. “I can’t take any more.” There was no reply. I was alone.

  Hours passed and I faded in and out of consciousness. Panic jolted me alert at the sound of soft footsteps padding down the hallway toward me. He was returning. I thrashed feebly in my restraints and immediately regretted it as sharp waves of pain rippled through my body. Two figures, hooded and cloaked, slipped through the dark chamber toward me. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make out their faces. Even when they approached and I could see them clearly, I didn’t recognize either one. I didn’t care, they weren’t the priest. My heart leapt at the sight of them.

  Horror flashed across their faces as they took in the sight of me. Exchanging a silent glance, they began to work at my bonds. One caught me as I fell, lowering me to the ground with one hand clamped over my mouth to stifle my cry. The stakes in my feet had to be removed. One fetched my cloak and a pair of pliers from the table, stuffing part of the first into my mouth before using the second to wrench the metal nails from my flesh one at a time. His companion held me, pressing my face into his chest to muffle my screams. They tore strips from my cloak to bind my feet, wrapping the remaining fabric about my shoulders. One wad of cloak, they left stuffed in my mouth. The tatters of my tunic hung loosely from my torso. One man pressed his face close.

  “Can you stand?” he whispered.

  Tears on my cheeks, I nodded, and stifled a cry as they hauled me to my feet. They each took one of my arms over their shoulders and I suppressed another scream as we hobbled across the room. The hallway was not wide enough for three abreast, so the larger of the two helped me while the other scouted ahead. We took a route I didn’t recognize from before, pausing periodically in the shadows as guards rattled past.

  It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever done. The hope of escape, so frightfully fragile, glimmered in the distance of my mind. I dared not latch on to it, for its loss would surely undo me. Instead, I focused on every step, every labored breath, on stifling every cry of pain.

  When we finally emerged into the open air, I pulled the wad of filthy cloak from my mouth and heaved the bitterly cold wind that whipped my face. One of my rescuers raced ahead silently out the side entrance, letting out a low whistle into the night. A third figure appeared at the end of the alley, mounted with three horses in tow. My heart hammered in my chest and I dug for my last reserves of energy as we rushed down the cobblestones toward him. The two men heaved me with difficulty into the saddle. I whimpered through clenched teeth as the stirrup pressed into the bandaged hole in my foot. Once they were sure I could keep my seat, they scrambled up onto their own mounts and we dug in our heels, racing off into the darkness.

  Once we had put a few streets between us and the garrison, one man held up his hand to call us to a halt. From his saddlebags, he pulled a long black cloak, sidling his mount up alongside me to fasten it about my shoulders. I winced and swallowed another cry as the coarse wool scraped my ravaged back.

  “Why?” my haggard voice whispered to him as he pulled the cowl up over my head. “Why not just kill me?” If it was the cause they meant to preserve, it would have been far easier than dragging my dead weight all the way out of that damp hellhole.

  “Wasn’t really an option,” he muttered darkly.

  Dockside was quiet as the four of us pressed on into the night, the overcast sky pitching the streets into darkness. My reserves spent, I swayed in the saddle, fighting to remain conscious. When we finally reached our destination, it was nowhere I recognized. One man dismounted and led my horse down a narrow alley. I heard the scrape of crates on the cobblestones, followed by the creak of a hinge. Cautious hands pulled me, wincing, from the saddle, carrying me inside. I focused enough to take in my surroundings, leaning heavily on the strong man who had carried me out of the prison. The windowless house was dimly lit by a few lanterns, sparse, rough-hewn furniture the only adornments. He led me to one closed door, knocking quietly before entering.

  Tommy, bound hands resting on the table in front of him, looked up from his seat as we stumbled gracelessly into the room. Behind him, Quintin stood with a dagger at Tommy’s throat. Suspicion slowly faded from his pale blue eyes, replaced with something akin to horror as he took in my appearance. I can only imagine how I looked, a bloodied, mutilated thing draped in rags and barely conscious.

  “Here’s your girl, now let him go,” my stalwart rescuer demanded angrily.

  “Gods, lass,” Tommy breathed. I barely heard him, my eyes locked on Quintin. His wheat hair had been cropped nearly to the scalp, face drawn and exhausted. A short, coarse, red-gold beard made him almost unrecognizable to me, having never seen him anything but clean-shaven. He lowered his knife and sheathed it at his belt, four quick strides bringing him around the table to me. Callused hands cradled my face carefully, his own quickly overwhelmed by my desperate state as he took in the extent of my injuries.

  Somehow, I found the strength to shove him, pulling away from my diligent rescuer’s shoulder and taking my full weight onto myself. Pain radiated from my feet and up my battered legs, but I was too angry to care.

  I advanced on Quintin, his face stricken. “Bastard!” I croaked, my throat parched from nearly two days without water and raw from screaming. I shoved him weakly, slamming my right fist against the leather armor on his chest with as much force as I could muster. “You left us, you coward!” He retreated. I pressed, striking out at him wildly with my one good hand. “You abandoned us, and now they’re dead!” Tears streamed down my cheeks, thoug
h where the moisture came from, I’ll never know. “Everyone is dead. You left us and now they’re all gone.”

  He caught me as my legs gave out beneath me and I sobbed, shaking, trapped against his chest.

  “Did ye talk, lass?” Tommy’s voice cut through the air once I’d quieted.

  Quintin glared at him over my head. “For gods’ sake, man, give her a moment.”

  “We need to know what she told ‘em,” he insisted.

  “Nothing,” I whispered, and then darkness took me.

  Chapter 18

  I woke in confusion and fear, the dimly lit room unfamiliar. Every inch of me hurt. I wasn’t sure I could move. Panic began to set in and my breath came in short, terrified gasps.

  “Easy, miss.” Quintin’s shadowed figure sat nearby, lit by a single guttering lantern on a table beside my cot. Sky blue eyes watched me, carefully guarded.

  The events of the last few days came tumbling back into my awareness. I stared at him, my mind a torrent of nightmares. “Water,” I managed to whisper. He picked up a cup from the table and lifted my head carefully with one hand. With the other, he dribbled a few sips into my mouth. It was stale and warm and the best thing I’d ever tasted.

  “Slowly,” he warned as I gasped for more.

  I closed my eyes and focused on the feeling of my body, trying to assess the damage. My left hand was wrapped in something coarse and hard, likely a splint of some kind. Sharp pain radiated through my sides when I inhaled, and I guessed a few ribs to be broken. I could feel bandages on my feet and torso, the fabric rubbing slightly as I breathed in and out. My face, too, felt swollen and slightly numb, and I was glad the room lacked a mirror.