I remain silent.
“I suppose you want to do this the hard way.” Namreth sighs as if this were all some minor inconvenience.
The guards strip me to the waist and tie me to a post that had been brought into the throne room. A large mirror is carried in and positioned behind me—so Namreth can watch my whipping and my expression all at once.
Sick bastard.
I freeze as cold air brushes against my skin.
This is it.
My secret is going to be revealed. The scars the Rings have left on my back will give me away.
My breath comes in short, shallow bursts, and sweat prickles on my brow despite the coolness of the room. I clench my fists so tightly my nails bite into my palms.
But Namreth sees nothing. I twist to glimpse myself in the mirror, and all I see is smooth skin. The scars are gone. There’s no mark on my spine. It’s as if the Rings hid all trace of themselves.
The Whisting finds a way. Itchoseme, Veteria had said.
My secret is still safe for now. Relief surges through me, but it’s short-lived.
The whip comes down hard.
The first strike is a lightning-crack of agony. My entire body seizes, my muscles locking up as fire streaks across my back. My breath hitches, and for a moment, I think I won’t survive.
My mind goes blank. All thoughts are silenced in the snap of a second lash. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t feel anything but the burning, searing pain.
They’re going to kill me, I think dimly, the realization more horrifying than the pain itself.It’ll be Namreth who digs these Rings out of my corpse.
Namreth’s expression never wavers. He watches my face the entire time, his cold eyes boring into mine. I try to meet his gaze with defiance, try to hold on to some shred of dignity, but my resolve shatters by the seventh strike. By the eighth, I can’t count anymore.
My screams turn into ragged, choked gasps, and blackness creeps in from the edges of my vision. My legs buckle, and I slump against the post, my wrists burning where they’re bound above my head. I welcome the darkness when it finally claims me, my body limp and broken.
If I had some control over the Whisting, I might be able to fight back. I might be able to destroy my tormentors the way the kings of old buried entire armies, but my power fails me as it has so many times before. The Rings in my back remain silent, their power as still as the grave my captors want me in. Maybe the Rings want me dead, too.
…
I wake up in the cell I once shared with Aren, my back draped in moist rags that reek of the perfumed healing waters of the bath. When I shift slightly, I realize my back has healed entirely. Panic flood my veins as realization dawns. My stomach sinks like a stone. I know what’s coming next.
I’m not surprised when they drag me from my cell the next evening and haul me back to the throne room. My legs tremble as I’m tied to the post again, the rough wood biting into my freshly healed skin. The first strike of the whip reopens the wounds that have just barely closed. I let out a strangled cry before I can stop myself. Again and again, until my back is raw and bleeding, until I’m a shaking, gasping mess. Then they heal me, only to start all over again.
This could go on for an eternity.
They want me to see death, but it simply reminds me that there’s only Aren to live for.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Aren
I spend the night lying on a hard wooden pallet between sacks of potatoes and flour in the kitchen pantry.
I’m woken up by a large boot prodding me in the side. I blink up at a shadow looming in the doorway. I can make out the shape of an apron and a cotton cap. It’s one of Namreth’s kitchen servants.
The man doesn’t say anything as he turns and leaves, which I take to mean it’s time to get to work.
I sit up and rub my eyes, pressing the heels of my palms deep into my sockets. My eyes are still swollen and aching from crying most of the night. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember how Dietan looked at me as I was dragged away—the flatness, the indifference in those blue-green eyes.
He never cared about me.
