She shakes her head. “I’ve focused on healing my whole life. Runes are tricky, abstracting and imbuing is even trickier. The tinctures I make are the extent of my potion making abilities. Your birth mother—Morwenna—was brilliant with runes and potions. It’s how both your and Carys’s powers were so securely dampened for decades.”
I sigh, my shoulders slumping. That’s unfortunately unhelpful at the moment. I do know some runes, but not for amplifying. “Alright, thank you.” I start to get up, but Alys reaches across the table to place her hand on mine.
“You know, perhaps it runs in the family. You may be able to learn. We’ll look into it as soon as we can, alright, sweetling?”
As soon as we canis not soon enough, but I smile and nod. “Wait …” I wet my lips. “Can you tell me more about Morwenna’s powers? How did she get away with honing them when she was the queen? Without anyone knowing?”
“Ah.” Alys drums her fingers on the table, and I clasp my hands together to keep from fidgeting with nervous energy. “Morwenna used to unleash her shadows in a wooded area close to her home. She’d actually been doing exactly that the first time I met her.” Her smile is wistful. “She’d also meditate frequently to strengthen her mind. It helped her learn to better control her dreamwalking.
“She was a prodigy—and a powerful one at that. She was also an Oracle, though unlike her other powers, she had nocontrol over her visions. As Dayfyd mentioned, she was plagued by prophetic nightmares. Mainly about her children.” Alys’s throat works as she swallows hard. “Her abilities extended beyond creating dreamscapes—she could manipulate memories by infiltrating people’s subconscious. It’s how, when Carys accidentally killed Aneirin, Morwenna was able to make it so that no one remembered.”
My gut twists. “Terrifying,” I breathe.
“Indeed. But, like you, she never wanted to be a Basduun. She only practiced to remain in control; she only used the darker aspects when it was absolutely necessary.”
I let her words sink in for a while longer. Could I be like Morwenna since her blood flows through me? Could I learn to control my powers to such an extent?
At last, I thank them both for taking the time to talk to me before stepping outside to get some time to myself. Somehow, I’ll have to embody Morwenna’s control, because I’ll need it to enact the first part of my plan.
Chapter 54
Of courseI don’t agree to join the shithole’s sect, so I wind up back in the brig. For hours, I sit there, time ticking by. I pace the cell until I realize no food or water is being brought to me. Then I sit down to conserve my energy. As soon as my ass hits the floor, Lynx appears beyond the bars. She angles her masked face toward me and says, “Sovereign Rheon asks if you are ready to cooperate and join the Zenith.”
I know where this is going. “I believe he already knows my answer.”
Lynx makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat, something partially like a giggle, partially like a hum. Then she vanishes from the brig.
As time crawls by, more and more cries and occasional screams fill the darkness of the cells beyond mine. Voices plead for mercy, for death. Whispers of power and torture, threats and the like echo through the passageways. At first, I try to take in any information, but then I choose my own sanity and block out as much of the cacophony as I can for as long as possible.
The next time Lynx appears, I’m not sure how much time has passed, but it’s much of the same. She asks if I’m ready to join the Zenith, I say no, and she jumps away.
All the while, no food or water is brought to me. By the time my throat feels like the Wastelands and the pangs in my stomach become unbearable, Lynx makes another reappearance. “Last chance,” she says.
This time, I don’t even bother to respond.
“Alright then.” There’s sickening glee in her voice as she looks to the two guards who stand outside my cell and says, “You know the next step.”
One guard unlocks the gate and lets it swing open. As the other guard steps into my cell, I jump to my feet and ignore the dizziness that sweeps in. “I can walk,” I say. I’m uncertain where they’re taking me, but I will not be dragged along like a common criminal. Even if my legs are a bit shaky. We travel through tunnels, up a set of stony steps, and out into the encampment where the harsh sun hurts my eyes. I stare across the encampment at the barracks, at the entrance to Fiada Purlieu, the lush forest unassuming as always.
A jail wagon awaits me, and a guard nudges my back, pushing me forward. The jail wagon contains three other people. One is a man who has clearly committed theft; his right hand has been severed, and bloody bandages wrap around his wrist. Another bounces his knee up and down, jostling the wagon. The third man glowers at me with such unsettling steadiness that I look away, but his thoughts slam into me:I hope he goes last.I can’t stop my forehead from creasing.
Five years ago, I escaped the brunt of Rheon’s punishment. And now, it’s as if none of the time between even mattered. Anxiety squirms in my stomach as the creaky jail wagon makes its way through the gates of Paramount and into the city. The wheels jostle over the cobblestone street as we pass small groups of soldiers in black uniforms—Forayers? But no, Forayer uniforms aren’t so detailed. These aren’t Zenith uniforms either,or even Royal Brigade or brig guard uniforms. Gods, how many different regiments does Rheon command by now?
It isn’t Rheon this time, however, who awaits the prisoners at the whipping post. Instead, there’s Lynx and a couple of those guards in black. We’re hauled out of the wagon one by one. First is the thief who pleads with his whole heart as they drag him up the steps to the whipping post.
Each sound of the leather lashing against his bare skin causes me to flinch, even as I fight to keep my Empath powers under control. His screams die down to whimpers and silence follows. He’s thrown back into the wagon, completely unconscious, and I refuse to look beyond his face. The nervous prisoner is next, followed by the glaring man. I’m once again forced to listen to his cries, my empathy slipping into the foreground of my mind, the pain and fear of the man dizzying me.
I’m sure it was Rheon’s idea to leave me for last. So I can hear what’s coming—as if I wasn’t there when he held the mass flogging years ago. Fifty victims had been brought out one at a time, theircrimesread aloud before they were publicly and brutally punished.
They were whipped until they lost either consciousness or their lives. Whichever came first. Each prisoner was accused of having committed treason—by the use of magic, by speaking ill of the queen, by harboring an Undesirable. All for the purpose of nailing fear into the heart of every Erleyan and Outer Islander. Rheon claimed he had been given the command by Morwenna, but the rumors that spread through the castle at the time said she had no idea. By the time she realized what was happening, the floggings were already in progress, and to have the queen admit she was not in control of the Royal Brigade’s commander would’ve been an admittance to weakness.
The victims’ screams of pain are forever branded in my mind. And now, if I survive everything, I’m sure it’s a feeling I will never forget either.
I’m strangely detached from my body as I’m hauled up the steps. As my name and past stations are announced. Lynx declares me a coward and a deserter, and the crowd jeers at me and calls out for my blood. My boots slip on the bloodied ground as I’m tugged toward the whipping pole. I’m forced to my knees, the magic dampener still shackled around my wrist, the ropes digging into my skin as I’m bound to the pole. I press my face against the wood, closing my eyes and preparing myself for the first strike.
The cool air hits my back, a chill sliding down my spine as my tunic is torn away.
The first lash sends an arc of pain through my back and down my thighs. My spine arches, my head flinging back as if my body tries to get away from the whip. With the next strike, I clench my jaw and force myself to keep breathing through my nostrils. The smell of blood fills my nose, but my throat barely spasms before the next stripe nearly steals my breath away. From my constant clenching, my jaw begins to ache more and more with each strike, but I refuse to cry out; I refuse to give the sadistic bastards what they want.
