Page 3

The pain doesn’t stop, though. Cirail points the blowtorch at my feet. They were just beginning to heal from the last whipping they gave me there, but clearly that won’t be a problem anymore. Flames engulf my soles in a searing agony. My eyes roll to the back of my head, and I scream until I feel like my parched throat is tearing. My soles blister, the skin bursting open. I think I’m going to die from the pain alone. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to suffer anymore, but I don’t want to die either!

Cirail turns the blowtorch off, but the white-hot pain is still pulsing through my soles, sending excruciating waves of agony throbbing through my feet with every heartbeat. My head is spinning, consciousness wavering.

One of Cirail’s men comes to wrap them in wet, cool cloths. I think there’s some ointment in them too. They don’t want me to die just yet or get hurt too seriously, and that’s both reassuring and terrifying. I try to cling to consciousness, but the pain is too great, and I’m so tired and hungry. Everything turns black.

When I wake up, I’m alone in my cell. A dull pain is still throbbing in my feet, joining all the other aches in my body. Someone brings me a small bowl of broth and some water. I can’t make out their features, and I don’t care. I’m too weak to move, so they have to pour it down my throat. It tastes as bland as always. I pass out again.

I spend the next hours—days? I don’t know anymore—in this weird state, alternating between sleep and a blurry, semi-conscious state until Cirail walks back in. The panic wakes me up for good.

“So, are you ready to be a good toy for us now?” Cirail asks.

“Yes!” I scream. I don’t care what that means. I just need the pain to stop. “Yes, please, I’ll be good. I’ll be a good toy, whatever the hell you want! Just make it stop, please!”

“Good boy.” Cirail grins. “I knew you were ready. See, we need a new court jester. Our old one is getting boring.”

A court jester? That’s the last thing I was expecting, but it doesn't sound that bad. I can do it, amuse them, and find a way to escape when their guard is down. I would have agreed from the start if they just asked.

The same burly men from yesterday drag a woman into the cell. She’s frail, so thin that I can see her bones protruding under her pale skin. She’s dressed in bright, colorful clothes and a spiked hat, but the part that shocks me the most are her brown eyes. They look empty. Dead.

“See?” Cirail says. “I think she’s broken. She’s not funny anymore. But you won’t end up like that, will you? You’ll keep entertaining us for a long, long time.”

“Yes!” I nod vigorously. “Yes, I promise.”

“Tyb,” Cirail calls. “Show our new jester what happens if he doesn’t entertain us.”

They let go of the woman, who collapses on to the ground, a boneless ragdoll. The man Cirail called Tyb, a muscular jock with buzzed dirty blond hair and mean blue eyes, walks up to her. The woman remains perfectly still, as if not seeing him. Tyb raises his heavy combat boot and stomps the woman’s right hand, shattering her fragile bones. A weak mewling sound escapes her lips. I wonder if her situation is better or worse than mine. Maybe she’s too broken to feel pain and fear anymore. That sounds nice, in a way. Then again, maybe she still feels everything and is simply too weakened to react anymore. Poor thing. I wish I could help her, or at least shorten her sufferings, but there’s nothing I can do now.

Tyb stomps at her elbow next, breaking it with a sickening crack. He moves to her left arm. Her hands and elbows are reduced to purple, swollen messes. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, but she’s still not moving. She didn’t scream even once.

A tall woman with messy brown hair hands Tyb a saw. Tyb places it under the woman’s left armpit and starts cutting. I can see flesh parting, tendons giving way. Then, he reaches bones. The woman's face grows from pale to ashen, sweat beading all over her body. Still, she doesn’t move. Tyb adjusts the saw and keeps cutting. My empty stomach lurches, nausea rising. He puts the saw down and starts pulling on the half-severed arm, pressing his boot on the woman’s side for leverage. The room fills with the terrible sounds of tearing flesh and cracking bones. He twists and tugs until the arm gives way.

I can’t hold it anymore. I turn to my side and double over, wave after wave of foul bile scorching my throat as my empty stomach constricts painfully.

Tyb cuts off the woman’s left arm. Or rather, he rips it off. He’s barely sawed through half the bone when he starts bending it over his knee. The woman’s breathing is ragged, more silent tears running down her cheeks. Another loud crack. The bone gives way. Only strands of flesh, tendons, and muscles still connect the limb to her shoulder. Tyb turns the limp arm again and again, like a kid would the stem of an apple. The sound of tearing flesh almost has me throwing up again. The last strand snaps, and the arm is free. Tyb hands it to the tall woman. Together, they take turns beating the broken woman with her own limbs, laughing. I think I might have fallen asleep. This must be a fever-induced nightmare. It has to be.

They let go of the arms. Tyb grabs a sharp dagger from his belt and slashes the broken woman open from her navel to her breasts, tearing her red and green jester top in the process. He shoves her arms inside, fists first, under her ribcage. Blood drips down her lips. Her body jerks once, twice, then she stops moving, her eyes glazing over. I think she’s dead.

I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel. The scene is so grotesque and ridiculous, it’s like it doesn’t compute. I bust out laughing, then immediately break down, crying. I don’t want to die. Especially not like that. I can’t take any more torture, but this… no. It’s just too horrifying to even think about. I can’t. I can’t!

I’ll be the best goddamn jester they’ve ever had. I don’t care what it entails. I’ll keep them entertained. I don’t know how, but I’ll figure it out. I won’t break. I can’t. I don’t give a fuck. I refuse to die like that. Call me a coward if you want; you wouldn’t be the first. I’d rather be a coward than end up like her.

Chapter 2

Nasir Ahmad

“I still think this mission is a bad idea,” Mira says, pouring some more mashed potatoes onto her plate. “It could be a trap.”

“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. “If it was a trap, the Raiders would insist the council came, don’t you think?”

“Probably,” Anne confirmed. “And Dornao and his men will be there to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“But do you really think they actually want to sign a peace treaty? We’re talking about the Raiders,” Mira counters.

“I don’t know.” I munch on a piece of cow meat, but my throat is too tight for me to swallow it.

The Raiders want to discuss terms that would benefit us all, according to them. I suspect what they actually want is to tax us in exchange for not attacking us and call it protection or something of the sort. Still, if there’s a chance at peace, we should take it. That’s what the council thinks too.

Our leaders are not going themselves, of course; it would be too dangerous. Our delegation is made mostly of guards and fighters for protection, and I’m here with a mechanic named Clea to handle the diplomatic part.