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“And what of him?” King Kartheen replied, always looking to criticize his buys before he purchased them, despite Myken’s obvious pandering.
“He’s an Insednian. They’re a rare catch.”
“Yes, but no one will buy one. Let me see him,” the king said, waving a hand that gave subtle hints of his eagerness.
Myken grabbed the chains that bound Ryson and forced him to his feet. At the same time, Ralth grabbed a handful of Ryson’s hair and yanked his head back.
The king approached, pulling up the length of his robes with each practiced step. He circled the stone altar at the base of the throne. This place had once been a temple after all. The altar now only serving for the presentation of new riches before theking. It had seen much bloodshed before that.
“Someone give me shadow,” the king said, waving a clawed hand.
Soldiers threw a cloak over Ryson, Myken, and Ralth. The darkness brought out the luminance in Ryson’s eyes, confirming his identity as an Insednian.
“Let me see his weapon. You said it looked valuable,” King Kartheen demanded, waving another hand but keeping his eyes trained on Ryson as the soldiers removed the cloak over them.
One of the king’s servants approached and knelt with the scythe elevated in her palms.
The king’s hands hovered over the weapon as if afraid to touch it. He turned to address Myken. “Speak with my servants. They will provide your asking price. Within reason, Myken.”
The king shooed them away with a wave of his hand as servants replaced their grip on Ryson’s chains.
“Now, get out,” he hissed.
Myken and Ralth left as a servant entered carrying a woven hamper. The king raised his eyebrows as the servant set the hamper down before them. Ryson spotted Clea’s clothes, his cloak, and the bag they had traveled with.
The servant identified the objects in Kaletik.
Ryson recognized the faint glimmer of jewelry. The Deadlock was half-covered by Clea’s shirt. They’d stripped her of everything, and would rebuild her in the image of a fittingfantasy. Ryson knew the process well and hoped that Clea would only need to endure the least of it before making her escape. Her fate, in many ways, could be much worse than his. Thinking of her goodwill in healing him and the potential for her to experience such horrors anew angered him. He remembered her last words as she’d been pulled from the carriage. For a woman so inclined to fumble in insulting him, her observation of his nature, shared with a striking sense of herself, had left him without a reply.
In all the talk of his past, she hadn’t asked him to share who he once was. She had all but completely overlooked the mention of it.
She’d been calm at their separation and had chosen her words with great intent. They very well could have been her last words to him, and she’d chosen to edify him. That had not been naivety. That had been something else entirely.
Now, she would be prepared like a meal with every suitable garnish, her life preserved until her price was named by the highest bidder. After that, every piece would be devoured until they found her empty unto death.
His rage, an ever simmering cauldron at the base of his self, started to stir. The feelings were so deep and so familiar, that they’d blackened into a kind of numb complacency. For the first time in a very long time, he felt their presence again.
“I’ve only once seen a weapon like this,” the king began as he continued to inspect the scythe. “There aren’t many like it, crafted from cursed Insednian silver, imbued with a Venennin’s soul, capable of sucking the cien out of anything it cuts. It’s rumored that these are Insednian heirlooms, passeddown from wars even before the great war.” He lifted his eyes to the paintings and expensive things that decorated the walls. “And they’ve been used to slaughter the masses since. An old enemy of mine was an Insednian, she made me watch as she executed all my officers. She plundered my camps, took all that I had earned in my conquest, and burned it while I watched. Alina Al Nevana, The Witch of Wicked Wisdom, they called her.”
Ryson was tempted to assure the man that he wasn’t a special target in Alina’s path and nor was Ryson surprised to hear her name. Here he was still, even in this state, paying the price for her insatiable hunger. Every mature Venennin had a vice that was often both the focus of their skills and the reason they became a Venennin in the first place. For Alina, it was the potent power of terror. She loved it, was drawn to it, and was obsessed with creating and wielding it. It made her an especially tenacious kind of monster.
King Kartheen lowered his eyes to Ryson. “It was then that I realized Insednians are a different kind of beast than I am. You don’t kill for gold or silver. Your bloodline possesses an unquenchable thirst for death, and you drink of anyone or anything.”
He laughed and turned back toward his throne, hoisting his body up step by step. “This weapon tells me that you have some import among the Insednians; perhaps you’re some version of a royal yourself, if not a thief. To the crowds, I will spin the tale of the former, a great Insednian, slain at my hand. Today, I will play the role of death,” he announced, easing back down onto his throne.
Ryson kept his eyes trained on his weapon, having little stockin anything else but that. King Kartheen tossed it aside, and it clattered against the stone floor as Ryson turned his fists into their chains to resist showing the anger on his face.
“There is an old superstition that warns against harming an Insednian, that each drop of Insednian blood is worth a life.”
Ryson sensed the direction of the king’s proclamation, sensing that they’d make an example of him just as they’d make an example of Clea in an entirely different way. “Guards!” the king shouted with volume that was boisterous and unnecessary, like he was eager to be heard in every hall. “Take him! Beat him raw! I want to hear him howling from the dungeons!”
The king found Ryson’s eyes as he issued the orders.
“Don’t kill him,” he continued. “I don’t want him dead, not until I see him break. I want him to beg me for death.” His voice grew quiet, his mind traveling to another time, perhaps to past humiliation suffered at the hands of his Insednian enemy. “When he begs for death, bring me his eyes in a jar. I’ll sell them at auction before his Veilin performs, and show everyone there’s nothing to be afraid of but me.”
As soon as the soldiers pulled Ryson’s chains, he thrashed wildly.
The soldiers withdrew for a split second, surprised at his outburst as Ryson fell back onto the hamper of Clea’s things. His tied hands searched the clothes and found the medallion almost as quickly as he’d landed on it. He struggled away from the guards, buying time as he slipped the jewel beneath the bandaging on his hand. A soldier came and gripped each of his arms as another struck his temple with the end ofhis weapon before hoisting him up.
