Many thanks to my advance readers, including Not_E and happyyy_, as well as to my editor LaRascasse.
Content warning
: references to torture, references to sexual assault, references to bodily mutilation
***
When Bethaer awoke, he was lying on his side, a rank smell invading his nostrils. He tried to sit up but found himself bound by his hands and feet, and he struggled to kneel awkwardly on the hard floor. Looking about, he saw that he was in a cell, the door tied shut with rope in lieu of being locked. He must be in his father's dungeons, he realized.
"Well, look who's awake," sneered a voice. In the dim light he could make out a tall form crouch down in front of the door, a knife glinting in the light of the torches that burned along the walls.
Bethaer made no response, not wanting to goad his captor. After so many years of suffering at the hands of his father's forces, now the tables were turned.
"I was hoping you'd wake up before we set off for the high court," the man continued, and Bethaer realized it must be Leitham. He could see the gleam of his signet ring, not unlike his own, heavy with the weight of responsibility. In the poor light it was difficult to see the resemblance, but he seemed to share his sister's dark hair, though his eyes looked brighter, or perhaps they just burned with hatred.
Endorran's heir had personally led his father's part of the combined forces against Olandrion and his prowess in battle had reached Bethaer's ears. Fueled by his rage and desperation over his sister, he now held his enemy in his hands.
Bethaer felt the dull ache of fear in his stomach. He could only guess what his unknowing brother-in-law had heard about him, except for the one thing Olandrion had been sure to make known: the ritual at the spring festival. He swallowed.
"Feeling afraid?" Leitham laughed sourly, playing with the knife in his hands. "I assume you're familiar with what your damned father got up to down here," he continued, gesturing to their surroundings with the blade.
They must be in the
rashd
, he realized. The final floor of his father's dungeons, which no prisoner left alive.
"He dragged my sister down here, did you know?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "I found the whip he used on her," he snarled, and Bethaer shut his eyes.
"What's the matter?" Leitham chided. "Don't want to hear about how your precious
woman
suffered at your father's hands?" He laughed hollowly, sending goosebumps up Bethaer's arms. He opened his eyes.
"She only just turned eighteen when your accursed brother abducted her from our home," Leitham continued. "Do you like them that young, too?"
Leitham was smiling, his teeth glinting in the firelight. Bethaer shuddered, not wanting to remember when he'd first heard of Igandrion's triumph.
"Was it strange, taking the same woman your brother used all those years?" he asked coldly, and Bethaer's stomach roiled. "What, you didn't like it? I heard differently about the spring festival," he hissed, gripping the hilt of his dagger.
It was as his father had intended, though instead of demoralizing the Berelthians it had inflamed them with righteous anger. Just as Bethaer had known it would, not that his father had listened. How many of her people had been in that crowd, watching him take her? He shuddered to imagine Leitham hearing a blow-by-blow account of that evening, the rage it must have fueled. What was he going to do to him, now that he was in his hands?
Bethaer struggled to breathe slowly, to calm his rapid heart. Berelthia's forces had joined hands with their neighbors under the eye of the High Council, which had surely stipulated he was to be handed over to them. The question was, how deep did Leitham's anger run?
It would depend on how his sister fared, he decided, glancing at the man. He longed to know, but knew asking would only stoke her brother's ire.
"I thought long and hard about what I could do to you down here, before sending you to the Council," Leitham continued. "I could take you with a blade like you took my sister. I could give you the same marks on her body, whip you bloody like your father did." Bethaer shivered, which seemed to please him. "I even came up with a good story," he chuckled darkly, "about you trying to escape, just so I could kill you here and now."
Bethaer set his jaw. If he died, would he see her, as she'd promised? Or would Yealar consign him to the cold flames for what he'd done?
"But I decided," Leitham said, tapping the stone floor with his blade. "I want to watch you try to deny raping my sister before the Council itself. I want your crimes judged for all of Celandron to see."
Bethaer's heart fluttered, hoping against hope that she was still alive. Her brother surely would have him killed if she were dead.
"How is she?" The words passed his lips before he could stop himself.
Leitham's figure stilled, his grip tight on the quivering dagger. When he spoke, his voice was rough with pain and anger. "I spent four years not knowing what was happening to my little sister because of your blasted family. And after all you've done to her, you think you have the right to ask me
how she is
?"
The knifepoint screeched against the floor, and Bethaer flinched. Maybe he didn't have a right to know, but not knowing was like a yawning chasm in the pit of his stomach.
"Why do you even care?" Leitham continued snidely. "Because she was carrying your child?"
Bethaer inhaled at the sudden, stabbing pain in his chest. "Was?" he repeated. Had she miscarried? Had she died? He searched Leitham's face in the dim light for some sign of grief, but all he found was rage. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, his stomach heavy with dread. "Tell me she's alive at least," he pleaded, all caution thrown to the wind.
In a single fluid motion, Leitham rose and hurled himself at the bars of the cell, knife clanging against iron. Bethaer shied back, nearly falling over.
"Talk about my sister one more time, you fucking bastard, and I'll castrate you before the Council has the chance!" Leithan snarled, eyes furious.
Bethaer shuddered, recalling the gruesome punishment he'd wanted to mete out on the soldier who'd attacked the princess in his bathing room, mere months and yet somehow a lifetime ago. That was exactly how her brother felt about him now.
"You're going to be the last of your family line," Leithan continued, practically growling out the words. "Anderan's last descendant, maimed and broken. So enjoy having a whole body while you still can," he sneered.
He stalked out of view, and Bethaer let out a shaky breath. His heart felt as though it were being twisted to pieces, his lungs gasping for relief from the pain that would not come.
His wife had lost their child and was now surely on the edge of death herself. But she was alive, for now at least. She had to be.
Bethaer shut his eyes, wincing as he thought back to how cold and frail she'd been in his arms. The memory of her shredded flesh made him groan with anguish. He should have known his father would take out his anger on her without him there to shield her; he should have done as Igandrion had and dragged her along with him to the battlefront.
But he'd been too much a coward to risk crossing his father again, and now she was dying for it.
He slumped sideways, back onto the hard floor, the pain of his skull smacking the stone barely registering. What was his pain worth, anyway? No amount of suffering could atone for leaving his wife in his father's clutches. Had his own soldiers even left her alone, or had they too sated their basest urges on her in his absence?
He bit back the scream that threatened to rip itself out of his body, made himself slow his breathing as the shame and guilt crashed over him. He would need to preserve his strength for the long road ahead. It would be weeks before they reached the citadel in the mountains, and his every waking moment until then, he would be praying for her life.
O Hamin
, he called silently.
Have mercy on your daughter. Heal her of her wounds. Let her rise from her sickbed well and whole
