Chapter 51

Slimy, stinking water invaded Soren’s nose and pressed him down with its weight. He held his breath for as long as he could, stretching his arms overhead in a vain attempt to swim back up towards the air and life, but his efforts were futile. He opened his mouth in a silent scream and inhaled a mouthful of water. 

With a gasp, Soren opened his eyes, his mind spinning as he tried to remember what had happened to him. Slowly, like honey dripping from a clogged sieve into a barrel, flashes of memory returned. He’d been ambushed and choked, then, just as he’d regained consciousness and registered being carried somewhere, someone had forced a sweet-smelling cloth over his face. 

A bucketful of something fetid splashed over his head, leaving Soren cold, trembling, and retching at the terrible taste. A rattle of chains sounded, followed by his arms stretching overhead, and the sensation of cold water running down his naked torso and legs. When he shook the worst of the water from his eyes, he traced the hefty rope binding his hands up to an iron ring where it was secured in the ceiling. 

“Ah, that one did the trick. Excellent.” 

Soren’s gaze flicked away from the rope and took in his surroundings—he was in the center of a stone room. Damp and mildew painted the stones that were visible at the edge of the torchlight, and the water drained across the cobblestone floor into a crack near the wall. Across the room from him stood King Nelan, who balanced the tip of a small knife on his fingertip. At his feet sat a wooden bucket.  

“Your Majesty, while I appreciate your agreeing to meet with me, your private office, or your throne room would have been perfectly fine–”a fit of hacking coughs interrupted Soren as his body tried to expel the water from his lungs. After it felt like his entire chest and throat had been set ablaze, he was finally able to speak again–”I’d hate to think that these theatrics might have disturbed you from your very important kingly duties of chasing skirts or plotting to kill your future wife and taking over her country.” 

“I’ve watched you, Captain Kierson; you have spent most of your time with the women of my court these past few weeks, but I have no doubts about where your loyalties lie, or how good you are at your job. Sometimes the most dangerous snakes sun themselves on rocks in the open. I thought that a dank hole in the ground such as this one was a more suitable place for you than any other.” King Nelan lost control of the knife on his fingertip and it fell. Instead of a clatter, there was only dull clink when it hit the muddy and grimy floor. “Do you mind if I call you Soren? Since my betrothed thinks so highly of you, I feel that titles and other such formalities are behind us.” 

“As soon as you let me go you can call me whatever you like, Nelan, although I wish you’d stop gossiping about me with the others—what would your court think of you spending so much mental effort on a lowly Dovean guard?” Soren replied.

“You are no more a lowly Dovean guard than I am the castle butler. Please, friend, let’s set these petty insults aside and speak man-to-man.” 

Soren made a great show of looking around. “Is there another man here? I see only a very large worm dressed in ridiculous finery. Where are the men who ambushed me, Your Majesty? Off performing other terrible deeds such as kicking puppies and making small children cry?”

“More like harassing border towns under the guise of lawless bandits to keep my people terrified and our neighbors on their guard, but I see how a Dovean with little diplomatic and strategy experience could get the two confused.” Nelan picked up the knife from the floor and stepped towards Soren, his eyes glinting dangerously. 

“So the bandits were under your orders? To what end?” 

“To abduct Annalise so we could use her curse without any pesky formal attachments, of course.” Nelan clicked his tongue. “The poor princess, abducted on her way to her wedding and never seen again. It would have been so tragic, especially when we announced that we’d found a way to end her curse.” 

Despite himself, Soren’s heart leapt into his throat at the thought of Annalise finally being free from her curse. “Have you?” 

“No, of course not, but it would have made for a wonderful story.” Nelan shrugged, a smile colder than the freezing air in the room flitting across his face. 

“You’re a monster.” 

“I prefer the term ‘strong ruler’. Your own King Everet isn’t that much different, if the rumors I heard were true. While I may hate Doveans, I held a certain amount of respect for the man.” 

Soren shook his head, trying to clear it of the last of the drug. “If your original plan was never to marry Annalise, why the insistence now?” 

“Because unfortunately despite my best-laid plans, she escaped her abductors and completed the journey in good health and spirits. The contingent of Dovean guards camping outside Rea’s walls drew quite a lot of attention, and when she finally arrived and it was confirmed that the bandits had failed, I had to improvise. In the end, I suppose it was a blessing in disguise. Now, with her hand in marriage, I can make a play for the Dovean throne and kill two birds with one stone.” 

“Doveans may love Annalise, but they will never accept you as king or ruler.” 

“I think you mean they won’t accept me without a Dovean woman at my side. As far as I know, Annalise has two young cousins who arguably have a more legitimate claim to the Dovean throne than Everet’s bastard. I’m a patient man, and if Praxis starts a war in the next year or two and it takes us a handful of years to finish it and bleed Dovea dry, well, then her cousins will be nearing marriageable age. An accident on the front lines or an assassin will take care of Annalise, and then after an appropriate mourning period I’ll have two kingdoms under my control, and a young and easily manipulated queen who can bear me plenty of heirs.”

Soren’s shoulders throbbed. He lifted himself partially to remove some of the tension only to find that doing so made the rope rub his wrists painfully. “My father would never allow it. As High General, Dovea’s safety is his utmost concern.” 

“Your father is irrelevant. If the news of your death doesn’t break him, an extended stay on the front lines with his Dovean soldiers against Praxis will.” 

Soren struggled against the bindings around his wrists, but could hardly do more than twist in the air. “I’m not dead yet, and I don’t plan on dying until I ensure you won’t ever go near Annalise again.” 

“Bold words for someone strung up like a hog ready to be gutted.” Nelan flipped the knife in his hand, and his smile dropped. His eyes were as vacant as the sharks Soren had seen while sailing desolate seas. Distantly, Soren realized as Nelan set the knife to his forearm that the man hadn’t even wiped it after picking up from the dirty floor. Soren froze, afraid that any struggling would deepen the cut. “Don’t worry, Soren, I won’t kill you immediately. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone as strong and virile as you. I’ll be sure to take my time with your torture. Usually my prisoners give up far too easily, but I’m hopeful that you’ll put up a fight for many weeks,” Nelan said with a chuckle. 

“Mark my words, Nelan. As soon as I’m free, you’re a dead man.” 

Nelan didn’t respond beyond a quirk of his lips. He took his time slicing a long cut down Soren’s left arm, then went to a wooden chest at the edge of the room. It was as he pulled a cat-o’-nine-tails from the depths of the chest that he spoke again. 

“Brave words from someone who has already been declared dead. You should have seen Annalise’s face when I told her. The poor girl barely kept it together, especially when I implied that you had died trying to protect her honor. Her grief was deliciously strong. It’s really such a pity that I couldn’t keep you around more and watch you two torture yourselves. You would have been a wonderful pawn to use in this little political game. Such a pity you’re so unpredictable.” When Nelan stepped forward once more, his teeth were bared in a wild, euphoric grin. “There is no escaping this, Soren Kierson. You will die a slow and torturous death by my hand in this very room.” 

“I will not die at the hand of a coward such as yourself.” 

“If you hang on for long enough, perhaps I’ll reward you with a dull knife and let you do the deed yourself, then. The few Doveans I’ve had the pleasure of working with were quite soft, so let’s see if you survive the next few days before we make any long-term plans.”  

The sting of the whip sliced against Soren’s back, but he gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t give Nelan the satisfaction of hearing him cry out or seeing his tears. 

Soren knew the stinging rain of a hurricane’s wrath, the burn from a kitchen galley on fire, and the deep painful ache of blisters created from hours spent climbing ropes. He’d fought pirates, spent days without water, and bloodied his knuckles in far too many bar brawls to count. 

He would endure, and when the time was right, he would end Nelan.