“Torch,” Alric commanded, snapping his fingers impatiently as a soldier pulled one from the wall bracket and held it out for him. Alric scowled at the offer. “Hold it near their heads. I wish to see their faces.” Alric peered at them. “No marks? They haven’t been whipped?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Braga said. “They surrendered without a fight and Captain Wylin thought it best to lock them up while he searched the rest of the castle. I approved his decision. We can’t be certain these two acted alone in this.”
“No, of course not. Who gave the order to gag them?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Braga replied. “Do you wish their gags removed?”
“No, Uncle Percy—oh, I can’t call you that anymore, can I?”
“You’re the king now, Your Majesty. You can call me whatever you wish.”
“But it isn’t dignified, not for a ruler, but Archduke is so formal—I’ll call you Percy, is that all right?”
“It’s not my place to approve of your decisions any longer, Sire.”
“Percy it is, then, and no, leave their gags on. I have no desire to hear their lies. What will they say except that they didn’t do it? Captured killers always deny their crimes. What choice do they have? Unless they wish to take their last few moments of life to spit in the face of their king. I won’t give them the satisfaction of that.”
“They could tell us if they were working alone or for someone else. They could even tell us who that person or persons might be.”
Alric continued to study them. His eyes focused on a twisted mark in the shape of an M on Royce’s left shoulder. He squinted and then, out of frustration, snatched the torch from a guard and held it so close to Royce’s face that he winced. “What is this here? Like a tattoo but not quite.”
“A brand, Your Majesty,” Braga replied. “It’s the Mark of Manzant. It would seem this creature was once an inmate of Manzant Prison.”
Alric looked puzzled. “I didn’t think inmates were released from Manzant, and I wasn’t aware anyone has ever escaped.”
Braga appeared puzzled as well.
Alric then moved to inspect Hadrian. When he observed the small silver medallion that hung around Hadrian’s neck, the prince lifted it, turned it over with mild curiosity, and then let it go with disdain.
“It doesn’t matter,” Alric said. “I really don’t think they look like the type to volunteer information. In the morning have them hauled out to the square and tortured. If they say anything of merit, have them beheaded.”
“If not?”
“If not, quarter them slowly. Draw their bowels into the sun and have the royal surgeon keep them alive as long as possible. Oh, and before you do, make certain heralds have time to make several announcements. I want a crowd for this. People need to know the penalty for treason.”
“As you wish, Sire.”
Alric started for the door and then stopped. He turned and struck Royce across the face with the back of his hand. “He was my father, you worthless piece of filth!” The prince walked out, leaving the two hanging helplessly awaiting the dawn.
Hadrian could only guess how long they had been hanging against the wall; perhaps two or three hours had passed. The faceless voices of the other inmates grew less frequent until they stopped entirely, silenced with boredom or sleep. The muzzle covering Hadrian’s mouth became soaked with spit and he found it difficult to breathe. His wrists were sore where the shackles rubbed and his back and his legs ached. To make matters worse, the cold tightened his muscles, making the strain even more painful. Not wanting to look at Royce, he alternated between closing his eyes and staring at the far wall. He did his best to avoid thinking about what would happen when daylight came. Instead, his mind was full of thoughts of self-incrimination—this was his fault. His insistence on breaking rules landed them where they were. Their death was on his hands.
The door opened, and once more, a royal guard, this time accompanied by a woman, entered the cell. She was tall, slender, and dressed in a gown of burgundy and gold silk, which shimmered like fire in the torchlight. She was pretty, with auburn hair and fair skin.
“Remove their gags,” she ordered briskly.
The jailers rushed to unbuckle the straps and pull off the muzzles. “Now leave us, all of you.”
The jailers promptly exited.
“You too, Hilfred.”
“Your Highness, I’m your bodyguard. I need to stay to—”
“They are chained to the wall, Hilfred,” she snapped, and then took a breath to calm herself. “I’m fine. Now please leave and guard the door. I want no interruptions by anyone. Do you understand?”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” The guard bowed and stepped out, closing the door behind him.
She moved forward, carefully studying the two of them. On her belt was a jeweled kris dagger. Hadrian recognized the long wavy blade as the type used by eastern occultists for magical enchantments. Presently he was more concerned with its other use—as a deadly weapon. She toyed with the dragon-shaped hilt as if she might draw it forth and stab them at any moment.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked Hadrian.