Page 18 of The Sun King's Noon

Lyell’s mousy hair hung lankly about his face. One eye was swollen nearly shut. His lower lip was split. Bruises mottled the line of his throat and disappeared beneath the collar of a shirthalf-unlaced and slipping off a shoulder, exposing cuts and the jut of collarbone. All his fingernails had been ripped off, blood and pus leaking from a few, and rod-like burns were scattered on his arms. Even so, the tattoo of the three fledglings huddled together was stark on the underside of his forearm.

“Three of Cups. A toast. New friendship. Our paths, my dear friend, will cross again.”

Richard dismissed the memory of Flint’s laughing voice with a flick of his head. There was no use for such sympathies. This sorcerer had almost caused Briony’s death.

He crossed the room, hooked a nearby stool with his foot and placed it before the prisoner.

“Your Majesty,” Kaelen said. “Do not get too close.”

Richard sat down, a head taller than Lyell, who’d clambered onto his knees. Dain came to Richard’s left, hand on his sword, and Kaelen stood by Richard’s right. Morland, however, watched with the guards from the door.

“Your Majesty,” Lyell rasped, his sightless eyes staring up at Richard. “Decided to see me yourself, have you?”

Richard crossed his legs. Lyell reeked of sweat, dried blood, and healing salve—no doubt to mend cuts before slicing them open again. The man’s breathing was shallow, and tremors flitted through his frame.

“I am told, Sorcerer,” Richard said, “that you have endured Chief Morland’s attentions without surrendering anything of use. I am impressed.”

“Keep your impressions, Your Majesty,” Lyell said. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t grovel. I’ve had a trying week.”

Richard chuckled. “Noted. Then let us not waste each other’s time. I want answers. Who were the witches that accompanied you? Why did they want my sister’s blood?”

Lyell snorted and stared at a point above Richard’s shoulder. “You sit there in your fine clothes, fresh from your bath,drenched in ambroa and cedar—a perfume more costly than a cottage.” He shook his head. “You expect me to hand a pampered king answers because you deigned to visit?”

“Bold words for a man fettered to my wall,” Richard said softly. “I can make lives very painful.”

Lyell smiled grimly. “Do your worst, Your Majesty. I don’t care for my life.”

Richard placed the toe of his boot under Lyell’s chin. The leather nudged upward, tilting the sorcerer’s face towards the torchlight. Lyell clenched his jaw but did not jerk away.

“And who says,” Richard murmured, “it isyourlife I intend to make painful, Master Lyell?”

Lyell went rigid. His lips parted, the split in the lower one cracking anew. “You know my name?”

“Your lovers arrived in High Ardenia three days ago.” Richard withdrew his boot and kept his voice light despite the sour taste on his tongue. “Tried to rescue you. Quite the scene, I am told.”

The chains snapped taut. Lyell lunged, wrists straining against the manacles, his chest heaving. “Don’t—don’t you touch them. They’ve nothing to do with this. They didn’t know I was?—”

“The woman.” Richard hummed. “Edith.” He rested his chin on his fist. “She was arrested first. Broad shoulders. Strong hands. She certainly has the build for hard labour. I have dispatched her to the mines.”

Lyell whimpered. “No?—”

“Backbreaking work, the northern mines. Hauling ore carts through tunnels too narrow to stand in. The cold alone kills half within the first winter, and I am told the rock dust shreds lungs from the inside.” Richard examined his nails. “A woman of her constitution might last two years. Perhaps three, if she’s fortunate.” He gave a sigh. “Pity. A waste of good muscle.”

Lyell’s ruined hands were shaking. His eyes brimmed, tears catching the torchlight as they spilled down the hollows of his cheeks.

“Please. She is ill already. She—she has done nothing wrong?—”

“Now, the man.” Richard steepled his fingers. “Flint.”

Lyell made a strangled sound.

“Oh, he is something, is he not? Quite the mouth on him. He was only apprehended after he talked his way past three checkpoints.” Richard tutted. “Such bravado.”

He rose and knelt before Lyell. The sorcerer recoiled, but Richard caught his face between both hands, thumbs resting below those tear-filled eyes. He leaned close.

“He really is striking, your Flint. Even with that burn across his face.” Richard’s thumb traced a slow arc over Lyell’s cheekbone. The sorcerer trembled so violently that his teeth chattered. “I have always wanted a pet, Lyell. Something to keep chained at the foot of my bed—just at the foot, mind. I do not lie with stray dogs. But it would be a delight to have one sing me to sleep and amuse me with stories. Flint would make an entertaining whelp, do you not think?”

“Stop,” Lyell choked. “Stop, please?—”