Page 43 of A Court of Masks and Roses
Thump, patter—
I don’t see the guards until two sets of meaty hands clamp on to my arms, slamming me face first into the ground. Razor-sharp steel presses into the base of my skull, drawing blood.
“Who are you?” Baritone demands.
My breath catches. Between the knife at my neck and my face pressed into the dirt, it is a struggle to form words. “Kal,” I pant the word. “Guardsman trainee.”
“Aye, I’ve seen the dimwit at the palace,” Nasal confirms.
My heart stutters in surprise and I try to turn my head to get a look at the man, but the blade keeps me still. A boot steps on my right hand, pulling my knife from my grasp, then repeats the process on the other side.
“Are you not a wee bit far from the keep?” Nasal asks.
“Ran... away.” I swallow, my aching hand tightening around a rock. “My sponsor... He’s a lash-loving bastard.”
“And where were you running to?” Nasal inquires with calm curiosity, as if we were having a normal conversation.
“I was following a stream,” I say honestly. “Then found this wide path. Heard voices. Was going there.”
Baritone clicks his tongue. “Running away never helps things, you know. Usually it just leaves you dead. Allow me to demonstrate.” The knife cuts deeper into my flesh, making a warm, viscous stream run down my neck.
I gasp.
“Wait.” This comes from Nasal.
The knife stops and Baritone makes a questioning sound in the back of his throat.
“You are the one who wanted an example to hobble the heathens,” says Nasal. “Don’t kill him yet, not until they see.”
“True,” Baritone growls under his breath, and the knife withdraws from the back of my neck.
I seize upon the reprieve and swing the stone I’ve palmed into Baritone’s knee. Rock hits bone, sending a satisfying vibration down my shoulder.
Baritone curses.
I scramble to my knees, only to fall back down as a bootkicks my ribs and tips me like a bug onto my back. I recognize Nasal now—one of the roses who occasionally passed through the keep. His name is Miles, I think. Not that it matters just now. Leaning over me, Baritone spits into my face before plunging my very own throwing knife hilt-deep into my left thigh.
A heartbeat later, my other blade pierces the right.
I am not bleeding fast enough.
If they just pulled out one of the knives, I might bleed faster. Might go unconscious. If I’m very fortunate, I might die.
“Bring him closer to the fire,” Baritone orders. “I want everyone to see what awaits them should they try to flee tonight.”
I scream as they haul me forward, the pain exploding through every ripped muscle fiber. It’s been minutes since I was captured. It’s been hours. It’s been years. Long enough for the dozen guards in charge of the prisoners to have built a fire beneath a dense tree, illuminating the clearing where the captured whisperers are bedding down for the night. Long enough for the first demonstration.
“We’ve already discussed the consequences of disobedience,” Baritone tells the hundred hollow faces staring at me through the smoke. His voice is calm, as if instructing a class of novices, and loud enough to carry over the sobs and retching. “Before I bid you goodnight, I wish to discuss the consequences of running. Some believe ropes and chains are needed to keep a rabid animal at bay. But that is utter folly. All you need is to hobble the beast. This is how it’s done. Miles, shatter the boy’s legs, please.”
The man I’ve called Nasal unhooks an ax from his belt and stalks slowly toward me.
“Why are you doing this?” I yell at him, fear tearing at my throat. “You are a holy guardsman. You trained beside me, you—” I give up shouting as Miles approaches, struggling instead against the two men holding my arms. They only torque my shoulders until my protests become babbling screams that even I cannot understand. My eyes are wide, my heart ripping through my chest as my breaths fall in short desperate pants.
The last thing I see before the back of Miles’s heavy ax strikes my shin is his loose shirt collar shifting open and a Viva Sylthia tattoo flashing in the firelight.
24
VIOLET
