Page 116 of Daughter of the Drowned Empire
“No,” he said, his voice deadly calm. “You won’t. Not after this.”
“Aemon! Don’t!”
“If I don’t do this, he will end the deal,” he hissed. “Do you understand?” Loudly, he announced to the arena, “Soturion Lyriana has been sentenced to three lashes for disobeying orders.”
He turned from me as tears fell down my cheeks. The soturi in the stands cheered.
“Arkturion,” Rhyan called out. He was slowly moving towards us, his face still red, his body slick with sweat and rain. “She’s barely standing. I understand she deserves punishment. Not like this. Wait. Let her recover.” Rhyan stood back, something aloof and cold in his expression.
“She’d be standing if she’d completed her training like everyone else,” the Imperator said. “You’d do well to make sure she does so.” He gave Rhyan an appraising look, a snarl curling his lips. “Were you in a fight yourself, forsworn? You look…quite depleted.”
I stilled.
Rhyan rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. His head rolled back just for a second, but then he straightened, looking like the consummately cruel and bored high lord everybody believed he had been destined to be before turning forsworn. I wasn’t fooled. He was ready to fall over, clinging to the dregs of energy inside of him.
“No fights tonight, your highness,” he said, voice laced with cocky confidence. He turned back to Aemon. “As for her grace, I know the rules. But I, for one, would rather not train a corpse tomorrow.” He sounded bored and was making an effort to appear dismissive, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice, his northern lilt like an undercurrent of anger.
The Ready glared. “You will train her in any condition she appears in. Question me again? You’ll be up here. You were already lax in making sure she attended clinic.”
The Bastardmaker snarled. “Looks like her grace will finally earn her stripes today.”
Rhyan stood behind the pole, positioning his face directly in front of mine. His green eyes were wide, his nostrils flared, and jaw clenched as his hands balled into fists, a silent fury coursing through him. The fear I’d seen in his eyes had returned. Something like a soft kiss of wind blew toward me, mere remnants of what remained of Rhyan’s power.
Turion Dairen moved behind me. My heart pounded. He reached for the ties on the back of my tunic as convulsions wracked through my body.
“No, Turion,” Aemon cut in.
For the barest moment, I let hope return. I wouldn’t be lashed. I started to exhale.
Aemon stepped in front of me, the whip in his hand. “I’ll do it.”
I looked up, barely believing what I was hearing. The Ready’s eyes darkened, and Rhyan’s mouth fell open, one eyebrow raised in shock. Aemon never did the lashings. That was a Second’s job. The idea of Aemon doing that to me…he’d practically raised me in Cresthaven, he’d been like a second father.
No, no, no, no.
My forehead fell against the pole. I squeezed my eyes shut. It was like Tristan pointing his stave at me all over again. Aemon had even said the exact same words:I’ll do it.
He stood behind me, his anger pulsing violently like a storm cloud. I was barely hanging onto consciousness, barely able to breathe, as he reached for the pull of my tunic.
I tensed. There was a loud rip, and at the same instant an icy breeze brushed against my bared back. The sides of my tunic hung loosely on either side of me.
The crowd roared; their voices full of bloodlust.
I swallowed hard despite a dry throat, aware that I was openly crying, that my entire body was shaking like a wild animal’s. I was suddenly so cold, shivering uncontrollably. Humiliation and fear swam through my blood. The indignity and exposure—it was insufferable.
“Three lashes,” Aemon called again.
I sucked in my breath, tremors exploding up and down my arms. My fear was growing, and I was freezing under its force.
Shock. I was going into shock.
Some small part of my brain remembered the same thing had happened after we’d gotten the news that Jules had died. My body had frozen, and I’d just…stopped. I hadn’t moved again for three days. Only Meera’s screams had pulled me out. It had happened again just this morning, on this very field.
“Deep breath, Lyr,” Rhyan said. He teetered on his feet, looking ready to fall over, and yet, his hands were balling into fists, shaking at his sides. “It’ll be fast. Over before you know it.”
The Imperator gave him a sharp look. The ropes dug into my wrists, and my arms, already battered and bruised, felt a fresh, stabbing pain from being tied up too tightly.
“I’m right here,” Rhyan said, his voice low. “Don’t look at him, don’t look at anything else. Look right here. Eyes on me.”
