Page 117 of Daughter of the Drowned Empire
“ONE!” Aemon yelled.
My eyes squeezed shut. I could hear the vibration of the whip as its echoing lash pierced the wind to strike me. On contact, I gasped, making some unintelligible, animal-like sound, a noise that shouldn’t have been able to come from my mouth. A feeling like a thousand daggers slicing through me exploded over my skin, each one burning like fire. I’d been punched and kicked where the whip hit, and now the fire and pain and torment of it all tore through me. Distantly, the crowd whooped and cheered. Howls called and responded across the arena as wind blew through the hundreds of torchlights above my head.
Sweat and dirt rushed down my forehead and into my eyes faster than my tears could clear them. I screwed them shut. Something was wet on my back, sliding down to my waist.
Blood. I was bleeding. Aemon had torn me open on the first try.
“TWO!”
The second lash came faster, and I coughed up blood as fire blazed across my back. I screamed, not recognizing my own voice, unable to control myself.
My knees buckled, unable to withstand further pain. My body hadn’t been designed for this. My back had been torn open and torched with what felt like flames. I was going to faint. The sides of my tunic, what remained of it, were dampened with sweat, and fresh blood dripped in thick rivulets down my spine, creating a river that pooled in the small of my back. Several drops fell and splattered between my feet.
“Last one, Lyr,” Rhyan said. His voice was low, his northern lilt even more pronounced. “One more. Just one more.”
Tears ran down my cheeks. Humiliation and terror and pain all became one hideous monster that dug its razor-sharp claws into my body and devoured me. I shook, knowing the third lash was coming, knowing this was the one that might break me, might rip me in two. Before I could prepare, Aemon shouted, “THREE!”
I screamed, blood spurting from my back, landing in fat droplets down my legs, and pooling between my feet. I was going to be sick. I was going to faint.
“Release her,” Rhyan demanded.
Aemon snarled in response to being given an order, but he was already reaching for my arms when the Imperator stepped forward.
“Aemon,” he drawled, a finger pressed against his chin in thought. “I do not see sorrow or repentance on her face. She will disobey if not properly punished. I think a fourth lash is in order.”
“No!” Rhyan released an anguished cry.
“Aemon,” I sobbed. “I…I can’t…p-please. I am sorry. I am….” I wanted to say repentant, but even that was too much for me.
Aemon was breathing heavily, his eyes wild with rage. He spit onto the ground, right at the Imperator’s feet, then stepped back and adjusted the whip in his hand. His aura swirled, dark and heavy, mixing with the cunning victory of the Imperator. There was a collective inhale of breath around me in anticipation.
“No. Aemon.”
Humming filled the air again—the sound of a whip flying.
The Imperator’s black eyes burned into me as the Bastardmaker licked his lips.
The humming grew in volume, in intensity. It ended in a spine-cracking snap.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THEREWASAroaringin my head, and my vision sparked with white lights. Blood rushed down my arms as they slammed into my sides like deadweights. I stumbled forward, crashed into the burning hot pole, and pushed myself away, stumbling to the side to collapse on all fours. A scream of pain wracked through me, the sound blaring in my ears. I couldn’t tell if the sound was solely in my head or if it had left my mouth as well.
I was in so much pain, I’d gone beyond caring. A storm was thrashing inside of me, and my arms gave out as blood slid down them, mixing with the dirt, the mud, and the rain. I fell forward, my nose crunching against the ground. I barely turned my head in time to puke some horrid mixture of blood and bile and whatever the fuck I’d eaten for breakfast half a lifetime ago. I was screaming again, tears burning down my cheeks. My stomach was on fire, twisting, pinching, and pulling until I threw up again, my bruised ribcage screaming in protest.
A hand pressed against the nape of my neck, strong fingers pushing into the tops of my shoulders, soothing me.
Rhyan.
I retched as his other hand reached for my forehead, pulling back the loose strands of hair. His palm remained there, flat and cool against my skin, a calming presence. What remained of his power he cast toward me from his aura, a cool breeze against my burning hot skin. Still, I screamed and cried and threw up more bile even as he held me, and continued sending soft cooling winds against my hair and face.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “It’s all right. It’s over now.”
“Can you stand?” Aemon asked, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Lyriana. Lyr! You must stand.” He jerked his chin at Rhyan. “Get her up.”
There was a burst of Rhyan’s aura, burning ice. Rage, and fury carried on a wind so powerful, Aemon braced himself. And then just as quickly as it began, the ice stopped. Aemon glared at Rhyan, his lips pulled back into a sneer. Rhyan’s nostrils flared, but he nodded back to his Arkturion in submission.
Strong arms wrapped around me, firm but gentle, and I was lifted to my feet. Rhyan’s hands were firm on my waist, avoiding my back. Rhyan bore my weight with his arms, carrying me even as my feet touched the ground. How was he doing that? How after he had no remaining strength of his own. And part of my guard or not, I didn’t understand why he was still here with me. Every second he stood before the Imperator and Aemon, pale and weakened, he risked getting himself in trouble again.
