Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [107]
His ambitions and Moah had made him believe he could reach for the throne. But it was a delusion, one fed by Elandra’s love and acceptance. Reality lay in the merciless faces surrounding him.
The rain poured into his eyes, drenching him and pounding on his breastplate.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, they took him across a courtyard to the edge of a parade ground. Near the barracks stood a whipping post, stout and scarred, heavy iron rings bolted to it where he would be bound.
The rain slackened, and men surrounded him to unbuckle his armor. For a moment the air felt cool against his sweat-soaked tunic, then he felt a tug at his collar and heard the ripping of cloth.
A cheer rose from the crowd, and Caelan closed his eyes against a raw surge of anger. He had no fear of the lash. Rage continued to build in him until it was an explosive force. Gritting his teeth, he held it back, knowing it would do him no good to struggle and yell curses. It would only make the crowd laugh more.
But he did not deserve this. He had done nothing worthy of this. He had taken no action against these people.
Gazing around at their excited, jeering faces, Caelan saw them caught up in the madness of the moment. He remembered the screaming spectators in the arena, how blood-crazed and wild they were, the frenzy of their cheering, their joy at witnessing death. Surely darkness ate the souls of such people. Worst of all, they were Elandra’s people. He could not unleash severance on them.
Lord Pier stepped forward. He held a coiled whip in his hands. “Bind him to the post.”
Caelan had planted his feet well, and it took four men to manhandle him over to the post. They bound his wrists securely, and only then did the noose come off his throat. He winced, feeling a warm trickle of blood slide down his neck.
Pier handed the whip to one of his minions and gestured. The men ripped Caelan’s tunic away, and an appreciative gasp rose from the crowd.
“Gault above! Look at those muscles.”
“He’s bigger than I thought.”
“He’s a giant.”
“He’s very handsome.”
“No wonder she brought him with her.”
The comments ran on, growing freer and more ribald. Caelan closed his ears, feeling his rage pulse against his throat. He jerked against the iron rings, ready to yank them out by the roots if he could. He budged them not at all, but the violence in him and the loud rattle of the rings startled everyone. Even the man with the whip stepped back.
Caelan looked over his shoulder and met Pier’s gaze. “This is not worthy of you,” he said.
“You are an arena champion,” Pier replied. “You fight well in the ring. You should have stayed there. Challenging your betters is not worthy of you.”
Caelan stared at him in disbelief. Was that all this was? A reprimand to a man Pier thought was a slave? Did he think he could insult Elandra by publicly whipping her companion?
The rage boiled hotter, until Caelan felt his bones would melt. His fists clenched with the violence he could not unleash.
“You will regret this,” he said to Pier.
The warlord turned away with a little shrug, unimpressed. “Forty lashes for his impertinence. Begin.”
At that moment, the clouds parted overhead. Sunlight slanted down upon Caelan alone, isolating him from the crowd, which murmured and shifted back in wonder.
“Look at his back!” someone shouted.
“Look at the imperial mark!”
“His brand is glowing.”
“It’s glowing!”
Some fought their way clear, running and shouting for their jinjas to come. The rest stood there and stared, open-mouthed.
Caelan could not see what they were pointing at, but he could feel the place on his shoulder blade where his slavery mark had been canceled. It burned like fire, as hot as the moment the hissing brand had been pressed to his skin. His rage boiled inside him, burning him from the inside out.
They had no right to do this. No right to commit this act.
And he would not submit to it.
He strained against the ring bolts until the muscles