Read Online Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh - Free Book Online

not even eleven, curse you!”
    “Yes and when you’re twenty, she’ll be sixteen summers and equally eligible. Don’t deny it, Alyd Donal.
    You’re starry-eyed over my baby sister. But I actually approve—lucky for you.”
    “I refuse to discuss this,” Alyd said but Wyl could see a treacherous red flush at his neck—a sure sign that Alyd’s protestations were empty.
    He grinned. And then noticed the trembling Jon. “Shar forgive us! Sorry, Jon. I’m coming. Lead the way.
    See you, Alyd—don’t get into any trouble while I’m away.”
    “Watch your back, Wyl. He’s never up to any good.”
    At sixteen the Prince’s stature had undergone a major transformation and it felt to Wyl as though Celimus towered above him. making his own recent spurt of growth irrelevant. The Prince had broadened as well.
    He was indeed breathtaking in looks, but spoiled by the scowl.
    “Don’t keep me waiting like that again. Thirsk.”
    “My apologies, your highness,” Wyl said, adopting his usual politeness. “How can I assist?” he added, moving the conversation quickly forward. He knew from experience that if he did not it would follow the traditional path of insult.
    “You’re well fortunate that I am in a good mood today.”
    “I am glad of it, highness. How can I make it brighter?” he said, almost smirking at his own sycophantic manner. Alyd had taught him how to say something in a sugary way while meaning something quite different. Wyl had learned that this tactic worked well on Celimus who was too vain and preoccupied to notice. Alyd would be proud of him.
    “Back to your duties,” Celimus said to the page and Jon trotted off, happy to be away from the growls of the Prince. Celimus returned his olive gaze to the lad his father had implored him to get closer to. He sneered and Wyl wondered what wickedness lay behind it.
    “Come along, then.” Celimus said chirpily. “I have a special treat for you.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “It’s a surprise, Wyl.”
    Myrren’s bruises and cuts had begun healing. She now sat shivering in the dungeons of Stoneheart.
    where they had brought her days ago. The hunger pangs of near-starvation had recently settled into a numbness. She had refused the deliberately salty food they had thrown into the cell, knowing full well no water would be offered later when her parched throat would scream for it. And after a few days of such treatment the raging thirst would be enough to send one mad, as it had some poor soul a few cells down.
    She was the only Stalkers’ prey in the dungeon and thus inwardly accepted that she would offer the best sport.
    They were preparing her for the “trial” that would extract her eventual confession under torture. Myrren could hear the mournful ringing of the bells and was half-tempted to fall to the damp flagstones and writhe about as witches were apparently meant to.
    That would soon brine them running, excited that she had been found out. It would save a lot of pain, she realized grimly. She could just confess and be done. They would kill her anyway, so why suffer more than was necessary?
    A small voice inside begged her to make it easy for herself Death was coming whichever way she looked at it and it could either be a merciful end by fire after possibly days of agony, or she imagined, it could be swift and relatively painless; a brief confession and a blade into the throat. Myrren thought of the flames.
    They frightened her more than the notion of torture, which seemed harder to imagine. But she had no trouble picturing herself bound and screaming as the fire melted and consumed her flesh.
    The trial—as had been explained to her by a tall, hook-nosed creature who had introduced himself as Confessor Lymbert—had three categories. Lymbert, whose name Myrren had recognized with a sinking heart, preferred to call these categories “degrees.” The word made him smile each time he uttered it.
    Myrren had already undergone Lymbert’s