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Authors: Fiona McIntosh
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so-called first degree. Apart from the permitted rape by one of his assistants in which her virginity was torn away from her, she had been stripped, bound, and flogged in front of a group of hooded men. They were presumably remnants of Zerques whom, she realized, were far more interested in viewing her naked body in pain than extracting anything more than her helpless shrieks.
Myrren had always believed that King Magnus was not in favor of these fanatics, that he had crushed them and their Order. Her parents had not shared her optimism. They had always warned her to be careful.
“It’s your eyes, my love.” her father would gently say. “The zealots will not see your beauty or hear the intelligence of your words. They will see only the mismatch of your eyes and all the old superstitions will rise up to frighten them.”
She had known since she was old enough to converse with others that she was different and was being protected by her parents. Her mother had once confessed the constant anxiety she and her father held for Myrren. She too had referred to her daughter’s eyes and the old fear.
“Poke them out. then!” Myrren had once suggested angrily, much to her parents’ dismay. She had not meant to shock them but she was tired of the constant care she took to distract strangers from looking at her full in the face. Tired of the scarves and shawls her mother insisted she wear when out and about.
It was never going to change. The fear was ancient and, though Morgravians were more enlightened and even openly dismissive of the existence of magic these days, the need to privately ward against sorcery still pervaded. Myrren wished she did possess the power to change the color of her eyes because she had known the Witch Stalkers and their whisperings would hover around her for all of her life. She remembered how she had felt hollow after being so abrupt with the noble, sensing immediately that it could lead to trouble—although she was past caring once his unwelcome hand had slipped beneath her skirts. His drunken breath made her feel ill and his decrepit and desperate desires brought a wave of disgust. Her contempt showed in her rebuke. And now she was paying the price.
Nevertheless, she would give no satisfaction to these men.
And so after the first couple of licks from the whip, which brought her shrill objections, she had clamped her teeth as hard as she could and uttered no further sound. She would give them nothing of herself, not even her groans.
Another woman, far older than her, had received similar treatment simultaneously and she had cried throughout, begging for pity. She was accused of slaying her husband but no one paid any attention to the old burns, the bruises, the limbs that had obviously been broken previously and were now twisted. Here, clearly, was a woman tormented by a brutal husband. It mattered not. In finding the courage to kill him, she would now pay with her own life. The flogging had finally stopped and both women had remained bent over barrels, inhaling whatever air they could drag into their lungs to steady their trembling limbs and shattered nerves. The pain from the bleeding welts on Myrren’s back had been so intense and all-consuming it became part of her. She had somehow been able to absorb it and put it aside. Moments later she had been turned and strapped to a post. She recalled ignoring the cloudy messages of pain from her back as it had chafed against the rough timber. The men had then enjoyed watching her body, still naked, from a different angle, but more importantly, she had been able to witness what was happening to her companion.
They had obviously decided, Myrren deduced, that she should be saved for future entertainment—a suspected witch, after such a dearth, was to be savored after all. Myrren had watched mournfully as the other woman had been dragged from her barrel.
“Put her boots on,” Lymbert had commanded, bored with this one, and Myrren had closed her
Myrren had always believed that King Magnus was not in favor of these fanatics, that he had crushed them and their Order. Her parents had not shared her optimism. They had always warned her to be careful.
“It’s your eyes, my love.” her father would gently say. “The zealots will not see your beauty or hear the intelligence of your words. They will see only the mismatch of your eyes and all the old superstitions will rise up to frighten them.”
She had known since she was old enough to converse with others that she was different and was being protected by her parents. Her mother had once confessed the constant anxiety she and her father held for Myrren. She too had referred to her daughter’s eyes and the old fear.
“Poke them out. then!” Myrren had once suggested angrily, much to her parents’ dismay. She had not meant to shock them but she was tired of the constant care she took to distract strangers from looking at her full in the face. Tired of the scarves and shawls her mother insisted she wear when out and about.
It was never going to change. The fear was ancient and, though Morgravians were more enlightened and even openly dismissive of the existence of magic these days, the need to privately ward against sorcery still pervaded. Myrren wished she did possess the power to change the color of her eyes because she had known the Witch Stalkers and their whisperings would hover around her for all of her life. She remembered how she had felt hollow after being so abrupt with the noble, sensing immediately that it could lead to trouble—although she was past caring once his unwelcome hand had slipped beneath her skirts. His drunken breath made her feel ill and his decrepit and desperate desires brought a wave of disgust. Her contempt showed in her rebuke. And now she was paying the price.
Nevertheless, she would give no satisfaction to these men.
And so after the first couple of licks from the whip, which brought her shrill objections, she had clamped her teeth as hard as she could and uttered no further sound. She would give them nothing of herself, not even her groans.
Another woman, far older than her, had received similar treatment simultaneously and she had cried throughout, begging for pity. She was accused of slaying her husband but no one paid any attention to the old burns, the bruises, the limbs that had obviously been broken previously and were now twisted. Here, clearly, was a woman tormented by a brutal husband. It mattered not. In finding the courage to kill him, she would now pay with her own life. The flogging had finally stopped and both women had remained bent over barrels, inhaling whatever air they could drag into their lungs to steady their trembling limbs and shattered nerves. The pain from the bleeding welts on Myrren’s back had been so intense and all-consuming it became part of her. She had somehow been able to absorb it and put it aside. Moments later she had been turned and strapped to a post. She recalled ignoring the cloudy messages of pain from her back as it had chafed against the rough timber. The men had then enjoyed watching her body, still naked, from a different angle, but more importantly, she had been able to witness what was happening to her companion.
They had obviously decided, Myrren deduced, that she should be saved for future entertainment—a suspected witch, after such a dearth, was to be savored after all. Myrren had watched mournfully as the other woman had been dragged from her barrel.
“Put her boots on,” Lymbert had commanded, bored with this one, and Myrren had closed her
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