Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh Page A

one of the statues of Stoneheart. He had conquered the second wave of nausea and panic, fighting back the sour bile. Now he would conquer his fear and be like her; he would not capitulate.
    Wyl understood why Celimus had brought him. It was to show7 him up as a child, a pretender to his father’s title. Well, he would not permit Celimus to succeed in this humiliation. Ignoring the stench of his own soiled boots, he lifted his chin and stared at the closed eyes of Myrren, his own new bedrock of determination derived from her refusal to succumb to their demands.
    Lymbert had his victim pulled higher so that the weights attached to Myrren’s already distended legs and arms could stretch them further. He was satisfied to hear her ankles and elbows give up their resistance.
    Now every major joint was loosened from its socket and several inches were added to her height, some wit acknowledged.
    Naked, broken, and surely dying, she was still true to herself, Wyl realized. He now would prove himself to be just as true to the name of Thirsk. He was no coward and, although this was a shocking, intensely barbaric scene, he would not let himself down again.
    As her eyes opened once more at the dousing of chilled water, they seemed to search for his, and in that moment he felt connected to Myrren. Together, united by their personal despair, they would get each other past this torment. It might be a childish view, he thought, but he was somehow convinced she knew he was staying strong for her. Her time was short—that much was obvious—and he promised himself he would see her through to her end without turning his head again.
    Look at me only, Myrren , he willed. But she closed her strange and exhausted eyes once again. He wished she was dead but knew otherwise as she retched for the umpteenth time from her agonies, her thin framework of delicate bones in stark relief beneath stretched skin.
    She had endured the four mighty drops. Lymbert had begun to scream at her to confess, seemingly demented with his desire to overpower and win this admission from her. Realizing she had somehow, impossibly, won, he looked around wildly and then ran toward one of the braziers, surprising the man tending it. It was obvious that the Confessor could not afford to fail in wringing a confession from the girl, particularly with the Prince in attendance. Wyl could tell that Lymbert had been unprepared for the royal presence; perhaps he had not experienced such an important audience in his work, and having sensed the cruelty smoldering in his regal guest, the Confessor intended to display the full breadth of his skills.
    Wyl watched with horror as the man grabbed a nearby glove and picked up a pair of white-hot pincers from the coals. Tearing the flesh from victims’ bones was surely not Lymbert’s favorite practice but all present could see that there was no other way he might prevail in this battle of wills. Lymbert had already explained that no one resisted the Dark Angel or her swoops yet here was brave Myrren, her fourth drop completed and still adamant.
    Wyl’s pride surged as did his anger. He had status here, no matter how young he was. Do something , he silently screamed at himself.
    Reaching for the pale flesh of Myrren, who was hanging unconscious once again, Lymbert was stopped by a loud command into the now brittle atmosphere of the torture chamber. The crazed Confessor turned around, scanning for its owner, his face a mask of fury.
    “You will put those down.” Wyl repeated. “She has suffered enough punishment by your hand, sir, and she has survived the four legal drops.”
    “And who in Shar’s Name are you to give me orders?” Lymbert sneered, gathering his wits.
    Wyl felt his rage focus on this cruel man. And the white flash of anger coursing through him suddenly made him feel stronger, bigger than he knew he was. Even his voice suddenly sounded deeper as he faced down the torturer.
    “I am Wyl Thirsk. You’d do well to remember