A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 65

Moment by moment, Azriel was slipping away.

When his frustrated tormentors had abandoned whips and canes and steel—for fire. The boil once an infernal memory, one he never wished to suffer once more. And here he was, feeling it again...

Down, down, down...

When the anguish and shock, the roiling stench of scorched flesh, became overwhelming. When his cracked throat would not endure another howl. When he could no longer listen to the taunts of the barbarous fae males who worked him over every single day since his capture. However long it had been.

His captors certainly hadn't kept track, and Azriel hadn't bothered to ask. No, the Spymaster had not made a noise beyond the odd caustic laugh or a barbed curse. Or scream. Not once, though, not fucking once, did he offer her name. A small mercy.

Dank earth and filth clung to the blistered, ripped muscles along his sides. None of it was helpful to open wounds, he realized, the festering clogging his nostrils. Yet, today, he scarcely noticed anything other than what was happening inside. The churning maelstrom.

Down, down, down...

Fevered with infection and weakened by blood loss and faebane, Azriel could barely keep his eyes open. Let alone lift the wrist now shackled in blue stone.

Nothing he could do. Nothing. It had been over 500 years since he felt so helpless.

He tried his best to stay alive. Concentrating on each labored breath. Regulating his heart rate during the beatings. Trying in vain to save his strength.

Far too frail—too weak. Were they poisoning his water? What meager food they left him?

The toxin racing through his veins was doing its diabolic worst, stifling his power. Any High Fae would be wholly depleted of magic. But Illyrians? Illyrian powers were unique. Destructive to all—even to those who possess it.

The shadowsinger had seen it firsthand. The ruining impact when the few gifted had only a pair of Siphons removed. And Azriel carried enough magic to brandish seven. Seven.

Although the faebane barred him from using his gifts, it still mounted, pressing against his skin from the inside with invisible fingers. Urging to be released—with no means of escape.

No way out.

It reminded him of a brutal form of punishment he'd seen meted upon the worst of the worst Illyrians. Flown up to the loftiest, inhospitable peaks in the Steppes, their Siphons were confiscated. Bodies stripped and wings bound with heavy chains. They would be left behind, weaponless.

No nourishment. No means to unleash their power. No way down without death. No way out until the magistrates ordered fellow soldiers to fetch them.

Those who survived were never the same. The ones who didn't? Their deaths were not one of a warrior; justice served as the Mother and ancient, forgotten gods saw fit.

No matter the season, snow fell on the Illyrian mountaintops. Inch by inch. Foot by foot. Windswept drifts formed, burying the shivering males under a shimmering white shroud. Helpless to move, to save themselves, slowly caving into suffocation and starvation and exposure—drowned in their own magic.

The bodies of those condemned were recovered after the thaw. Some were forsaken altogether. Carrion for the beasts who prowled up in the summits.

Azriel imagined the ordeal in the mountains to be like this. Smothered beneath an oppressive load, clamoring for fresh air. All the while, his magic writhed and stirred within, building and roaring to be let out.