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Aspen glanced at Sira who looked a bit guilty as her eyes watered. They’d bought him to trick an old man into thinking he had his son back.
“Elira brought you-back-my only son.”
Lord Mather’s chest rattled. Aspen's Father had simply dropped from a heart attack, and there had been no chance for goodbyes or last words.
“I’m here, Father, and I love you.”
Lord Mather’s lips twitched with a smile, but his eyes dulled, and the papery, cold hand in Aspen’s started to lose its strength. The lord made a strange noise like he’d tried to breathe again but failed, and his hand went entirely slack. Sira started to cry, and Lan made a faint, choked sound.
“May Elira rest his soul,” she whispered, and Lan murmured the words.
Aspen stared at the man’s face which bore many stress lines around the eyes but still somehow seemed relaxed in death.
“You did a good thing,” said Sira. “We knew his son wouldn’t be coming home, but he kept hoping. They had a fight, and Philre ran away. He was only fourteen, and no one saw or heard a word of him since. You’re about the right age, and you look close enough.”
Aspen let his eyes travel to another portrait on the wall of the same black-haired boy. He was probably twelve or thirteen in the painting. He imagined Lord Mather waking up and going to bed every day with the image of his son being the first and last thing he saw.
And hoping. Always hoping he'd have his son in real life once more. He’d been soothed in his final moments, thinking he wasn’t forgotten or unloved.
Aspen released the limp hand, slid off the bed, and crawled onto the floor. He wanted to curl up and never wake up again either. Nobody would come back for him because he was forgotten and unloved. “Sira…”
She pulled the blanket over Lord Mather’s head. “You’ll stay here now.”
“I can’t…” He’d served their purpose. Wasn't that enough?
Sira knelt next to him as he curled up on the cloth carpeting. “Aspen, don’t you see? Philre might be dead, but even if he’s not, he isn’t returning, so he can't be the lord. Everyone will think you’re him, so you’re now the new lord of Cardinal’s Brook.”
Chapter Seven
Oriel clenched his teeth on the bit gag as he screamed through it. The scent of cooking meat filled the air as the brand seared the flesh on his left shoulder. He pulled at the ropes keeping him bent over and tied in place on the wooden horse, but they were too tight.
The guard pulled away the brand, and Lord Delwin made a noise of approval as he sat on a crate.
Oriel’s chest heaved as he struggled to breathe. Even with the brand gone, the burning remained. His muscles quaked with tremors that he couldn’t seem to stop, and sweat poured down his body. Welts from the earlier whipping stung, and he’d thought they’d meant to whip him again when another guard had come with the horse and helped tie Oriel to it.
Then they’d brought in the brazier, and he’d seen the D-shaped brand when they placed it in the fire.
“Start getting the S hot,” said Lord Delwin, and Oriel made a noise through the bit gag that he couldn’t help. “Yes, another one, Oriel. I’d brand the word traitor’s son on your back, letter by letter, and stretch it out all night just to watch you suffer, but I don’t think my son wants someone that burned and permanently marked up.”
Oriel wanted to beg and plead, but it would probably please Lord Delwin more to hear the evidence of his suffering, and he couldn't talk with the bit gag strapped in so tightly. He moved his head a little and saw one of the guards place another brand in the flames.
The other guard came around and grasped Oriel's balls which made sickness rise in his gut. “You should cut his balls off. I could heat my knife right now. I know how to do it so he won’t bleed out and die. You don't want these, right?”
The guard squeezed hard enough for them to hurt, and Oriel made a panicked noise.
“Keeping him pent up might be a good tactic if my son wants to torment him with that," said Lord Delwin, and Oriel's balls were released. "With his balls gone, that's rather hard. I don’t really care how Roth fucks him, but it’s best not to be removing body parts."
Oriel shook and sweated as the top edge of the horse dug into his hip bones. He was tied so tightly he couldn’t even try to adjust himself and ease the painful pressure.
And the next burn would hurt so much worse. He choked on a sob when the guard picked up the brand, and he saw the glowing orange end.
“I wish your Father was alive and able to watch as you’re tortured," said Lord Delwin. "He’d probably be ashamed of your tears. Didn’t he raise the Crown Prince to be stronger?”
The heat came close to Oriel’s right shoulder, and his shaking renewed. Dear Elira, he couldn't take it. He screamed through the gag again as the brand pressed into his flesh.
“I guess not.”
Oriel’s entire body tensed as he pulled on the ropes which still didn’t give an inch. The upside-down room blurred, but he didn't pass out. Every moment was an eternity as he shook, unable to bear another it but forced to endure every single second. Nothing else existed as his entire being focused on that one point of agony.
