Ice Shards - By Yasmine Galenorn Page 0,25
she nodded. “Long ago, I was taken to the temple . . .” And I told them everything. This was the first Roz and Smoky had heard of the whole tale. Camille knew I’d been tortured, but I hadn’t told the guys. I didn’t want them playing hero before I needed them to.
“Let me see them,” Kitää said. “Let me see your scars.”
Camille looked at me. “It’s up to you. Do you want to?”
I bit my lip. No one had seen my scars since I’d stopped at the inn on the way down the mountain. Not even Bruce, because I played it shy with him, keeping the lights off. He thought I was just demure, but really it was to prevent him from asking questions. They had healed without leaving raised bumps, but they were still there, across my back.
“Only the women.” I glanced up at all of them.
Rozurial laid his hand gently on my arm. “Iris, my sweet. I know I’ve joked around, and tried to win you into bed, but trust me, I would never make light of your past or your need for privacy. Smoky, come on, let’s go outside to stretch our legs and lose some drink.”
Howl said nothing, but he followed Smoky and Roz. Kitää motioned and a ring of wolves—all female—surrounded us, their backs to us, keeping everyone at bay. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. The moment of truth.
As I stood and dropped my cape to the floor, then unfastened my walking skirt and tunic and dropped them away, and finally my bra, the cold air hit me, chilling me through. Slowly I shifted my hair forward, letting it flow to the floor over my breasts, and turned so that Kitää and Camille could see my back.
“Oh, Great Mother,” Camille said, her voice a low whisper. “Ishonar.” She paused, then asked, “How many?”
“Thirty lashes,” I whispered. And for the first time, my scars and my shame were fully exposed.
“PIRKITTA, TELL US now. Give us the truth and we won’t have to do this.” The Priestess-Mother begged me, but I shook my head, unable to do as she asked.
“I can’t—I’ve told you everything I remember! Look into my mind, please, look into my thoughts and you will see.”
I was naked down to my waist, my arms stretched between two posts, manacled with iron that was lined just enough so that pain seeped through from the metal but not the actual burns. My hair had been draped over my shoulder, spilling strands down to coil at my knees. I had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed or ashamed. I wanted to wrap my hands in front of my body, to cover myself, to curl in a ball weeping, but the manacles prevented all of those.
“Pirkitta, please. Tell us why you did this thing?”
“I don’t know if I did! I have no memory. Please stop . . .”
The Priestess-Mother bit her lip and I saw blood swell, trickling down the side of her mouth. “My child. This is the way—there must be tradition. If you won’t tell us the truth, then we have to administer punishment. And the punishment must fit the crime.”
As she backed away, I gazed up into her eyes. She was old, old past counting, and I had been chosen to take her place. I knew now that would never happen. There would be no future for me here, if anywhere. I would die here, at the hands of those who believed I’d killed my sweet Vikkommin.
There was no tomorrow. No yesterday. Only today and the looming pain waiting to descend.
And then the lash fell, burning with white agony. I managed to keep from screaming the first time. The flames of ice licked at me, magical fire that hurt worse than the whip itself. Cold fire, the fire of deep ice, leaving marks but no wounds. Leaving no lasting damage but pain—and the memory of that pain—beyond what any normal lash could ever hope to achieve.
The second strike. The pain bit deeper, into my body and blood.
The third strike, and the pain wormed into my soul, jolting like lightning.
The fourth strike, and everything began to spin, the world falling away as the pain flayed apart my soul, opened me up, let every secret I had in the world come spilling out into the minds of my torturers. I could feel them poring over my innermost thoughts, my memories—everything I’d heard, seen, done, including my most private moments. Melting from the shame