Blood and Memory by Fiona McIntosh Page B

respond, hearing footsteps and knowing this would be the healer arriving, the strange man who had brought him back from the brink of death once before.
    “Sire,” said the new voice.
    “I want him made well again—no matter what it takes,” the King growled.
    Rashlyn nodded. “I shall see to it.”
    Cailech grunted. “And this time he’s to be force-fed and watered daily.”
    “It will be done, my lord.”
    Gueryn was moved immediately from the dungeon to a room he recalled from his nightmares.
    It was where he had watched Cailech unceremoniously execute the kind, brave woman known as Elspyth. She was a Morgravian, captured with Koreldy. How he had cheered inwardly when she had stood up to the King. And it was she who had patiently cut away the stitches that bound his eyelids together so that he could look upon his rescuers. The one he thought was Wyl—who had spoken to him as if he were Wyl—turned out to be a handsome mercenary from Grenadyn. The man had certainly known Wyl, but the disappointment had cut through Gueryn as keenly as a blade. Elspyth was as pretty as she was feisty, while his early torturer, Lothryn, who had turned friend, was, as he had imagined, a huge, dark man. His beard softened his strong jaw, while his eyes revealed a depth of kindness he could not have guessed lived in this person when he was blind. Gueryn could not imagine what fate had befallen the mountain man who had betrayed his king. No ordinary man, mind. He had been the second in command and so the defection would have been a damaging blow to Cailech. Gueryn was glad. He wished he could deal damaging blows of his own, but he was so pathetically weak that his only way of fighting back was to try to kill himself. That had been a fight in vain. The cruel healer was preparing to bring him back to full strength so they could continue laughing in his face.
    Gueryn had never felt closer to tears. He was not a man given to emotional outbursts. Trained by the stoic Fergys Thirsk, he had been taught how to keep his thoughts and emotions in check. He had had many reasons to weep in his life and since adulthood had given in to none of them, but he was tempted now. He felt useless—a senior soldier of the Morgravian Legion and personal attendant to the Thirsk family, not even offering resistance to the enemy.
    He spat.
    “Save that,” Rashlyn called over his shoulder. “No use in wasting precious liquid or I’ll do just as my king asks and give you the added humiliation of having men hold you down and force food and water into your throat.”
    Gueryn sighed. He remembered Elspyth’s sad end, how her blood had gushed from Cailech’s savage cut and congealed around Gueryn’s boots, marking him as her killer, all because he had refused to tell Cailech what he wanted to hear. Blackmail was only one of the King’s weapons. Gueryn remembered how Rashlyn had smiled as she died, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. He would not hesitate to hurt Gueryn, if given authority. For now his job was to heal and Gueryn came to the painful realization that the King of the Mountains was right. It was pointless fighting, for they would continue the cycle that would keep him alive—if not fit—until he was of no further use. But perhaps he could still strike some damaging blows. He could not think clearly enough yet, for his mind was dulled by the starvation and thirst, but he promised himself to think on ways to hurt Cailech.
    “There’s no need to force me,” he murmured, his voice cracking from lack of use.
    “Oh?” Rashlyn said, turning now.
    “I’ll eat and drink.”
    “Good. The other method is rather messy,” the strange, wild-looking man said, cackling horribly.
    “I make a demand, though, for this cooperation.”
    “You are in no position to make demands,” Rashlyn replied softly.
    “Your mad king wants me well and healthy. I will make this easy for you, for all of us, if he’ll allow me time outside to breathe fresh air and work my