Then, Lorilie Dorran, who had stood fuming beside him, ran. She had been the leader of the Anti-Monarchy Society, otherwise known as the King-Haters, but now she leaped onto the platform to help Binning protect King Zachary. Perhaps she had learned there were worse leaders than he. A moment later, several of her followers among the slaves ran after her to also use their bodies as shields. One by one, the slaves braved the anger of the crowd and their projectiles, creating a veritable wall around the king. When Fiori recovered from his incredulity, he, too, sprinted forward. He was not the last, but he was ashamed not to have been among the first.

A rock grazed his cheek, but he held steady before the platform in the face of the mob, his height making him an excellent target. A mud ball slapped against his chest.

By now, Terrik and his guards were pushing their own people away, forcing them to disperse. If the slaves were expecting to be thanked for preserving Grandmother’s special prisoner, they were to be disappointed, for when the crowd was sent away, the guards turned their attention to tearing the slaves away from the king. They were none too gentle, and Binning in particular had to be pried off him.

“You, too, Arvyn,” Terrik said. “I expected better of you.”

Why? Because as Lala’s tutor they treated him better than the other slaves? He shrugged. “He had no way of defending himself and it seemed unfair.” Then, with daring, he added, “And he is still my king.”

Terrik shoved him hard in the direction of the keep before turning back to the platform. Fiori glanced over his shoulder to see the king slumped at the post, fresh blood dripping from his face onto his shirt. Fiori wondered if there’d been one miracle, might there be another? He would send prayers to the gods, fervent prayers.

His only hope was that Karigan could somehow bring help. He’d heard something of what had been done to her, so she could not be in much of a condition to do anything herself. Still, she had escaped. Had been rescued. If they, whoever they were, including a flying cat, apparently, could rescue her, surely they could help the king. He feared that if King Zachary remained in Second Empire’s clutches much longer, if he was subjected to whatever twisted designs Grandmother intended, it would be a greater blow than Sacoridia could withstand, for the king was the realm’s spirit and its soul.

“You are disgusting.”

Nyssa’s voice came distantly to Zachary, through a gray haze. He’d ceased caring about his surroundings, how he smelled, so caught in the miasma of pain and exhaustion was he. Until the shock of frigid water hit him. It stole his breath.

“Again,” Nyssa said.

He opened his one eye that was not swollen shut just in time for another bucketful of water to splash over him. He shivered uncontrollably. There’d been a crowd watching, he recalled, but the courtyard was now quiet, any onlookers pushed well back.

“Cut the rags off,” Nyssa ordered.

Guards came at him with bared knives and did just that. Trussed to the post, there was little he could do. The frigid air prickled his skin.

“Another bucket,” Nyssa said.

He braced himself, but gasped as the icy water cascaded over him. When he regained his breath, he saw Nyssa giving him a thorough look over.

“You’ve seen better days, haven’t you, King Zachary. Your ribs are jutting out.” Her gaze dropped. “By all accounts, your wife must be pleased with what you bring to the bed chamber. I bet she misses it. Too bad you are not the sort of man I am interested in.” Her gaze lingered downward, and he was aware of mockery and hooting coming from the remaining onlookers. “I’d be more interested in cutting off what you’ve got, but Grandmother says no.”

“Cut him! Cut him!” the onlookers cried.

She smiled, made some joke, then told him, “I suppose Grandmother has her reasons why I can’t, and it is not my place to question her.”

He fought the chills, but they were such a force they could not be repressed. They came out in a large shudder.

Nyssa laughed. “A little cold, eh? Well, we’re not finished. I won’t have you stinking up my workshop.”

She made some signal with her hand, and guards came forward with more buckets full of sudsy water, scrub brushes in hand. They were not gentle. He was thoroughly washed and rinsed, no doubt to the great entertainment of Nyssa and the watchers. There was nothing he could do to combat it, so he endured the humiliation.

When the guards dumped a final rinse on him, Nyssa stepped up again. “Much better. All rosy and pink all over. Well, where you aren’t black and blue.”

At her order, the guards untied him from the post and threw a blanket over his shoulders. He thanked the gods and wrapped himself in it. They marched him beyond the curtain wall, a ways into the woods, to a simple wooden building he presumed to be Nyssa’s “workshop.”

They unceremoniously forced him onto a table where he was strapped down with leather bindings, even his head. He struggled, but the leather was snug. To his relief, they covered him with the blanket.

Nyssa leaned over him so that they were nearly nose-to-nose. He tried to turn his face away, but the strap around his forehead prevented him. “Wouldn’t want you to freeze before Grandmother gets here, would we?” she said. “Sadly, I am not to touch you until she says so. I look forward to cutting you, which will sorely disappoint your wife and whoever else you lie with. That Greenie, perhaps? That was quite a reaction you had for so lowly a servant as a messenger. That’s why you acted up, isn’t it? Because of her?”