Free Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh

had and the young woman wrapped herself as best she could, turning away from the doorway.
    She thought of her parents but did not cry this time—it seemed every pointless tear had leaked from her body. But then she thought of the black puppy and tears surged again. He had been a special present and had brought such joy. Myrren had called him Knave. He was abandoned now—she felt sure her mother would not be of a state of mind to care about a dog.
    “I wish I could fight back,” she whispered. “If I were a witch, I’d seek revenge.” The tears came for Knave and with them a voice in her head.
    Fear not, my child. You are no witch but you will have your vengeance.
    “Who speaks?” she whispered, terrified, whipping her head around in the darkness.
    I am Elysius , the man spoke into her mind.
    A few hours later Myrren felt exhausted but at peace. She was amazed that she could think so calmly about the inescapable trauma that lay ahead of her. Elysius had explained much. Now she understood.
    He had urged her to be brave. She realized she had no choice to be anything but courageous.
    Lymbert and his henchmen were preparing to come for her. The Confessor had sent her some items of clothing. Through his aide he insisted she wear them but she soon found out they were nothing more sophisticated than a piece of rough cloth with a hole for her head, and another strip of fabric for a belt.
    Myrren wondered if Lymbert had suddenly had a change of heart and would allow her a modicum of dignity through her trial. But nothing about Lymbert’s conduct so far could convince her that he possessed any empathy for his victims. She dismissed her notion as wishful but gladly donned the garment. In sudden inspiration she used the blunt spoon that sat amongst the congealed mess that passed as food in this place to scratch a message onto one of the stones. It made her feel defiant in these last hours of her life.
    Myrren felt grateful that since hearing the voice of Elysius she had felt a strange numbness overtake her body. She recalled his softly spoken words now, repeating them silently to herself.
    They will hurt yon, my little one. But the pain will be minimized. I cannot save you but I will give you the means to avenge your death. Hear me now, I give you a gift —and he had told her it all.
    Why can I not use this gift to save myself ? she had asked into this strange void opened in her mind.
    Because, child, they will burn you. It will not work . And he had explained why.
    She had fought back the initial surge of hope as understanding dawned. He had spoken more but it was of an intimate nature. She had heard his words, his explanation of who she truly was. Despite the shock of it, she had loved him then for sharing the news and she had buried the information within. She would not resurrect that joy and have it tarnished here by these proceedings.
    Myrren of Baelup was no witch but she had a gift to give that would unleash a relentless power until it found the true target of her vengeance.
    Myrren considered her torture now. Lymbert’s choice would most likely be the rack, for his eyes had lit up at its mention during her tour, and probably thumbscrews, which she had seen the Confessor almost lovingly stroke when he had presented them to her.
    But Myrren was wrong.
    When they led her once again into the main torture chamber it seemed he had reserved something far more special for her. Many more people had gathered, including the smug Lord Rokan, invited no doubt to savor the results of his connivings. In fact the room was crowded with men, none hooded this time, eager to witness her trial and the confession.
    Wyl stood rigid next to Celimus in the torture chamber. The men gathered were talking excitedly; some jocular and a few voices raised in obvious anticipation of what was to come. The Prince joined in the animated conversations while Wyl scowled and made a poor attempt to mask his nervousness at being in this place.
    Celimus had