Free Shade of Destiny (The Foreseeing) by Shannon M Yarnold Page B

“Well, well, well,” a voice said from the courtyard. Wynn’s blood ran cold as she recognised the voice, a voice she would recognise in her sleep, which haunted every waking moment of her life. The Master. He was descending down the steps, a whip in his hand. The young man on his knees tried to stay calm, but his face betrayed him. Wynn could see his eyes widen, and his body stiffen in fear and her heart tugged in empathy.
         “What do you hold before me?” The Master said coldly, his eyes inspecting the man. His voice carried right around the grounds and Wynn shivered as though he was speaking to her.
         “Son of the baker, he was found talking about you Master, in a most distasteful way,” the soldier replied, shaking the kneeling man angrily as he spoke, as though the man had offended him personally. The Master nodded slowly and walked menacingly slowly around the man, his footsteps squelching in the mud, before stopping eventually in front of him. Then the Master spat on the man, making sure it landed squarely on his face. Wynn covered her mouth in disgust. The kneeling man could not wipe it away for his arms were held.
         “That is what you are doing to me when you speak ill of my name,” the Master said cuttingly, slowly unfurling a whip which none had noticed, it dropped from his clenched fist onto the ground, straight into the mud. He turned to the soldier and instructed him to take off the prisoner’s shirt. The soldier obliged, holding the prisoner tight with one arm and ripping his thin shirt off with the other. The prisoner did not speak, but his eyes darted around him for the chance of escape. Wynn shook with hate at the sight, she wanted to run to the man and comfort him, but she knew better, she clenched her fists together and watched in horror filled silence.
         The man was on his knees, held tightly by the soldier, his back now towards the Master. The Master raised the whip high and struck the man with such force that the whole forest resounded with the sound. The skin of the man’s back split with ease, blood dribbling from the open wound. The Master repeated it ten times, each time the skin on his back was ripped open from the force and mud from the ground was driven into each wound. Wynn’s stomach clenched and she knew then she had seen the Master’s true nature. One where the suffering of others brought him perverse joy. I will never be free, Wynn suddenly thought, he will hunt me down until I am his. The thought wrapped itself around her mind like ivy until all she could think of was how bleak her future would be.
         With a heavy heart she watched the soldier throw the bleeding man to the ground and order him away.
         “That should not have happened,” Byron said after the army had dispersed and calm had once again settled over the Manor. Wynn jumped at the sound of his voice, forgetting that he too had witnessed the brutal attack. She nodded absentmindedly, too lost in her own sorrows to reply.

The days passed before Wynn in a blur. Her chores were demanding and time consuming but required only physical effort. Her mind was free to ponder and wander and it was this freedom that dragged her down. Nothing seemed able to coax her out of her troubles. The subject that demanded her attention most frequently was the image of what had happened a few days before; the young man that was whipped. He was defenceless, Wynn thought, over and over again. She was defenceless. How was she ever going to be free of the Master when she was no match for his cunning and ruthlessness? He could kill someone without batting his eyelids; it would not wrack him with guilt. Life was something he had complete control over, and the incident with the young man had reinforced to Wynn how weak and susceptible to harm her body was. Her flesh could be cut, her body could be broken, her blood could flow. At any moment the Master could decide he had waited enough for her to