The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 34

Torture warning applies.

"He meant to protect you," Amraphel told me for the third or fourth time. "What good would it have done for you to interfere and get arrested as well?"
I had to admit that it would have done no good at all, yet it had hurt to be whistled back like a dog that was getting ahead of itself. It irked me that I had been treated as if I couldn't decide for myself whether or not to get involved. I knew that there was nothing I could have done, but still it would have felt better to try. That was my decision, and I was a grown man and should have been allowed to go through with it. And yet, I had been whistled back. It would have been different if some else - Lord Vanatirmo, or Lord Ciryamacil, or someone like that - had told me to stay well away. But from my friend, it had hurt.

And I would be involved anyway, since I had to appear as witness at the trial. Yes, there would be a trial. Amraphel had at first said that it was unlikely - that Lord Eärendur would surely be free within a few days, as soon as the situation had been cleared - but it appeared that things weren't as simple as that. I could not believe that there truly was anything to the allegations of sedition or treason (high or otherwise), yet they had clearly found enough to justify a trial, which suggested that there was more to it than an ill-advised ceremony for Erukyermë. After all, as Lord Ciryamacil had already said during the arrest, that was nothing that the others hadn't done, too. I wondered whether Lord Eärendur had perhaps schemed and plotted in secret, never letting me in on his plans. I suppose if he had been scheming, keeping it secret from me would have been a logical choice, for a variety of reasons. But again, the thought hurt. I had liked the illusion that Lord Eärendur trusted me.

On the other hand, maybe he really hadn't done any secret plotting behind my back, and he was as innocent as I still wanted to believe. I wondered who else would be at the trial. Lord Eärengolë, no doubt. What would he say? With Amraphel's help, I had sent him a letter, asking for advice and reassurance. But so far, there had been no answer.
"If you stick to the truth you know, you won't say anything wrong," Amraphel said reasonably. "Absolutely nothing we have heard or seen from Eärendur suggests that he was involved in anything treasonous. The whole arrest is a mistake, and the trial should make that perfectly clear."
I hoped with all my heart that she was right. Yet I could not help asking, "What if it doesn't?"
I had, after all, very vivid memories of what happened to a nobleman condemned for treason, and I was afraid.

When you are afraid of something, time tends to move even faster than it usually does, yet I was surprised when guards appeared on our construction site on Eärenya to take me to the citadel.
"I thought the trial was tomorrow," I said, horrified that I might have missed it.
"It is," the leader of the troop said. "You are needed for preliminary questioning."

The words were harmless enough, but I certainly did not like the way in which Master Târik's face lost all hue. Karathôn and Mîkul exchanged the kind of glance you share when someone had said something that they really shouldn't have said, and you really wish you hadn't heard.
I swallowed a sudden lump that was rising in my throat. "I see," I said, because I could not think of anything better to say. "Then I suppose I had better come."
The soldier agreed, "Yes, that would be better." His tone was neutral, so I hoped that maybe my colleagues were wrong to look like they did. It helped me to maintain a veneer of calm as I washed my hands, and put on my cloak over my work clothing, although I could barely keep my hands from shaking.
"See you later," I told Master Târik and Karathôn and Mîkul, who seemed to stand transfixed. I tried to affect bravery, and forced a smile.
"Eru keep you," Master Târik said, very nearly shattering my composure.

I tried to keep my thoughts together on the way back to the city, up to the citadel, and then not to the palace, but into a dark and gloomy place that, much like the catacombs and the old laboratories of the Raisers, had been tunnelled into the rock. It wasn't easy, because they wanted to scatter like pigeons who flock around some morsel dropped in the street one moment, but flutter away in all directions when you approach them. What did they want to know? What would I have to say? What would happen if I said the wrong things? How long would it take?

The guards brought me into a room that didn't look too threatening, with only a table and two chairs in it, lit by two elven lamps. "You may sit down," they told me, and then most of them left, except for one elderly guard who stood at attention by the door. I could probably have tried to overwhelm him and run away, but he had done me no harm (yet, anyway), and I probably would not have gotten far anyway. I wondered if I should bribe him. "What can I do," I said, trying to keep my voice even, "to get out of here quickly?"
He did not answer at once, merely raising an eyebrow, and I thought that perhaps he wasn't supposed to speak with me at all. But then he said, "Tell them what they want to know."
"I don't think I have anything to tell," I said cautiously.
"They'll tell you what they want to hear," he said flatly, and I thought I could hear something like pity in his voice. I swallowed hard.
"What would happen if I ran away?" I asked, as if I was interested in the question merely on a theoretical level.
"Same as when you don't cooperate in any other way, really."

That was ominous, and I decided not to pursue the question further. I sat in the simple chair, the kind you might put in the kitchen for a servant to sit on while shelling beans, and tried not to speculate on what would happen. Somewhere outside, there was a high-pitched squealing noise, and I hoped very much that it was just the sound of a rusty hinge. I wondered who else was here. Other friends of Lord Eärendur? Lord Eärendur himself? I wondered who would do the questioning, and what they would ask, and what they would make of my answers. I wondered if I would have the strength not to tell them what they wanted to hear, if what they wanted to hear would condemn Lord Eärendur. "Stick to the truth," Amraphel had said, and that was all very well, but what would I do if they threatened me with torment? What would they do if I did stick to the truth? I told myself that it did not matter, because I would have to endure it somehow. The trial was tomorrow in the afternoon, so they only had one day to interrogate me. But if I said the wrong thing, it would mean death for Lord Eärendur, and a gruesome death too, which he did not deserve. If that was what they wanted, then I could not cooperate. Except that they would doubtlessly make me. The thought made me feel sick to my stomach.

"They'll be with us soon," the guard said, perhaps mistaking my fidgeting for impatience.
I replied, "I don't mind waiting," and meant it. Waiting, unsettling though it was, was preferable to anything else. Waiting did not hurt, although the chair could perhaps have been more comfortable. The more time passed, the less time they would have to hurt me. Maybe they would not hurt me at all, I told myself. Maybe they just wanted to make me think they would, letting me flinch at the awful screaming noise that came through the wall - there it was again - and waiting for me to grow so restless and anxious that I would tell them what they wanted to hear just to get out of the small, bare chamber with its eerie blue light. That was not so bad, I told myself. I could handle that.

Then two broad-shouldered men with hoods over their faces came, carrying a brazier full of coals and iron rods between them. They simply put the brazier down close to me, and then stood back against the wall, without a word, but the message was clear enough. I knotted my fingers underneath the table and tried to sit upright, as if it mattered at all whether or not they could see my fear. I tried to distract myself. The coal was heating the small room quickly, and with my eyes closed, I could pretend that it was a nice summer day and that I was sitting in some pleasant place, resting. I tried to judge how long I had been here. An hour? Two? Without daylight and no activity that allowed me to figure out the passage of time, it was impossible to say. Still, more time was passing, which was the important thing. Once again, I tried to calm myself by daydreaming. Then I heard the door open and people moving and fabric swishing and the guard's armour clinking, and I opened my eyes to see that the guard and the hooded torturers had gone on one knee. I got out of my chair and hurried to copy them, because the man who had just entered the room was none other than the King himself.

"Get up," he said carelessly, "be seated." He himself sat down in the interrogator's chair opposite me, although it was no more comfortable than mine. He waved a hand, and a servant brought a rolled-up sheet of paper, and an inkwell and quill, setting it on the table before me.
"We can make this quick," the King said. "We've already had your statement written up, and all you need to do is sign it, and be done," he said, unrolling the paper and turning it around so that the bottom of the page pointed towards me.
That was not what I had expected. I had not expected him, and I had not expected him to talk to me in a very nearly civil manner, and I didn't know what to make of it.
"You can write, can't you?" he said when I didn't move, and still there was very little venom in it.
"I can write, your majesty," I confirmed before I could even think. My hand, almost without my volition, had moved towards the inkwell, and I felt awkward as I pulled it back. "I, um. May I read it first?"
There was a smile on his face now, and I could nearly convince myself that it only looked unpleasant because of the unnatural light of the stone-lamps. "Yes, certainly. Study it well."

I took the sheet and began to read it, and in spite of the heat emanating from the brazier, it felt as though my stomach was turning to ice. I, Azruhâr son of Narduhâr, confess and confirm the following: That Eärendur son of Elendur has spread slander and lies about the rightful King of Númenórë, it began, and after that it only got worse.
That he has conspired to wrest power from the rightful King;
That to this purpose he has interfered in the affairs of the King,
and recruited supporters to his cause by gifts and promises;
That he has presumed to command the Council in the King's absence;
That he has sacrilegiously led people in prayer upon the Holy Mountain;
That he is therefore guilty of high treason against the King and the realm.
My heart was beating so hard that I thought my chest might burst. "I cannot sign this, your majesty," I heard myself say.
"You certainly can," the King said. "You have quill, ink, and the skill to write. Go ahead."
"None of it is true, your majesty," I protested.
His majesty gave me a pointed stare. "That's just the sort of thing a conspirator would say. And you know what happens to conspirators. Spare yourself the trouble and sign."
I was silent for a moment, because I needed to gather up the shreds of my courage. Then I said, "No."

The King leaned forward. Over the perfume in his clothes, I could smell the fish and white wine he'd had for his mid-day meal. "We know that you are a man of very little wit, Azruhâr, so we shall assume that you have not properly understood your position. If you do not sign this document, we shall have your fingers broken, and that is only the beginning." He smiled again. "Now, is that clear enough?"
"We had an agreement, your Majesty," I said bitterly. I wasn't certain that it was a good idea to bring our strange conversation after his Father's death up, but on the other hand, I doubted that it could make matters worse.
Strangely, the smile intensified at the reminder. "Unless you give us reason," he said happily. "So go ahead, Azruhâr. Give us reason."

My fingers had clenched into fists, as if that would protect them, and I looked at the paper again. That he has presumed to command the Council in the King's absence; that he has sacrilegiously led people in prayer upon the Holy Mountain... "Who says that he has done any of these things?" I asked.
"You will say it," the King retorted, "once you have signed."
"But you had it written before you showed it to me, your Majesty," I said.
There was another smile, and this time there was no mistaking the unpleasant quirk in it. "We have reliable sources," he said, "who have given me the necessary information. Eärendur's religious fanatism is common knowledge, and we have been informed about your little ceremonies on the Mountain..."
"By whom?" I asked, stupidly, as if it mattered.
"That need not concern you," the King consistently said. "All that needs concern you is that you can do your King a service by helping to condemn a traitor."
"Lord Eärendur is no traitor," I said stubbornly.

The King waved with one hand, and the next thing I knew was that my forehead was slammed into the table while my arms were twisted behind my back so that I couldn't struggle without dislocating my own shoulders. The torturers began to strip me, rather roughly, pulling my head up by my hair to remove my shirt and tunic, which was bad enough, and then they pressed one of the hot irons against the tender skin in the bend of my elbow. I screamed as I felt my skin burn, and then they removed the iron and put it back on the brazier and let go of me. The searing pain remained, and I looked down at my arm, at the long angry blister that had risen under the heat of the brand. I was breathing fast and trying not to sob audibly, though of course the King knew how badly it must hurt, anyway.
"That was a taste, Azruhâr," he said, "just a tiny taste of what will happen if you don't comply. Now, sign the damned thing."

I looked down at the document, now rumpled. My eyes had welled up with tears, making the accursed letters on the paper blur. Reliable sources had told the King that Lord Eärendur was guilty of treason. Whoever they were, whatever had been done to them, they had already condemned him. Did it even matter what I did? What should I do? What would Lord Eärengolë do when his choice was between defending his father or protecting his inheritance? Was he, in fact, one of the reliable sources? My arm was burning and my head was throbbing and I did not doubt for a second that much worse lay in store for me. Was it worth risking that? Could it make any difference?
Yes, I told myself. Yes, it did make a difference, because otherwise I would not be sitting here. Lord Eärendur had friends on the Council, who would demand proof before condemning him. True, some of them had probably been friends to Lord Arnavaryo as well, and still they had voted him guilty; but then, he had been guilty. I was still convinced that Lord Eärendur must be innocent. Reliable though the King's sources might be, they clearly weren't enough, and he needed my statement, and I must not give it. I must not.

But I would sign, because I was no hero. I knew that. My only hope was time, that I would not sign the paper until the trial began. One day, I told myself. I had to hold out for one day only. But they would know that as well, and they knew how to make men change their mind. I would not be able to hold up against that. They would hurt me, badly; and I, sooner or later, would sign.

There was just one thing to do. I took the sheet of paper. I took the quill. And then, very quickly, before I could have second thoughts about it, I turned and dropped them both on the brazier. The coals were very hot indeed; the paper flared up before it even touched the glowing embers. The quill lasted a little longer; first the vane burned with a rush and a sizzle, and then the shaft blackened and shrivelled, stinking like burning hair. Like my skin would burn, I thought. Because I had given him reason.
"I cannot sign," I heard myself whisper.

For a moment, nothing happened, and I knew that my deed had taken them by surprise. Then the King struck me. Although he did not have the bulk of the torturers, there was enough strength in the blow to make my ears ring and my vision momentarily go dark. Then I saw the King shake his hand, and derived some desperate satisfaction from the knowledge that he had hurt himself, too. It was a very, very short moment of satisfaction before the torturers stepped in again.
"You realise that we do not need the document," the King said coldly, and I screamed because the torturer had, with a brutally efficient movement, broken my index finger. I tried to pull away, but of course they were stronger than I, and my middle finger was snapped as effortlessly as if it had been a twig. Then they set another iron to my arm, and I could not even decide in which direction to twist to escape the awful burning sting.
"An oral confession will be perfectly sufficient," his Majesty continued, maybe to me and maybe to the tormentors. "Whenever you are ready."
"I - will not - lie," I managed to spit out between groans, and very much hoped that it would be true.

The King stayed to watch as I writhed under the red-hot irons, and then as they took me to a larger chamber where they hung me up by my ankles to beat me. I think I fainted a few times, but they woke me again so I didn't miss the worst of it. I screamed and howled and pleaded for mercy, and on occasion the King, or one of the torturers, would tell me about a crime Lord Eärendur had supposedly committed, demanding that I confirm it, and I had to say no, and then they hurt me more. I had known, of course, that it would be painful, but no foreknowledge in the world, not the punishments I had been subjected to in my youth, not even the sight of Lord Arnavaryo's ordeal, could have prepared me for the agonising reality of torment. Of course, it was designed to be more than one could endure, meant to break much stronger men than me, and it very nearly did break me. I was aware, dimly, that the King left at some point, perhaps because he tired of my screams after all, or perhaps because night had come at last. It made no difference to me; the torturers worked through the night, or maybe they were replaced at some point by equally bulky men wearing the same hoods.

I do not care to recount in detail all the things they did to me. Suffice it to say that I did not take it well. The heroes in the plays and pageants, when they are subjected to torture, grind their teeth and screw up their faces but bear their torment in stoic silence; maybe there are some groans when it is particularly bad, or a short single scream as a hand is severed. I was not like that. I screamed, as the saying goes, my lungs out. Occasionally, I could hear other people cry and plead, so I knew that I was not suffering alone, but I could not see any of them. Nor did I try very hard, being rather more than occupied with my own pain. Every now and then, the torturers reminded me what they needed to hear, but I could not give it to them, and so the pain continued.

They had put me on the rack, not yet stretched out but well aware of what would happen next, and then they seemed to be waiting for something. That was a brief respite, so I tried to pull myself together. I was face-down between the barrels that would tighten the chains around my wrists and ankles. My muscles were shaking incontrollably, not with fear (although I was terrified) nor with cold (although I was cold) but with sheer fatigue. And then I heard a familiar voice.
"Well, how far have you got? Has he talked?"

It was Lord Atanacalmo. I don't know why his appearance shook me so much. I knew, after all, that he was close - very close - to the King. I had never assumed that he would protect me. Nonetheless, I had hoped that he would at least remain neutral, yet here he was, side by side with my torturers. I clenched my stinging eyes shut.
"No, my lord," one of the torturers said. "Still insisting on his version."
"How odd. Everybody knows he's a coward. So, why have you called me down here, then?"
"Instructions, my lord. We can break him, obviously, but if it's the truth you want, I suspect we've heard it," the torturer said, and against all reason, I felt a surge of gratitude towards the man who had hurt me.

"Hm," Lord Atanacalmo made. He had come closer while they had spoken, and I expect that he was inspecting my prone form, but I did not want to waste whatever strength I had left on looking at him. "There's plenty of time to break him," he said, "the trial has been postponed."
I groaned at that. I had hoped that my ordeal would be over soon, but if the trial had been postponed, then clearly I would have to suffer for longer. Already, I could take no more.

Lord Atanacalmo heard me, and squatted down before me. "Ah, you're listening! My goodness, Azruhâr, you look terrible."
I should have liked to respond something clever, like the heroes in the stories would have done. I should have liked to spit out some blood, and maybe say "I am not feeling too great, either", but even that small effort would have been too much, so I did nothing except tremble under his gaze. Then his hand gripped my hair and pulled my head up, just far enough to look me in the eyes, or in the one eye that hadn't swollen shut, anyway. "There's no need for this, you know," he said. "Your co-conspirators have made their confessions already. Save yourself."

The shaking in my limbs intensified as despair set in. "There are no co-conspirators," I felt compelled to choke out, "because there is no conspiracy."
"Eärendur says the same," said Lord Atanacalmo. "He knows that you are being tortured, but he still denies all charges."
I understood, on some level, that this was supposed to turn me against Lord Eärendur, and indeed, I did feel some resentment. Maybe noblemen weren't tortured, but their ignoble friends certainly were. I sniffed, but said nothing. Lord Atanacalmo let go of my hair, and my head fell back to the planks with a thunk.
"I really do not understand you," he said, his voice moving away from me: he had straightened, and from the sound of his steps and his robes, was now pacing around me. "Why are you still here? We know what you are. You need not play the hero. You have betrayed men before. You have condemned men before."
It took several deep breaths until I trusted myself to answer, since an answer was apparently expected. "They weren't innocent," I said. I was speaking, or rather rasping, into the planks, but apparently he understood me well enough, because he asked,
"And Eärendur is?"
"Yes."

He sighed dramatically. "Stretch him," he said to the torturers, which they did; not yet far enough to make my arms and legs pop out of their sockets, but nearly so, or at any rate that was what it felt like. I hung suspended between the barrels, terrified that my limbs would simply come off, that the spasms of my own muscles would tear me apart, and when I heard Lord Atanacalmo say, "Alright. No more," I could have kissed his feet in gratitude.
"Please, Lord, please," I spluttered, uselessly and desperately, and then I had to pause to struggle for breath because the strain was so enormous.
He leaned in again. "Has Eärendur slandered the King?" he asked, and I moaned, "No, no, never, please ---"
"Has he conspired to wrest power from the King, and interfered in the affairs of the King?" Lord Atanacalmo went on relentlessly, and I shook my head and felt something in my shoulders slide out of place in response, and I howled, "No! No!"
"Has he recruited supporters to make himself King?"
"Never! Please, I beg you--"
"Has he led people in prayer upon the Holy Mountain?"
"In silence! He didn't speak! Lord, I can't --"
"Has he taken command of the Council?
"No, no! They went together! No!"
"You are saying that it was a joint decision?"
"Yes! Yes!" I was running out of breath even though I was gasping for air, but not enough of it seemed to reach my lungs. "Lord..." I pleaded, and was once more cut short.
"Is Eärendur guilty of treason, then?"
I could bear it no longer. I was certain that I would be torn apart, that my joints would simply give way, that my lungs would tear, and I was at the end of my strength.
"No!" I managed to howl, and after that, articulation was beyond me and I was reduced to making small keening noises against the pain.
"I suppose you're right, Master Torturer," I heard Lord Atanacalmo say, over my whimpering and the pumping noise of the blood in my ears. "Release him."
They released me.

On instinct, my body curled up small as soon as my limbs were my own to command. I wouldn't have had the strength to move intentionally. I think I may have passed out; at any rate, my world certainly went black for a while. Then they roused me again, to what purpose I cannot say, since they left me where I was, with my arms wrapped tighly around my knees, grateful that they were no longer in immediate danger of being torn off. I was retching and moaning and shivering. I did not dare to believe that my torment was over, but the blissful respite lengthened, and at some point, the torturers must have gone away. It grew quiet, aside from my tearless sobbing. A guard came, bringing my clothing. Another guard brought a cup of broth, the first thing to eat or drink I had been offered since I had been brought here, but I could not enjoy it; I had barely emptied the cup when I was violently sick, vomiting broth and bile and whatever I hadn't already thrown up earlier. The guard helped me to sit up so I did not lie with my face in the vomit. I hated him, but at the same time, I was desperately grateful to him. I was still shaking, still hurting all over, and the smallest friendly gesture carried great weight.

"Get a move on," Lord Atanacalmo said coldly, and I flinched because I hadn't realised that he was still there. I was physically incapable of getting a move on, so I ignored his command, hoping that I wouldn't be punished as long as he thought I hadn't heard him in my pain.
"We are needed at the trial," Lord Atanacalmo went on, perhaps to the guards rather than me, since I wasn't reacting, but I lifted my head at that.
"I thought it had been postponed," I gasped with what was left of my voice.
He gave me a smile that was all teeth. "No, it hasn't. It will begin as soon as I am upstairs to take my seat."
I pondered that, and came to the conclusion that he had tricked me. "You tricked me," I whispered.
I don't even know why it surprised me, and Lord Atanacalmo didn't bother to comment on my observation. He merely said, "You are recovering, I see. So get a move on. Put on some clothes. Clean your face. Make yourself presentable. We should not keep Alcarmaitë waiting."