//------------------------------// // 14. The Viper's Tale // Story: Love, Sugar, and Sails // by DSNesmith //------------------------------// Rye woke to dull, constant pain. The still-healing slashes on his back throbbed whenever he moved. He was certain that his shoulder would ache for days, at least, and the mark burned into his skin would last for the rest of his life. It seethed on his skin like a tiny furnace. He couldn’t tell whether the physical wounds hurt more than the mental ones. The black spot on his shoulder was already fading. Eventually, it would turn white, as the burned tissue healed. The skull stared at him with dead eyes, the writhing snake from its mouth seeming to crawl under his skin. It was late in the morning, judging by the sunlight filtering through the palms above his cage. He blinked and lay still, waiting for the pain to subside. Gingerly, he brushed a hoof over his robes. They had become utterly filthy in the past few days; stained with mud, brine, and tiny spots of blood. His coat and mane weren’t doing much better. He had dirt everywhere, even on the feathers he’d so delicately cared for. They were matted and ruffled, as badly as when he was a foal. Slowly, he raised himself to a sitting position. He ached, like he’d been lifting heavy weights for hours. Wincing, he stretched his legs and wings, hoping vainly that it would relieve some of the stiffness. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of daily activity in the pirate camp. Voices yelled instructions or reprimands in foreign tongues. He wondered if any of them were Tyria’s. Rye closed his eyes. He'd gone to sleep with a hollowness in his chest, and the dreams of flaming spears had not cured it. No matter what he tried, he could not forget that quiet, drawn look as Tyria turned to face him on that beach and whispered yes. With a sharp breath, he pressed a hoof against his shoulder. To distract himself, he began to preen his battered wings. He pushed feathers back into order and straightened the rows. Soft down brushed against his cheek. The process was long and slow, and he had to pause often when the pain became too much. As he whiled away the time, his wings grew neat and tightly pressed once more. He was still dirty everywhere, though. His stomach growled. Mindless routine was a less effective distraction than he’d hoped. No matter how he tried, that memory would not fade—the shock, the disbelief, and then the searing pain. By the afternoon, he was almost looking forward to the distraction of Breyr’s arrival. Yet as the hours passed, it never came. Nor did any guards appear with food or water. It seemed he was to be left alone, with nothing and no one to take his mind away from yesterday’s events. And that’s exactly what he wants. Breyr had looked inside him and seen that last, small hope he was holding on to. The exile had taken it, sharpened it into a knife, and stabbed him in the heart. When Breyr handed that fiery brand to Tyria, Rye knew she would find some way out, some bluff, some way for both of them to escape. And then she burned his faith in her to ashes. The worst part wasn’t the physical pain, or the mark, or even Tyria’s betrayal itself. The worst part was that, heartbroken as he might be, he could not hate her. When she had come to him last night, when the pain and the shock were still fresh, his first thought was not why? or how could you? but you came to see me! Hurt, rage, bewilderment, and loneliness all warred in his head. He’d sent her away, to buy some time to think. You sure know how to pick ’em, Rye. He pressed his head against the side of the cage, wishing his back would stop hurting. You’ve been on your own your whole life. You may as well accept it’s going to stay that way. Not always... I had Cranberry, once. And Inger. They hurt you, too. Don’t pretend they didn’t. Rye had never admitted that old jealousy to himself before. He'd thought he had buried it long ago. “Stop talking to yourself,” he muttered. * * * That night, as he lay in the corner of his cage with his back pressed up against the bars, he heard a whisper. “Rye!” He kept his eyes closed. Even if he wanted to talk to her, he wasn’t sure what there was to say. “Rye, are you awake?” He heard the lock jingle as she rattled the cage door. “I can’t stay long, but I need to talk to you.” If he ignored her, maybe she would go away. Did he want her to leave? He didn’t think he could bear to look at her, but he was starving for contact with another pony, someone familiar in this land of strangers. “Please, Rye.” Her voice was edged with something he couldn’t quite place; a quiet note of regret or pain. Rye pulled his robes tighter around himself. He opened his eyes to see Tyria’s silhouette at his cage’s door. She sighed softly. “Okay, Rye. I… I understand, if you don’t… Just, before I go, please, listen to me. I have a plan to get us out of here, but you have to be ready to go tomorrow night, okay? We’re only going to get one shot.” She waited for a response. “Rye?” Her voice cracked. “Please, Rye, say something.” “And what should I say?” The sound of his own voice surprised him. He could barely recognize it, raw and hoarse, raspy from the lack of water. Tyria’s face was barely visible in the darkness. She lowered her head. “Rye, I… I never wanted to hurt you.” “No?” Rye wobbled to his feet. “Then why’d you press a flaming iron into my shoulder?” She bit her lip. “I had to convince them I was serious.” “You convinced me, too.” “Rye, you said—you said take the opportunity, remember? I—” “Sold me out to Breyr to save yourself.” Rye rasped. His eyes burned. “When you and he were alone in that office, I thought he was… I was actually worried about you! But you were just looking for a new job.” “I was looking for a way to get us out of here! I don’t want to be a pirate, Rye, I was trying to make sure we leave this island alive. Both of us.” Something old and bitter inside him was bursting to the surface. “Oh, of course. We wouldn’t want you to get back to the embassy without me in tow. Heavens forbid the son of somepony important gets hurt, it might cost you your job. And then daddy wouldn’t be very happy, would he?” Tyria’s mouth hung open, aghast. He knew he should stop now, wanted to stop, but the anger just kept pouring out. “Oh, but that’s right, you hate your job. Maybe you should stay here. You can be an artist like you wanted, paint beautiful bones and snakes on Breyr’s flags. You’ve already started, right?” He yanked down his robes to reveal the grinning skull on his shoulder. She had tears on her cheeks. “Rye.” Shame washed over him. He slumped back to his haunches against the bars, resting his head in his hooves. “Goddess, Tyria, I’m sorry.” Her eyes looked down at the ground. “I deserve it.” Part of him still seethed with fury at the sight of her. But most of him just wanted her to be happy again. “No. No, not like that. Using your art like that was… cruel. I don’t want you to think I’m like that. I don’t want to be like that.” His shoulders shook. No. Don’t cry. Hold on to that last scrap of dignity, at least. “I don’t think you are, Rye.” She gave him a brave smile. “And I don’t think you’re just the son of somepony important.” He sighed. “I wanted to be like her. A hero the people would look up to. Or down to, as some nameless wit once told me.” He snorted, then shook his head. “I moved heaven and earth to save my country from monsters like Breyr, and all the thanks I got were these stupid things.” He tugged his robes. “I’m Celestia’s pet pegacorn, brought out to dance for the pretty foreigners whenever she needs something from them.” He had never felt this low before, not even when the Canterlot Academy had rejected him all those years ago. “Is that really what you think of yourself?” asked Tyria quietly. “Hell,” he laughed weakly, “at least Breyr hates me for something I did, and not something I am, or who I’m related to.” She touched his shoulder through the bars. “Rye…” Rye laid against her supporting hoof. He felt unutterably weary. “You said you have a plan?” “Tomorrow night. Be ready.” Tyria patted his shoulder. “And Rye… I’m sorry.” He pulled her closer to the cage. His voice tight and edged with desperation, he whispered, “Then get us out of here.” * * * Breyr’s melodious voice woke him. “Good morning, Rye.” It was a humid day, even by the island’s standards. Rye’s mane was stuck to his face. Grimacing, he pulled it away from his eyes. Through the bars of his cage, Breyr gave a joyless smile. “Did you enjoy your day off?” Without waiting for a response, he motioned to the group of five zebras accompanying him. They opened the cage. Rye stood, letting his robes fall to the ground. He left them behind every day. They were the only clothes he had; he would rather they not get more bloodied than they already were. Breyr led him through the camp. They passed hovels and sturdier buildings, moving under the trees. They eventually made their way onto the beach, passing the usual crowd of busy pirates. Rye cast surreptitious glances around, looking for Tyria. He couldn’t bring himself to trust her completely, but a tiny candle of hope had kindled in his breast. They walked further out along the beach than they ever had before. The cove disappeared behind them. Rye’s heart began beating faster. Were they taking him to be executed? Breyr, walking close beside him, leaned to the side and whispered into his ear. “Did you sleep well?” Rye declined to give him the reaction he was fishing for. Undeterred, the exile smiled. “I heard you, you know. Last night. I think the whole island did.” Breyr’s lips stretched thin. “Not getting along with our bodyguard, are we?” That bastard was spying on us. Rye felt a chill. Did Tyria know? “I especially liked the part about being Celestia’s pet pegacorn. Because you’re my pet now, you see?” Breyr gave one of his disturbing giggles. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll give you a bone. Maybe one of your bones.” At last, Breyr called a halt. He motioned to his thugs, and they spun Rye around to fall flat on his back. Four of them pinned him down. The fifth zebra, holding what looked like a water pitcher in his mouth, walked off the beach and into the water, out of Rye’s view. A sense of dread was starting to creep up his spine. Breyr sat beside him in the sand, giving him an amiable look. In his hoof, he held a plain, dirty rag. He idly passed it between his hooves, glancing down at Rye. “So, my friend, have you been enjoying our reunion?” Rye didn’t trust himself to speak without his voice trembling, so he laid his head back and stared at the blue sky. He tried not to cringe as the sand rubbed against the wounds on his back. Breyr seemed unconcerned by his silence. “I’m afraid Miss Metrel won’t be joining us, today. She’s being entertained by her new friends down on the beach. She’s been very helpful unloading our winnings.” He winked. “Just between you and me, I think she’s taken a fancy to one of the boys.” He’s baiting you. Rye stared up. Breyr waved a hoof over his eyes. “Hello, Rye. Are you still in there?” He shrugged. “Ah, well, we’ll find out soon enough.” The fifth zebra had returned with a full pitcher. Breyr’s calm demeanor broke into a sadistic delight. “I must say, I’ve been looking forward to this.” He set the rag over Rye’s snout, blocking his eyes, mouth, and nose. It tasted like brine. Rye’s heart thundered in his ears. He wasn’t sure what they were doing, but he had a feeling it was going to be worse than anything that had come before. Breyr spoke to him under his breath. “I’ll tell you a little secret. This isn’t a very reliable interrogation technique. Everyone talks, in the end, but whether they tell the truth… See, they’ll say anything to stop the pain. Lies and truths can be hard to separate.” Rye heard Breyr heft the pitcher. “But fortunately, this isn’t an interrogation.” He felt a few droplets of water on the rag, and blinked. Without further warning, Breyr began pouring the pitcher out onto his face. Instantly, his mouth and nose filled with salt water. Rye gagged, twisting involuntarily against his captors. Water flooded into his throat, stifling his breath. His eyes bulged as he struggled to move away from the water, but the fifth zebra held his head upright. He was drowning, drowning on dry land. His secret nightmare had come to life. Canterlot, without any lakes or ponds, provided few opportunities for a pony to learn to swim. Deep water was an unknown to Rye, a terrifying enigma. He had always kept his embarrassing little phobia hidden from his friends. It seemed such a silly thing to fear the water, after all he’d seen and done, but the fear of that suffocating pressure in his lungs had haunted his dreams often enough. It wasn’t simply seasickness that made him loathe sea travel. Now he was drowning, for real, and all thoughts vanished as he struggled for air. After an eternity, the flood of water stopped, and the rag was pulled away. Breyr pounded a hoof on Rye’s stomach, and he coughed up water. Rye flopped his head down to the sand, gasping. “This is a little trick I picked up in Dromedaria,” said Breyr idly. “I’m sure you’re curious how I ended up there.” Rye was seized by a hacking cough, as more water came up. Breyr continued, as if unaware. “Well, it’s a lengthy story.” He handed the pitcher back to the zebra, who strode off toward the surf. Rye trembled when he realized that Breyr wouldn’t stop until they ran out of sea, or he was dead. “Did you never wonder what happened to me after you threw me out into the wasteland? No, of course not. The victors never pay the losers much thought.” Breyr’s eyes were distant with memories. “Stranded, alone in the snow, with a scant three days of food. Most exiles don’t even make it that long; the snow kills swifter than the hunger. But I set out west, hoping to reach the coast and take passage south on a ship still loyal to me. I wandered for days, starving and lost. I stretched my rations to last six days, but when they were gone the coast was still far beyond my reach.” Rye remembered the wastes. Being lost in that white nothingness was another form of drowning, in a way. Facing it alone for days, weeks, months… he could understand why Breyr’s sanity seemed to hang by a thread. “I feared I was doomed to die in that desolation, when the gods delivered my salvation. A herd of Aurelisks was migrating, far past their normal season. One among their number was weak, wounded by some hunting party or a conflict in its own group. Even from a distance I could see the beast limping. “I followed them from a distance, waiting for the creature to collapse. I spent another day and a half like that, wondering every moment when I myself would succumb to the cold or the hunger. At last, however, my patience was rewarded. The beast took a fall from a snowbank, and broke several of its legs. Its fellows abandoned it, as mine had abandoned me. I waited until the beast had grown still, then approached it. “I ripped some of the larger scales from the beast’s back, and sharpened them with a rock until they were crudely bladed. It protested. Though the beast was dying, its claws were still sharp…” Breyr brushed a hoof across the ugly, knotted scar on his side. “I slit the creature’s throat and used the carcass as a warm place to spend the night.” Breyr looked back down at Rye, who was listening with revulsion. “And then… well, I hadn’t eaten in days, and I needed more supplies if I was to make it to the port…” Rye tilted his head away, trying not to vomit. Griffons and other carnivores often feasted on fish and smaller animals, but such a thing was taboo for any civilized herbivore society. Their stomachs handled meat poorly, and eating something that had once been able to feel and think was abhorrent to most Equestrians. For Breyr to stoop so low, he must have been utterly desperate. “It was then that I realized a fundamental truth. Love, faith, trust; all of them are meaningless in life's trials of fire. It is hatred that strengthens us, that gives us a lifeline to hold on to while we crawl away from death's door. For teaching me this, I thank you.” Breyr frowned. “As for the Aurelisk... the taste was not so bad. At any rate, my tongue was so numb I couldn’t have told the difference between an Aurelisk and a loaf of bread. But I was violently ill, day after day, forcing myself to eat so that I could live. Live, and pay my betrayers back in kind.” Rye spat. “You’re the only one who betrayed anypony, Breyr.” The Nordpony scowled, and threw the rag back over Rye’s face. Rye cursed his sharp tongue. He could have kept Breyr talking for another few minutes, at least. Now, he’d be too busy choking to say anything else. The second time was worse than the first. At least twenty seconds of suffocating panic passed before the rag was lifted, and his stomach pounded to bring the water back up. Rye lay limp and shivering in the sand. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die here, alone with him. More than anything, he wanted to see his family again. His shoulders shook. “In the end, it was worth it. I reached the coast weak, ill, and nearly dead, but I retained enough of my wits to not announce my identity. I had become lost in the wilderness, and word of my exile had reached the port before me. No ship would bear me anywhere as the Thane of Hoofnjord, so I hired myself out to a merchant vessel as a simple sailor. They were hauling lumber—my lumber—down the coast to Equestria, for the reconstruction. “I stayed on with the merchant for months. I learned my way around a ship, studied how to command a crew at sea. I found myself suited to the work. Eventually, we encountered a pirate captain named Miraballa.” He chuckled softly. “She took our cargo, and many of our crew as captives for ransom, or to row belowdecks. It was… fortuitous, in the end. I rose in power, as I always do. Three years after you and that glorified butler stole my throne, I was captain of a warship, with a crew of dangerous zebras and ponies at my command. I traveled the Ceracen Ocean, from Zebrica to Elefala, Grypha to Dromedaria, gathering more to my banner, and finally I brought them here, to Zyran waters. Now, the plunder is plenty and life is good.” Rye’s eyes swiveled up from the sand. “And how many bodies have you left behind you?” “No more than necessary. Miraballa is one of my captains now, in fact. She surrendered quite peacefully when I led the mutiny. Her experience has been invaluable. Not to mention enjoyable.” Breyr smiled. “I abhor waste. Efficiency is always to be prized. Take this little exercise, for instance. All we need is a rag, some water, and a few volunteers, yet the effect is simply extraordinary.” The cloth came down again, and Rye moaned. Hours and minutes became indistinguishable as the rag came down over and over. He couldn’t tell how long it lasted, but by the time Breyr called a final halt, Rye felt like he’d had half the sea poured down his throat and retched back up. He was crying like a foal, all traces of dignity stripped away by the repeated torture. Breyr clapped him on the shoulder, sending a pang of pain from the serpent-and-skull mark. “Don’t weep, my friend! We’re just getting you acclimated. I must say, I didn’t realize this would work quite so well on you. Don’t worry, though, we’ll be doing this for a long time to come. I don’t want you to expire, after all.” Rye’s face twisted in confusion, as he tried to suck air back into his lungs. Breyr nodded sagely. “Oh, it’s true. I’d be very disappointed if you died on me.” Suddenly he seemed as lucid as he had in Sleipnord, half a decade ago. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment there was no one in the world but the two of them. “I don’t want you dead, Rye. I don’t even want you in pain. I want you to see the world the way I see it, to realize the same truth you taught me through exile. I want to own you, body and soul.” Rye stared at him, terrified. Breyr’s eyes narrowed. “The girl cannot help you, Rye. She is my creature, now, whether she knows it or not. And you… you are all alone.” He leaned down to Rye’s ear and breathed softly. “Remember, Rye. Hatred keeps us alive.” As they dragged him away, Rye could not tear his eyes from Breyr’s face. Will that be me, someday? Rye staggered between the zebra thugs as they led him back to the cells. They flung open the door and hurled him inside. He fell beside his robes, heaving up more water. He curled up on the wet ground, holding his stomach, and wished he were dead. They left a veritable feast for his dinner, fresh bread and vegetable dumplings. It was another of Breyr’s sick jokes; even the thought of eating anything made him feel ill. He pulled his robes around him, shivering despite the humid heat. At last, still haunted by the memory of that dark water, he drifted off to sleep with the hope that his dreams would be of home, friends, and family, not darkness and terror. He was woken by a rattling sound. It was pitch black out. He looked up to the door of the cage, and saw a familiar silhouette. “Tyr… Tyria?” “It’s me.” The sound of her voice was like water in the desert. “You… you came back.” Rye’s shoulders shook. “Tyria…” Rage was frozen on her face. “What did he do to you?” “Water.” Rye could barely speak. His throat was sore and his stomach was throbbing with pain. “Poured it in my mouth. Again and again and…” He began shaking. The lock rattled. There was a click and a thud as it came loose and hit the ground. Tyria, furious and horrified all at once, ran in and hugged him. “I’ll kill him, Rye. I’ll smash his face in with my own hoof, I swear.” Her voice cracked. “No,” he rasped, “we have to get out of here. Warn Zyre. The pirates plan to attack. We have to tell the Marquis.” Tyria snarled. “Damn it, Rye, after what he did to you—to us—” “It isn’t worth dying for. Let’s go, while we can.” Nodding grimly, she pulled him up to his hooves. He could barely stand, but the thought of escape held him upright. Tyria looked around. “Is there any food in here?” “In the corner,” he answered. While she wrapped up the bread and dumplings with a cloth, Rye slipped on his robes and tried not to throw up again. “Okay. We don’t have a very large window, but the guards on the ship aren’t very alert while they’re here on the island, and they’re changing shifts in twenty minutes. We can make it down to the beach before then.” Tyria swung the food over her shoulder. “You ready?” Gratitude threatened to overwhelm him. “Thank you, Tyria.” He felt tears run down his face. “Thank you for coming back.” She nodded firmly. “I promise you, Rye. I’m not going to let that monster hurt you ever again.” Rye shivered. “It’s not pain that scares me.” He looked into the darkness. Body and soul. Tyria pushed open the door. “All right, we’ve got to go now.” The two of them set off into the night, away from the cage and into the unknown.