The heat from the smithy dries my throat. Am I marching to my death? With that much evidence, they’ll surely hang me. My feet move like they’re shod in iron boots.
The archway door groans open into the heart of the keep. I search around in confusion, taking in the crowd of high nobility gathered in the courtyard. There are so many people. Lords and ladies in striking furs and silks, pointed-toe shoes, mushroom hats for men, lace-trimmed veils for women. So unlike my filthy raggedness. Why would the captain bring me here? The guards shove me along the back of the open area, to a passage tucked under carved stone arcading. I still have a view of the gathering as we march under the shadowed arches.
Though Papa was considered nobility, he didn’t hold a fief, wherein he could profit from commoners living on his land. He could never afford the finery these lords flaunt. And yet the nobles’ attire is nothing compared to the jewels and gold-rimmed crown worn by the young man elevated on the stone steps at the far end of the courtyard. It’s a shock to realize that the glittering beacon is Malam’s ruler, King Aodren. I’ve never laid eyes on him, as he does not often leave the castle. Gossip of his youth and golden-haired handsomeness is a market favorite. I see now, not all the chatty crows’ rumors are false.
As the guards lead the way through another corridor, I sneak one last curious glance at King Aodren. He is nothing like the man beside him. Lord Jamis, the high lord, who was the king regent before Aodren turned eighteen and took over as crown ruler, addresses the crowd, dropping words like gathering army, border, Shaerdan. He has severe features, silver-flecked midnight hair, sharp coal eyes. While the king is thin and reedy, with pale skin, a shadowed gaze that watches with disinterest.
Seeds, a fine ruler he is. Anger and frustration beat through me. Only a few years my senior, he’s never wanted for anything in his life. Never been ostracized. Never alone. Never hungry. And apparently he never needs to address his people. Why was Papa so loyal to this spoiled man?
The question slips from my mind seconds later when my escorts stop outside a guarded and locked solid wood door. I realize with a start that this entrance leads to the Dungeon Under the Keep, the kingdom’s most secure jail. The captain yanks me forward, despite how stiff my legs have become, as another person unlocks and opens the door. A burly bear of a man, round as he is tall, steps into view, keys jangling against the leather belt supporting his gut.
“Brought me fresh meat, did ya?” The mix of humorless chuckle and chaff cuts the remains of my nerves. I don’t even realize I’ve stepped back until the captain’s hand is bruising my arm.
He shoves me through the entry. “She’s yours till sentencing.”
The door closes, the lock clicks, trapping me in the dim with the dungeon master.
A day, maybe two have passed. The odor in the Dungeon Under the Keep could knock a grown man out. Years of prisoners have used the back of the cell as an outhouse. Too deep a lungful and I’m fighting the urge to gag in this cell that’s no bigger than a horse’s stall.
I press my eyes shut, struggling with the moans from the other prisoners. It’s too dark to see, which forces me to listen to their shuffling and whimpering. A woman nearby mutters something about fire, about her touch being useless, until she starts hacking. Eventually her cough stops, replaced with choppy breathing.
She won’t last the week. I wish I didn’t know this, but I’ve known death my whole life, so I know she’s slipping away. I rub my raw wrists.
A lantern flickers to life like a cat’s eye blinking against the blanketing pitch-dark, illuminating the arm span of the man holding it as he approaches.
“He’s ready to see ya.” The dungeon master’s voice is scratchy, like he hasn’t had a glass of water or seen daylight in months—?a good match to the unkempt beard that grows like wild wood from his chin.
I stand tall, trying to look formidable despite my tattered appearance. Weaknesses control you, Papa had said. “The king?” I think of the lean young man deciding my fate.
“Bullwart, no! ’Tis the high lord.” His accent is similar to the tradesmen from Fennit, the town closest to the border. In Shaerdan and in the border towns, the townspeople speak mostly the same words as us, but they have a strange twist to their sounds.
The dungeon master unlocks the cell, holding the lantern in one hand and the keys in the other. “I’m told yer a feisty one even if yer not much bigger than the wee folk. Be a good girl and ya won’t rot like the rest of ’em.”
I nod and then glance in the direction of the dying woman. “What’s she in here for?”
He tips his head as though he cannot fathom my motive for asking. “That scrant? Crossed over from Shaerdan. She’s one of their Channelers.”
I think of the woman’s mumblings, more curious now.