MARKS - Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty-Six

There’s no light here. No colors. Just grey and more grey. The rough stones are large and cold, their jagged edges pushing into my skin where I lay or sit on them. The smell is overwhelming; dank and damp and dead.

He will try to break me. I cannot lose my mind, or my self-control.

He will do things. And I cannot let him have my words.

I repeat this over to myself in my head. When I realize that repeating the same thing over and over will just drive me to madness quicker, I move my thoughts elsewhere. To stories. Ones I know. Ones I thought I’d forgotten. And ones I make up.

Ward’s in every story I create. He masquerades as a beloved king, or kind baker, or a fisherman surprised when he catches a dragon one day. Sometimes he’s just Ward. Those are my favorites. I put myself in all of those stories. With him on adventures as pirates or where we live as mermaids. Myself as his wife and we have seven children. But that’s too many so in the next story I make up we have two. 

Today he and I both work at Houghman’s. We dye fabric and stretch it out over the lines. I keep glancing at Ward. Ward keeps glancing at me. Finally, we can take it no longer, and he rushes up behind me, his kisses as sweet as the cinnamon buns next door. We are desperate to have each other close, and Ward pulls me down on top of a table of freshly dyed linen. By the time we’re done kissing, we have faces dyed the colors of a rainbow.

Footsteps echo down the hallway and Ward’s face dissolves in my dream. I push until I’m sitting and wrap my arms around my knees. A guard strides down the hall. He’s ten paces away from my cell. I hold my breath. Six paces. Five.

Don’t be scared, Gretta.

Two paces.

The guard keeps going, and my muscles quiver with released fear. I need to tell myself something other than to not be afraid, because that’s just not possible. I rest against the wall, my mind a blur of words. There are so many words I want out but are trapped in my head. For hours my brain reworks sentences of seven, wanting them to happen. Wishing I had paper. Hoping to the Saints they don’t bring me any.

Other guards and Blackfeet go into the other cells, but only the one comes to mine, as though his evil is specially assigned to me. He is something of nightmares, dark and sinister and seeming to soak up the dankness of this dungeon and knit it to his very soul. If indeed he has one. He is the embodiment of the color black, so Black is what I call him.

Days pass. They don’t bring any more food. Only water, and not often enough. There have been days of this when Black walks into my cell. I don’t even stand, only peer at him through a haze.

He kneels down in front of me and pulls a roll of paper and a pen from inside his tunic. He sets them down on the floor in front of me.

“One sentence,” he says. “And I’ll let you go.”

Through the fog in my brain, I pull out seven words. Faraday’s prince will not be welcome home.

Why doesn’t the King want the prince to go home? He wants to drive him from Faraday, where his father still reigns. He wants him not at home.

I wish I could go home to the cave. Have Blair feed me dinner and lay down with Ward wrapped around me.

No, Gretta.

You cannot give the King what he wants. It will kill more people.

“One sentence girly, and it’s over.” Black taps the paper. “You could go home.”

But there is no home now. The King keeps ruining that. I turn my left arm over and stare at the marks there. Then I look up at Black. “No.”

One word. A small one, but with so much power.

Black clenches his jaw and blinks twice. Then he stands, and rolls up his sleeves. One hit later and I see Black all over.

####

Water on my face shocks me from dreams of Ward. Black kneels in front of me. The King stands over me, his arms crossed over his chest. “I need you to write for me Gretta.”

No way in hell. I shake my head. “No.”

The King stares at me. He’s not what I imagined our rough and tough King would look like. His skin is unmarred, as though he does nothing all day. But you can’t destroy a Kingdom by doing nothing.

He walks out of my cell. I turn eyes to Black then he walks out as well. I should try and sit up. To think. But I’m so tired. So hungry.

I sleep and wake again. A cup of water sits under the door. I grab the metal cup and drink, drink, drink. Oh water. What a precious thing.

Heavy footsteps thud down the hallway. Black eases into view, contempt on his face and a turkey leg in his hand. He bites into it, tearing off a piece of meat the size of half my hand. The smell reaches me, at once wonderful and revolting to my empty stomach. It’s been ages since I’ve had meat. Saliva floods my mouth, and I lick my lips. He sinks to the ground, leaning against the door of my cell and flooding it with the scent of his food.

Saints damn him.

Words. I need words. Sentences of seven.

I hope you choke on a bone.

There. Seven words. If only I had paper.

And knew his blasted name.

Who is this man? Keeper of the prisoners? He wears no tunic, just his leather vest and black pants. And a perpetual look of hatred.

I scoot closer to the door. “Are you a Blackfeet?”

He pays me no mind, just keeps tearing bits of meat with his teeth, sending speckles of juice and flavor flying into my cell.

“What do they call you?”

He takes another bite, intent on not telling me anything. Well, fine. “I could guess what your name is,” I tell him. “Is it Francis?”

No response.

“You have a fabulous complexion,” I tell him, gazing at the scars on his face. “So Alabaster, maybe?”

Nothing.

“Is your name Sunshine? Or Lily?”

Why in the name of the Saints I’m antagonizing the man who likes to hit me, I have no idea. It must be the hunger. I want his turkey. I want to take it and eat it and cram the bone up one of his nostrils.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he asks me.

Saints in heaven, no. I could think of a million more names for him. Scarface. Antagonizer. Ass.

Black looks at me and blows a breath of hot, turkey flavored air my direction. I wrinkle my nose.

“You seem important,” I tell him. “What does the King call you? Or do you have no name, and only a title?”

Black stands. “He calls me Chancellor.”

Chancellor. Black is the Chancellor? Well if that doesn’t make as much sense as wet on a rainy day. Of course. The Chancellor has been in charge of the Blackfeet. He’s the King’s first man.

Black strides away. Here I thought the Chancellor would be dressed in robes, being fed by servants and writing edicts. But he’s in the dungeon, beating up prisoners and doing the King’s grunt work.

And blast it to hell, I don’t know his name either. The King and his stupid titles. Hiding his name from his own people and the Lyrans among them who would use it against him.

Does Ward know?

I’ve yet to see Ward in the dungeon. Not that I have a great view. Just the swath of hallway in front of my cell.

A plate of slop is delivered a short time later. I’ve never tasted anything so good in my life. Brown slob is fantastic. Banquets should be held where this is the only thing served. This, and moldy bread, because together they are divine. God himself may eat this on a regular basis.

I make myself stand and walk in place. I need to stay strong. Have a clear mind. I remind myself of what is true.

I’m a Lyran. Ward is here somewhere, closer than I think he is. The King is evil. He wants only to destroy. I cannot give him what he wants.

I’ve grown tired of standing and am sitting on the floor, which is cold as ice, when a guard comes down the hall. He puts a key to my door and the King walks behind him.

“I need you to write, Gretta.”

“Why? Why can’t the prince go home?”

The King squats down in front of me. “Because it’s best for him not be there.”

Oh, how sweet, he’s trying to get me to think he actually cares about the prince. Is Dracon about to attack Faraday? But no, wars don’t start overnight, and Ward would’ve heard something. The King can’t conquer Faraday, and he knows it. 

The whole point isn’t Faraday not having its prince. The whole point is the prince being somewhere else.

Ward said the prince has visited several times already.

The King wants him to stay here.

Why?

“Write him safety, Gretta. That’s all I need.”

“And if I don’t? What happens then?”

The King exhales sharply. “You can’t let all those people die because of you, Gretta.”

Damn right I won’t. Which is why I won’t write a single thing.

I stare at the King; my King who killed my parents and Ward’s. Who destroys lives every day with a wave of his hand, and probably has the gall to call it mercy. He stares at me, his eyes not calm and collected but wild and perturbed.

With me.

He stands and walks out of my cell, slamming the door behind him. The clanging metal echoes down the hallway.

The King’s silence is telling. Black - the Chancellor - has eaten in front of me, and I’ve been dealt offers of a hot bath and a warm bed, both of which I turned down. Nothing else. No mention of saving my family, which means they don’t know I have any.

They don’t have anything to use against me.

They don’t know about Ashtin. Or Ward.

They have no leverage.

Hours later Black pushes open the door again. He unshackles me and forces me to my feet. I stumble behind him to the same room as before. The same room. Same chairs, the same windows. The same colors of misused power and abandoned people. But this time a contraption fills up a large portion of the room, an odd smattering of wood and coils and metal.

My stomach clenches and stars dance in my vision. Black pushes me down into a chair in front of the device and stretches a leather strap across my forehead. I jerk, but he pushes me in place and fastens it.

Fear takes over, and I tremble so badly my teeth are shaking. More straps. More fastens and my right hand is in a glove while my left is strapped down to the chair. A table is before me, covered with paper. An ink pen hangs from the contraption. They’re going to try and make me write. Saints help me.

But they can’t. They can force the words but not the magic.

That’s when I realize what the real question is. What are they going to do to make me want to do this?