Chapter Forty
The bucket I use to relieve myself in is probably only a few feet away, but it seems the length of the entire Kingdom. I crawl to it, and Kent, bless his soul, places a booted foot on the stack of papers, then turns his head. Finally, a decent human being in this place.
I’m barely finished when my daily plate of brown slop is shoved under the door. A cup of water usually follows. The brown slop rests on the plate, unadorned with the usual slice of bread. Why aren’t they giving me bread? Sweet bread with its spots of greenish black. I miss the bread.
Fine. Brown slop is all I get. Brown slop is all I want anyway.
The food is like sludge in my stomach, and I lay down until the uneasy feeling passes. Exhaustion spreads through me, and thoughts hang heavy in my head.
Round and round I’ve tried to think of words to write that would appease the King but still ensure safety. But I don’t know what the King wants with Faraday’s prince. What could the King offer him? It must be something big, because the King is going to the extreme to get me to write. The King wants Faraday. He can’t conquer it. He knows Faraday won’t agree to an alliance. He wants the prince here.
And the prince isn’t even heir to Faraday! So how is it
helpful to involve him in anything?
Ugly words spring to mind. Anger. Death. Desperation - now
there’s a powerful word.
I squeeze my eyes tight and think of words I love.
Family.
Grass.
Sunshine.
I think of my own name and I wonder where it came from. If I ever have a daughter I’d want to name her a good word. Hope. Or Summer.
If Ward and I were to have a daughter, I wonder if she’d have green eyes like mine or brown ones like Ward. A flutter rises up inside my chest. The same flutter that shows up whenever I hold Ward and my future in the same thought.
The heavy thud of boots pounding the cobblestone floor sends a wave of panic shooting through my limbs.
Black strides to my door and lets himself in. He pulls a key from his pocket and releases me from my shackles. His hand comes under my armpit, and he digs his fingers into my skin as he hoists me up. The colored dots explode in my field of vision and my stomach bottoms out.
He pulls me from the cell, and I stumble after him. I hate him. Oh, I hate him, but my body leans into his out of its own will. My muscles won’t work on their own. Up, up, up the stairs we go. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.
My legs give out completely and Black doesn’t even flinch, just heaves my full weight onto his arm and drags me into the same room.
With people in it.
He drops me to the ground on top of a pile of papers.
Four Blackfeet are in the room. Two on one side of me, with a man between them. On the other side, the same thing - a man on his knees between two Blackfeet. My heart hammers inside me, its rhythm clashing in my ears. The King stands in front of me, arms crossed over his rotten chest. He tosses a pen at my feet, then turns to the Blackfeet.
The horror is unleashed so fast my brain can’t register it at first. Two men beaten in front of me. I look from one to the other.
“Stop!” I glare at the King. “Why are you doing this?”
“Write for me, Gretta.”
I shake my head. “No.”
The men’s muffled groans and cries of pain echo in my ears. The King holds up a hand and the Blackfeet stop. The Blackfeet watch their King, who glances to Black - a triangle of evil, and I’m in the blasted middle.
The King nods to the Blackfeet. One of each pair grabs
their prisoner with one hand and while the other pulls his blade from his side.
A knife at each man’s neck. I hold my breath, but the knives don’t move. They
hover over the flesh of their would-be victim.
“Gretta.”
I look to the King. He kneels in front of me and tosses me a pen. “Pick one.”
Oh please, no.
The pen lies inches from my knees. I look from it to the King.
The King nods to one man. “That’s Ben.” He nods to the other. “That’s Landon.” His dark eyes stare at me. “I’m going to kill these men. You can write one of them alive.”
I blink.
The King lifts a finger - one finger that rises from its
resting place on his other arm - and the two Blackfeet draw daggers and stab
their prisoners in the arm.
The prisoner on my right sags, the Blackfeet’s knife now pressed to his throat. Blood pools on his shirt sleeve, turning the faded blue a dark, dark red. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down over the stubble on his chin. Ben. He’s a father. A husband. He’s someone’s Nolan.
On the left, the prisoner yells through clenched teeth. Landon. He’s young, and his muscles tighten as he strains against the man who has him. His eyes lock onto mine. He is strong and brave, holding his courage in an impossible situation and even more impossible king. A brave, strong man. Someone’s Ward.
“I’ll kill them both, Gretta.” The King’s words are like a blade across my heart. He sinks down into a crouch, his body mere inches from mine. “Save one if you want. It’s up to you.”
His eyes are blank. Empty of any decent emotion. “Just know, Gretta, I’ll keep torturing both of them until you pick.”
The King stands and once more, all it takes is a tiny movement from him, and there’s the quick flash of metal, followed by more screams.
Moments pass, the men gasping, the King staring at me. A pit opens up inside me. My power’s not mine. My words aren’t mine. It’s only in this terrible silence that I wish I’d never been given the gift of words at all.
Tears spring to my eyes, and my body sags. I can’t do this. I can’t.
I watch the King’s finger start to rise again. I sob and pick up the pen.
How do I pick who gets to live?
My hands shake violently and I grip the pen tighter. Tears run down my nose and slip onto the paper, smearing my words.
Please forgive me. My heart squeezes so tight inside me I can’t breathe. I sign my name with shaking hands, then rise on my knees and throw the pen at the King’s face. “I hate you!”
Black grabs me under my arm again. The Blackfeet leave, dragging one prisoner and one dead body out of the room. A trail of blood is left on the carpet, a bright red that will darken to almost black over time.
Enough.
That’s the word that grows in my mind, beating against the brain and shattering any fear left. I’ve had enough.
I glare at the King. “You are a horrible man. It’s a good thing your son died and couldn’t grow up with you as a father.”
Black clamps his hand down harder, his fingers practically slicing into my skin, but I feel no pain. Just anger. A lifetime of it.
I lunge at the King but Black jerks me back and throws me to the floor. He walks in front of me and stands beside the King.
Was it a kill or a save? I examine my left arm, where the same three marks I’ve had for what feels like forever stare back from my skin.
On my right, a third black mark surfaces beside the others.
I look at the King, triumph on my face. “I’ll kill you,” I tell him. “I have kills left.” I nod to Black, the King’s mighty Chancellor. “I’ll write that he kills you. That all the horror you have him to do other people, he will do to you.”
The King chuckles. “I know how your powers work, Gretta. And you don’t know his name.”
“True,” I say. “But I know yours. And I could write that you, Jameson, kill your first man.”
His face pales, to such an ashen color his face is more white than pink. His eyes dart to Black and a look passes over his face that is so unexpected my breath catches in my throat. The look is fear. Why would the King fear his own Chancellor?
Black’s face is not one of fear. Rather, his eyes are wide with accusation, as though the King had already reached a blade out to him. His jaw tightens and his eyes shoot daggers across the room.
And that’s when it hits me.
This is how the Lyran prophecy about the King has worked. It’s not that assassination attempts have failed. It’s that they’ve been targeting the wrong person.
The King isn’t the King at all.
The Chancellor is.
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