Chapter 65 Charlotte
Chapter sixty-five
Charlotte
Numb.That was the only word for it.
She was numb to the bone-deep cold of the stone floor. Numb to the lice she was certain were currently making a home in the matted disaster of her hair. Numb to the hunger that had clawed at her belly until it simply gave up and went to sleep.
The darkness was not so dark anymore, though. Not when one had good company.
“I told you, Gisela,” Charlotte whispered, a giggle escaping from her throat, raw with disuse.
She leaned her head back against the damp stone wall, looking at the woman sitting on the floor across from her.
“The Duchess of Kolar always had ankles like a draft horse. It is a wonder she found a husband at all, let alone one with so much land.”
Gisela, looking pristine in her favorite gown of lavender silk, covered her mouth with a delicate hand. Her eyes crinkled with mirth. “Oh, Your Majesty, you are terrible. But you are right. Do you remember the ensemble she wore to the Midsummer Ball?”
“Dreadful,” Charlotte agreed, waving a filthy hand through the air. “Positively peasant-wear. I would not have used the hem of her gown to buff my own shoes.”
It was so nice to talk to someone sensible—someone who understood the way of things. The dungeon was quiet, save for their hushed laughter. It was almost like being back in her sitting room, sipping tea, plotting the rise and fall of lesser houses.
“Mother?” That question sliced through the air beyond her cell, sharp and intrusive.
Charlotte frowned, irritated at the interruption. “Hush now, someone is coming,” she whispered to Gisela.
“Mother? Who are you talking to?”
The voice came again, closer this time. Charlotte squinted, turning her head toward the bars, but the torchlight swiftly approaching was too bright. It stung her eyes. She looked back to Gisela to warn her to hide lest Igor try to take her away, but her friend was already gone.
Just damp stone. Just shadows.
The lavender silk, the laughter—gone.
Dead.
The memory slammed into her chest with the force of a battering ram. Gisela hung from the wall. The rope. The sway of her body in the wind. They were all dead. Every single one of them.
Charlotte’s breath hitched, turning into a jagged rasp.
She turned her head slowly, her neck protesting the movement, until her eyes locked on the figure standing beyond the iron bars.
The torchlight flickered over his face, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes and highlighting the tension in his jaw.
Edmund.
A snarl ripped itself from her throat. She didn’t think; she simply reacted. Like a feral cat cornered by a hound, she scrambled across the straw-littered floor and flung herself at the bars. Her hands, curled into claws, struck the cold iron, reaching for him.
“You!” she hissed, baring her teeth. Spittle flew from her lips. “You let her kill them! You let that witch slaughter them like pigs! Gisela! My guards! My friends!”
She shook the bars, weak as she was, fueled by a hatred so pure it burned hot enough to melt the iron. Not hatred for him. He was still her son, coward though he was.
A hatred for her. The witch who had ruined everything.
“How dare you show your face here?” Charlotte spat. “You worthless, spineless worm! You let her hang them from the walls!”
Edmund did not flinch. He did not step back. He merely stood there, staring at her with eyes that looked too old, too tired. He said nothing.
Instead, she heard the jingle of metal.
A key slid into the lock. The tumblers groaned—a harsh, grinding sound in the silence—and the heavy door swung outward with a squeal of rusted hinges.
“You had best hurry, Mother,” Edmund said, his voice flat, devoid of the simpering affection he used to shower upon her. “There is not much time.”
Charlotte froze, her hands still gripping the bars of the open door. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She blinked, the red haze of her rage receding just enough to let confusion seep in.
“Time?” she croaked, her voice cracking. “Time for what?”
Edmund hooked the keys back onto his belt and turned, lifting the torch high. “Time for me to get you out of here.”
Her son didn’t wait to see if she was following. He simply turned and strode into the darkness of the dungeon corridor, the pool of light moving with him.
For a heartbeat, Charlotte remained paralyzed. Was this another cruel trick of her mind? Or was Edmund truly keeping his promise to her? But the receding light beckoned her.
With a scramble of limbs, she pushed herself off the floor. Her legs shook, trembling under her own weight as if she were a newborn foal, but she forced them to move.
Stumbling out of the cell, squinting against the gloom, she chased her son.
“And what about your witch of a wife?” Charlotte softly demanded as she caught up to him, her voice echoing off the stone walls. She grabbed his arm to steady herself. “Does she know you are down here? Or is she too busy murdering the rest of our kingdom?”
Edmund didn’t look back. He kept his pace brisk, forcing her to trot to keep up. “I slipped her one of your vials, Mother.”
Charlotte nearly tripped over her own feet. A shock of pure, unadulterated elation shot through her veins, momentarily warming her blood. She stared at the back of his head.
“My vials?” she breathed. “You found my jewelry box? The hidden compartment?”
“It wasn’t that hard to find,” he muttered, turning a sharp corner toward the stairs that led up to the servants’ quarters.
“Clever boy,” she praised, her grip on his arm tightening. “I knew you had it in you. I knew you weren’t completely lost to her spell.”
“Hush,” he commanded, extinguishing the torch as they reached the bottom of the stairwell.
Absolute darkness swallowed all. Charlotte’s heart leaped into her throat, but Edmund’s hand clamped around hers, his grip gentle yet strong.
“Not a sound, Mother,” he whispered. “Do you understand? We only have this one chance.”
She nodded, though he couldn’t see her.
He dragged her up the stairs. Her muscles trembled, protesting even this small effort after so long of disuse. Every step was a battle, but the promise of freedom—and the knowledge that Mariana was writhing on the floor somewhere, foaming at the mouth—gave her strength.
They burst into the ground-level corridor. It was empty. Edmund didn’t hesitate. He pulled her past the kitchens, down a narrow hall used only by scullery maids, and threw open the heavy oak door that led to the rear grounds.
Fresh air washed over her—crisp and clean.
Charlotte inhaled it greedily, her head spinning. She was outside.
And it was cold.
The wind cut through the thin, filthy rags of her gown, sinking its teeth into her skin. She shivered violently, wrapping her arms around her emaciated frame. “You could have brought me a cloak,” she complained, her teeth chattering. “I am freezing, Edmund.”
“There was no time,” he hissed, scanning the darkness of the grounds. “Move.” He punctuated the word by tugging on her hand, dragging her onward.
He didn’t lead her toward the stables. He didn’t lead her toward the main gates. Instead, he pulled her to the left, hugging the shadows of the palace wall, moving toward the old fortifications.
“Where are we going?” she demanded, stumbling over a tree root. “The stables are that way! We need horses if we are to reach the coast.”
“We can’t use the gates,” Edmund whispered furiously, hauling her along. “We would be spotted before we made it ten yards. We have to go out the back.”
“Out the back where?” Charlotte asked, unable to keep a wild laugh from her words. Her son did not even know the layout of their own palace. There was no back gate.
Only a wall.
He did not answer. He merely shouldered open the door of the old guard tower and led her up the spiraling stone steps. The stone was slick with moss, the air smelling of rot and river water. They emerged at the top, onto the walkway of the outer wall.
The sound of rushing water roared in her ears.
Below them, black and churning, lay the River Ashwater. Swollen with autumn rains, it rushed past—a deadly, freezing torrent that separated the palace grounds from the wild forests beyond.
Charlotte wrenched her hand out of Edmund’s grasp and scrambled backward from him as she finally realized what he meant by out the back. “You cannot be serious.”
“It is the only way,” her son claimed, his voice hard. He gestured to the dark water. “We jump together. We swim to the other side. We make for Lord Jesmaine’s manor on foot. It is less than five miles.”
“Swim?” she echoed, her heart lurching weakly. Fear pulsed through her veins. They would freeze. They would drown.
In her silence, Edmund gripped her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. His eyes shone in the darkness—desperate, wild. “We will rally the great lords, Mother. We will raise an army. We will retake the palace. But we have to live through tonight first.”
He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, his expression softening. “Please. Come with me. I will get you to the other side.”
Charlotte’s throat tightened as she looked up into her son’s face. Her darling son. Her precious son. The man risking his life to save hers. “All right,” she whispered, steeling herself. “Let us go.”
Edmund’s throat bobbed. “Here we go, then.” He said it so calmly, so casually, as if he were suggesting they take a jaunt through the forest. But she could feel the way his fingers trembled as he took a step closer to the crumbling parapets and glanced over the side of the wall, staring down at the plunge far below.
Straight into the Ashwater.
Below, the river roared past, churning, frothing—like a beast waiting to swallow them within its jaws.
“Leaving so soon?” someone asked just behind them. The voice was slurred and thick, as if the speaker’s tongue were too large for their mouth. But it was unmistakable all the same.
Charlotte whirled around to face Mariana, shock coursing through her. Edmund had said he gave his witch of a wife a vial.
But there she was, leaning heavily against the stone archway, her golden eyes glassy and unfocused. Beside her stood the towering bulk of Igor, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed into slits. She looked at the witch, then at her son.
“You gave her a brown vial?” she hissed, the betrayal slicing through her deeper than the cold. “Not a green?”
The brown vial was a mere sedative. A strong one, yes, but not fatal. He should have given her a green. He should have killed her.
“She is pregnant, Mother,” Edmund sighed, stepping between her and his wife.
The world seemed to tilt. Her knees threatened to buckle. Pregnant? That creature? Carrying her grandchild?
Mariana stumbled forward, pushing herself off the wall. She swayed, her hand fumbling at her belt. “I tried…” she mumbled, her words running together like melted wax. “Tried to be…understanding…to show mercy. For Edmund’s sake…”
She drew forth her witchblade, the prismatic jewel in its pommel pulsing.
Charlotte recoiled, her stomach twisting.
Mariana raised the blade, the tip wavering in the air as a strange laugh lilted from her throat. “None of us know what happens…when a soulblade strikes a woman. But I suppose…we shall find out.”
With a scream of rage that defied her drugged state, Mariana lunged. She moved faster than she should have been able to, a blur of silk and steel aiming straight for Charlotte’s heart.
Charlotte froze. She couldn’t move. She could only watch the black metal coming for her.
“No!” Edmund shouted.
A body slammed into her. Hard hands shoved her sideways. She hit the cold stone of the walkway with a bone-jarring thud, scraping her palms.
A wet, sickening sound tore through the roar of the river.
Charlotte pushed herself up on her elbows, her hair whipping across her face as she turned to see what had happened.
Her eyes fixed on Edmund. He now stood where she had a second ago, Mariana pressed against him, her hand gripping the hilt of the black dagger.
The dagger now buried in Edmund’s stomach.
Time stopped. The rushing of the river faded. The wind died.
Charlotte stared. She blinked, waiting for the image to make sense. This was not right. This was not the plan. Edmund was—was king. He was her son. He could not be stabbed.
He could not be killed.
Mariana slowly released the hilt of her blade and stumbled backward until she bumped into Igor, where he stood in the shadows, silently watching. Lifting her hands to her mouth, the witch covered a sudden scream.
Edmund looked down at the dagger protruding from his gut, his expression one of mild surprise. “Oh…” he exhaled, quiet and calm.
And then he staggered toward her.
“Edmund?” Charlotte whispered. She scrambled to her feet. “Edmund, what are you doing?”
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. This must simply be another trick of her mind. Another dream down in the dungeons. Any moment now, her son was going to pull out the dagger. He was going to laugh. He was going to kill the witch.
Edmund’s face—his beautiful face—blanched in the moonlight. Darkness stained the front of his tunic, spreading with terrifying speed. “I made a promise,” he whispered, his voice cracking over the words. “A promise to myself…to get you out alive…”
The world before her blurred as she reached for him, wanting to pull him into her arms for an embrace. But the dagger. That dreaded dagger.
Edmund’s hands fell to her shoulders. Just past him, she spied Mariana sobbing great, ugly tears, as if she had not been the one to stab him in the first place.
Warm breath ruffled across the top of her head as Edmund whispered into her filthy hair, “I love you, Mother.”
Before she could speak, before she could breathe, before she could understand what was happening, Edmund shoved her backward, toward the crumbling parapets.
And out into open air.
Charlotte’s feet left the stone.
For a second, she hung suspended, her eyes locked on her son’s collapsing form. She saw him fall to his knees. She saw Mariana screaming silently into the night.
And then the air claimed her.
The wind whistled past, tearing a scream from her throat. The darkness swallowed her whole. She fell, tumbling through nothing. Edmund. Not Edmund.
Down she fell, like a stone.
Until the river finally surged up to devour her—waters dark, icy.
Merciless.