15. Katya
15
I don’t know why I expected some dank, dark dungeon. I guess I’ve read too many books. This is a simple room, albeit a tiny one, with no windows and only a simple cot in one corner and a waste bucket in the other. I have to say, you don’t really appreciate modern plumbing until you’re forced to pee in a bucket. It’s fairly obvious this room hasn’t been used in a long time. The air is stale and damp with the cloying scent of mildew. It’s like being smothered with a blanket, breathable but requiring extra effort to draw in air. I keep replaying my dream in my head, trying to figure out whose eyes I was looking through. The problem is, as with any dream, the details are quickly fading.
I thought, at first, it might be Aemon. I wouldn’t doubt for a minute that he’s capable of murder, but he got to my room too quickly. The killer surely would have been covered in blood, which means he’d need to wash and change before going anywhere, so unless Aemon has the ability to teleport, there’s no way he could have done it. No. This was an assassin, a professional, and I’d bet my life they’d been hired by Prince Troi. He’s the one who has the most to gain, after all. He kills his mother and frames Leodin, effectively becoming king and taking down Dom Duje—arguably the most powerful of all the great houses—in one fell swoop. I flop back on the bed, my arms spread like a starfish.
I wonder if Leodin’s already dead. I doubt it. They’re probably going to want to make a spectacle of it when they kill him. I know I should feel sorry for him, and the fact that I don’t is eating me up with guilt. No, he wasn’t the best stepfather, but he certainly didn’t deserve this. I rub the sting from my tired eyes. It must be morning by now. Gods, how long will I be forced to wait here before somebody comes to speak with me? At least, I hope somebody comes to speak with me. I don’t even want to contemplate the idea that they may have just thrown me in here to rot. It wouldn’t take long for someone to lose their mind in a place like this.
As if conjured from my thoughts, the light tapping of footsteps sounds just outside my door. A key slides into the lock, and I sit up, my heart pumping so hard I feel it in my throat.
A soft click and the door swings open. I was expecting Aemon, but these are guards, and standing behind them is a weaselly sort of male, with pinched features and a nose that is entirely too large for his face. He’s thin, almost frail in appearance, but there’s something about his cold-dead stare that chills my bones. The guards step into the room, their big bodies making the already small space even more cramped.
“Stand up and put out your hands,” the mustached guard on my right says .
I slowly rise, my belly churning with nerves. Then I swallow back the acid creeping up my throat, and ask, “Where are you taking me?”
“No talking. Now, put out your hands.”
I do as I’m told, even though every bone in my body is screaming at me to run. The guard grabs my arm and jerks it, causing me to stumble a few steps forward, then he closes the cold metal around my wrists. The click of those shackles locking sends a shiver down my spine. I’m shoved toward the door where the weaselly male is waiting, wearing a smile that is as ill-fitting to his face as a beard is to a duck.
“Hello, Katya,” he says, his voice oily smooth. “I am Fredrick. The king has asked me to speak with you.”
Not Aemon, the king. Something tells me that is not a good sign. “Why can’t we speak in here?” I ask. Not that I really want to stay in this tiny room, but it feels a lot safer than going anywhere with these people.
“Oh, I think you’ll find where I’m taking you to be much more accommodating. Shall we?” He steps away from the door, and the guards shove me out into the hallway.
Casmir, protect me, this is bad. This is so very, very bad.
Fear has me in a stranglehold. My skin is too tight, my head too light, as though it will float free of my neck at any moment. I can’t breathe, and I’m shaking, shaking, shaking so hard my muscles are beginning to ache. With every step, my mind screams a warning for me to run, to fight, to do anything except go where they tell me , yet my legs continue to move of their own accord, as I’m led through another hallway and down a set of stairs. By the time we reach a metal door, I’ve got a working theory on where they’re taking me, and it isn’t anywhere good.
Fredrick fits a key into the heavy bolt, and the door opens with a shrill grind of metal on metal that reverberates in my chest. He holds out an arm. “Ladies first.”
I’m much too frightened to be annoyed. I step over the threshold and am immediately struck by the stench, like a slaughterhouse, the air brimming with death and fear. This is the dungeon of my storybooks. Are they locking me in here now? Why keep me in that private room only to move me here a few hours later?
I’m led down a narrow hallway with barred cells lining both sides. Bodies barely covered with threadbare rags huddle in the corners of their cells, as if trying to blend with the rough stone walls. I look for Leodin as I pass, but if he’s here, I don’t see him. Distracted, I don’t notice the figure in the cell on my right until they crash into the bars beside me, making me jump.
“Little girl, little girl,” says a male of indeterminable age. He reaches one skeletal arm through the bars, his gnarled fingers coming just short of my shoulder. He’s beyond dirty and his brown hair has become one large, painful-looking mat on the back of his head, but it’s the crazed gleam in his eyes that is most terrifying. “You can stay with me, little girl,” he says, grinning.
He’s missing all of his teeth.
My belly rolls and I double over, losing the contents of my stomach all over the dirty stone floor.
“Keep going,” somebody says, and I’m shoved forward again. I catch myself just short of falling into my own vomit. My boots are not so fortunate .
I’m led past more and more cells, finally stopping in front of another metal door at the very end of the hallway. Fredrick opens that door too, and we step inside. It takes me a moment to comprehend what I’m seeing. It’s just a simple wooden chair set in the center of a room until my mind takes note of the straps dangling from the arms and legs and the brownish stains littering its surface. I may have never seen a torture chamber before, but it doesn’t take me long to figure out that’s what I’m looking at.
Something in me snaps.
I whirl around, trying to slip between the two guards, but they easily catch me around the waist and proceed to half carry, half push me toward the chair. Panic claws at my throat, and I let loose a scream that rattles my bones. I put every ounce of my meager strength into the fight, twisting and jerking my body violently, but they’re too strong. They’re too fucking strong, and they’re trying to shove me in that chair. Throwing out a leg, I catch the edge of the seat with my heel and push, my nails tearing against cloth and skin as I practically climb the soldiers.
I only have one more weapon left.
I sink my teeth into the soft flesh of the mustached guard’s neck and bite down with every ounce of my strength. Blood sprays from the wound, coating my face and filling my mouth with the taste of copper. Screaming, the guard fights to pull me off, but I hang on like a baby crocodile, and when they do finally manage to tear me away, I take that chunk of neck with me. The mustached guard crumples to the ground, his body twitching as the blood gushes out of him .
I spit the foul bit of flesh in Fredrick’s face. He goes crimson, and along with the remaining guard, continues to wrestle me into the chair.
“No, no, no, no,” my mind screams. “Stop!” I shout, but the voice coming out of my mouth isn’t entirely my own, but a multitude of voices each at various octaves, all screaming that same word at once.
And they stop. Both the guard and Fredrick freeze in place—like Medusa’s statues, their faces still twisted in fury. I’m not sure if they’re even breathing. I’m frozen too, staring at them in disbelief, waiting for someone to tell me what’s happening. That’s when I notice the buzzing—like a million angry bees moving beneath my skin.
I look at my trembling hands and around the room, as though I’ll find the answers written on the wall somewhere, but it’s only a room. I carefully remove Fredrick’s and the guard’s fingers from where they grip my body and slip out from between them and the chair.
They still haven’t moved or even blinked. I push up onto my tiptoes to get a better view of their faces. Both males’ eyes are glassy and vacant. I give the guard’s cheek a gentle poke—nothing. I hold my hand in front of his mouth, and his hot breath tickles my palm. So, he’s not completely frozen. It’s strange. I can sort of feel him and Fredrick—like a little piece of my mind has jumped into theirs. It’s similar to when I’m dreaming except, in this scenario, I’m not the observer; I’m the one in control. Dropping down, I take a step back and turn to the guard on the floor. One hand still grips his throat where he tried to stem the flow of blood that now pools around his head like a red sun. It’s obvious he’s dead .
I’m a murderer.
Maybe I’m in shock because that thought doesn’t upset me as much as I would have expected.
I crouch down beside him, grab the keys hanging from his belt and quickly unlock my shackles. Now what? If I walk away, will they unfreeze and bring the palace down on me? Gods, this is so messed up. I can’t just leave them here, but I can’t stomach the thought of hurting anyone else either. The bees are still buzzing under my skin, so I take a risk and say, “Fredrick, sit in the chair.” There’s that choral quality to my voice again, and once again, it works. He immediately unfreezes and sits.
“Now, strap yourself in.”
Frederick straps in his legs and one hand, then I move around the still frozen guard and wrap the leather strap around his other wrist. The guard still hasn’t moved, so I carefully lift the strap holding his rifle over his head and clasp it to my chest. I’ve never shot a gun in my life. I’m not even sure I know how to, but something is better than nothing. “You,” I say to the guard. “Get me out of the palace.”
Without a reply, he starts for the door, and I follow. A few more of the prisoners have moved to the bars of their cell, probably curious about the ruckus I caused. “Let us out,” someone shouts. “Please,” says another. Still more shake the bars, the sound getting louder and louder as I pass. Gods dammit. They’re going to alert the whole palace.
“Quiet,” I shout over the din.
Silence.
Holy Mother. They all went quiet. I wasn’t trying to control them; it was just a gut response, and yet, they obeyed. It’s confusing and slightly terrifying, but I don’t have time right now to dwell on it. I push all the questions to the back of my mind and continue for the exit, scanning the cells for Leodin as I go. He’s not here. I’m honestly not sure what I would have done if he was. We pass through the metal door, back up the stairs, down one hallway, then another. I feel my control slip from Fredrick and the prisoners as I move away from the dungeon. Thank the gods I had Fredrick strap himself in. I’m holding my breath, waiting for that inevitable moment when we run into a maid or guard or some fancy government official, who will take one look at me, covered in blood, and call down the palace. But it doesn’t come. The hallways are barren.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, mostly to myself, but the guard answers.
“The king has called an assembly in the throne room. The entire palace is in attendance.”
I can’t believe my luck. I briefly consider running to my room to grab a clean dress and the sythra Mama gave me, but that’s three flights up. It’s too risky. The longer I take, the more likely I’ll get caught. Regardless, I need to get this blood off before somebody sees me. There’s only one place I can think of on this floor where I can do that. “Take me to the Queen’s Garden,” I tell the guard.
He immediately takes a hard right down another hallway, and I follow. Nothing here looks familiar, and I’m starting to get concerned he’s leading me nowhere when the door to the garden finally comes into view.
“Stay here,” I tell him. “Don’t let anyone inside, and if you’re asked, you never saw me.”
The guard takes position against the wall beside the door, his eyes staring into nothing. It’s disconcerting, to say the least, but I can’t worry about that right now. I push the door open, the tiny sound like cannon fire in the silence, then slip inside and close it as softly as possible behind myself. The moist floral air—so enjoyable the other day—just seems sickly sweet and stifling at the moment. I ignore it and rush to the little stream. There, I drop to my knees and plunge my hands into the cool, clean water, turning it pink. Gods, that feels good. The blood is sticky, and I have to scrub hard to clean my hands. The red-tinged water flows toward the little pool, and I wonder briefly if it might hurt the fish.
Stupid, Katya. You just killed a man and you’re worried about the fish.
I cup my hands and scoop up the water to splash in my face. My reflection is too weak to make out, so I just have to do my best to clean myself up and hope it’s good enough to pass. My nightgown is a different story. There’s nothing I can do to clean that. Maybe I can find a gardener’s apron or something here—
A gasp has me shooting to my feet, where I find Elsbeth, now the queen, staring at me. Her hand covers her mouth in shock and her face has drained of all color. “What did they do to you?” she asks.
I’m so shocked by her obvious concern, I don’t even think to try to control her with my voice. I simply say, “Please.”
Lips tight, she glances at the door, then back at me and nods. “Come on.” She hops over the stream and taking me by the arm, leads me, not back out into the palace like I expected, but deeper into the garden. We reach the back corner where a gardener’s table and some shelves are situated against the glass wall. Elsbeth takes my rifle and sets it on the ground, then grabs a forest green smock from a hook situated on the side of the shelf and holds it out for me. I raise my arms and step into it. Then she crisscrosses the laces over my back and around my belly and ties them in the front. The sleeves are a little too long, and it hangs open in the back a bit, but fortunately that’s the one part of my nightgown that isn’t covered in blood. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Meeting my eyes, she says, “If you get caught—”
“I never saw you,” I finish.
She gives me a tight smile. Then she reaches behind the shelf, hits some sort of lever, and making a sound akin to a cat in heat, it opens to reveal an exit outside. Elsbeth holds a finger to her lips for me to be quiet, then leans out of the opening, her head whipping left then right, checking for guards. She ducks back into the garden, pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve and proceeds to clean the water and remaining blood from my face. “This will only get you onto the grounds. You’ll have to get past the guards on your own.”
“I will.”
She finishes her grooming and tucks the handkerchief back into her sleeve. “Good luck, my friend,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze. And with that I step through the doorway and onto the grounds, leaving Elsbeth to close the hidden door behind me.
On one side, the palace ends in a cliff, at the bottom of which waves crash against the stony wall. On the other is a massive hedge grove that blocks most of the road from view, but the sound of a crowd gathered outside the gates is unmistakable.
There really isn’t a choice, and so I start for the hedge grove. The wind swirls like a tempest whipping my hair into my face as I cross the lawn. I angle my body to pass between the bushes and slowly make my way to the gate. I want to make a run for it, but logic says that’s a good way to get shot, so I put on my best aristocratic fa?ade—chin up, shoulders squared, my face devoid of emotion—and press forward. The guards are busy dealing with the horde of townspeople standing outside the gate and don’t even notice me until I’m standing directly in front of the iron bars.
“What are you doing?” one of them asks, clearly confused as to why a disheveled fae female would be going out into this mess.
“Let me out,” I say.
And they do.