Chapter 9
I stop at my room to change my own clothes, squeezing the water from my hair and swapping the military uniform for my usual canvas.
My sword rests on my bed, like the Governor agreed. I’m so emotionally exhausted I have to fight the urge to cry at the feel of it after two years without my purpose. I pull it an inch from the sheath and admire the thin, goldwashed blade before slipping it back in.
Gathering the wood took forever, but we still have to clean up from the feast.
The witch’s footsteps follow me up the tower. Empty dishes cover the long table everyone else ate at. I step into the kitchen to see how much work awaits us. The stove and tables are piled with cooking-ware and serving dishes. The floor is filthy.
I allow myself a moment longer to feel miserable, staring at the mess. In the wake of all the anxious hope I felt for the Hellion, what had become normal over the past two years now feels demeaning. And if I had to be stuck guarding a witch, did it have to be him?
There’s a platter tucked into the corner of the kitchen, like Malkin promised.
On it is chopped, seasoned jellygut fish, boiled prawns, and baked reaper skin.
If the Governor shared his hoard like I told him to, there’s none of it left in sight.
I’m sick of this food that’s the same day in and day out, but I scrape half of it into a bowl and shove it toward the witch.
I eat a prawn slowly as I look around at how much there is to do. I can’t leave him here unsupervised, but if I don’t help, it’ll be noon before he’s finished.
When I turn to look at him, his bowl is already empty. He leans against the kitchen wall, eyes closed and ringed with exhaustion. The fresh rags cling to his broad shoulders and his black hair is tangled and wet, drying in loose waves. How long had it been before this since Harfor fed him?
I have more right to hate this witch than anyone else alive, but I clench my teeth in annoyance all the same. Was the enchantment not torture enough? They had to starve and beat and dehydrate him, too?
For what purpose? They should have just killed him, or let me do it.
I consider giving him some of my food, to keep his strength up. But he’s gotten enough to survive. And I can’t afford to let any softness into my heart.
“We need to scrape everything on the platters into that bin,” I say, pointing to the scrap bucket in the corner.
He walks slowly across the floor and picks up the first plate, covered with tiny bones and a fish head.
I keep eating as he grabs a knife and uses it to brush the plate clean, metal scraping on ceramic.
When he finishes the witch drops it on the counter so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. The next plate he grabs still has a fork on it, and he dumps that into the scrap bucket.
“Pick that up.”
“And there’s the command,” he mutters, like he’s not already being treated better than he deserves. He reaches in and grabs a fish-spine he’s just scraped off, turning to me with exhausted fury in his eyes.
“Idiot,” I growl under my breath. “I meant the fork, witch, not the food. Only food waste goes in the scrap bin.”
He drops the spine, yanks out the fork, and throws it on the counter. It skitters across the stone.
A few orders won’t kill him, or even do much. He isn’t being drained to power a Hellion or our borders, so the strain on his life is small compared to the Enchanted I’m used to seeing. I still don’t ever want to use that kind of power if I don’t have to, but it’s hard to watch every word I say.
I go to grab the plates off the table. As I return to the kitchen with the third and final chin-high stack of them in my hands, he scrapes the last cooking dish clean.
I have to admit I’m a little surprised he’s helping so much without me forcing every bit of effort.
I’d have expected him to think a king was above such work.
Certainly, the God-Emperor or the Exalted would never stoop to such levels.
Just the thought of it makes me snort, though it’s blasphemous to even imagine. The witches’ gaze cuts sharply to me but I don’t explain. I don’t care if he thinks I was laughing at him.
In the corner there’s a metal freshwater reservoir, nearly as tall as I am, with a tap in the side. I pick up the bucket beside it and shove it into the witch’s hands.
“Fill this, turn off the tap, and put the water on the counter,” I say, and then, realizing it was an order again: “Damn.”
The witch snorts, lips curled down.
The reservoir hisses as he turns the tap, and then water gushes out like a torrent. He closes the knob, then turns to the counter, where the stacks of scraped platters wait to be washed.
He jerks the bucket toward it, sloshing a gallon of water out over the wood and the dishes there.
Water drips off the plates and splatters against the wall. A shiny puddle floods the dark stone floor like a mirror. I grip my hands into tight fists and take a deep breath. The witch stares defiantly at me, chin raised, waiting for my response.
When I told him to put the water on the table, I’d obviously meant for it to stay in the bucket.
“You do realize you’ve just made more work for yourself?”
He shrugs, one shoulder jerking up, as if to say he doesn’t care. There’s the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.
“I did as you commanded, imperialist.”
Never in my life have I had to fight so hard against the urge to smack somebody in the face. And I’ve never had to resist the urge to use enchantment. I could make him mop the spill with his clothes. I could make him do anything I wanted, no matter how much it hurt him.
“If you prefer I stop trying to spare you, then by all means, be a disobedient prick.”
“There’s no need to pretend,” he says, his voice like cold silk. “I don’t know what turned you into a traitor, but we both hate each other.”
“Traitor?” I hiss, taking a step towards him and glaring up into his golden eyes.
“How did you survive, imperialist?” he says tauntingly. “Why did they send you here? For what crime?”
“Shut up,” I snap, shoulders raised nearly up to my ears. I run my left hand through my hair and turn, exhaling hard. I commanded him again. “Fuck. Talk if you want. I don’t give a shit.”
He stays silent, his jaw so tense I can see the cut of muscle when I glance back at him.
“If you don’t behave, I’ll have no choice but to command you,” I warn.
“If you don’t command me, I’ll behave,” he retorts.
I grit my teeth and force myself to take a slow breath as my muscles quiver with rage.
“Would you mind filling the bucket again, and placing it on the counter carefully, right-side up, without spilling anything, so that we can use the water to wash the dishes?” I growl. “I’d prefer not to be up past midnight, if your majesty could be troubled to keep working.”
He listens this time. Standing over the washbasin, I twist crumbled dry soap into a washrag, wet the bundle, and use it to scrub the plate.
“What next?” The angry look on his face is no softer than before, but he’s waiting for my next direction.
“Scraping the rest of those plates off.” I nod to the ones I brought in from the table. It doesn’t take him long. Next I suggest he should help wash the plates. He joins me at the counter without complaint.
I get through two more plates and a serving platter, my enemy beside me. The clean dishes go on the racks beside the wash-bin. The metal fingers of my armor are better at clenching around the scrub-rag than the plates, which are slippery and smooth.
“You used enchantment when we fought,” he says abruptly. I drop the plate I’m holding and fumble to catch it. It thuds against the edge of the wash-bin, tilts, and crashes onto the floor, snapping into five separate pieces.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I throw the wash rag on the counter and go to get the broom.
“Your mind changed about it after that,” he guesses as I sweep up the broken plate.
“No.”
“I’m your captive. I can't even try to run away. You could tell me to jump out the window, and I’d have no choice.”
He’s looking down, scrubbing the platter with sharp movements like he’s trying to rub the glaze off the ceramic, his hand clenched tight around the scrub rag.
“I was ordered to keep you alive.”
“But why do you care if you force me, when you so willingly use enchantment to fight?”
“There’s no other way to win against your people,” I tell him, keeping my voice bland as I move to the next cooking dish.
“Unlike a witch, I don’t believe in using magic for everything.
And if I weren’t worried what the War-Father would say, I’d rather pull some of the marks from you and put the shackles back on. I’d rather beat you without magic.”
He freezes.
“You know how to pull enchantment?” he asks hoarsely.
“It’s intuitive. I’m not freeing you.”
“You’ve done it before?”
My blood runs cold. I shouldn’t have said anything at all.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Three years ago. A woman made her way to one of our isles. She had enchantment marks on her, but also scars where some of them had been removed. She spoke of a lady knight, who’d—”
“Stop,” I snap, wrenching my gaze up to his. The Witch King stares at me as I pant for breath, my heart pounding and my exhausted body suddenly wide awake. “You will not speak of that again.”
“A command.”
“Yes,” I growl. Gods save me. I want, so desperately, to know which one of them he’s talking about; which one of them made it, and whether the witches have treated her with any decency at all, because I told them all to head for the outer reaches, not the damned fucking Wild Seas.
But if anybody hears him talking about this, there is no chance I will ever be pardoned.
Freeing the Enchanted is treason. Pure and simple. And unlike witchcraft, I am guilty of that one.
His eyes narrow. Not in anger, this time, but like he’s trying to figure something out.
“When they brought me here…” he starts, and then stops abruptly.
“What?”
The witches’ jaw works for a moment, like he’s trying to decide what to say. A frustrated look passes over his face.