Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Citing a scarcity of cotton underthings, the maids don’t replace my shift or stays, and since there aren’t shoes that fit, they leave me in itchy gray stockings.
But they do bring an expensive gown of blush-pink silk embroidered with rosebuds, each embellished with an opal at its center.
The sleeves are long with broad, trailing cuffs trimmed in snow-white fur, and the neckline has matching trim that caresses my skin.
After being without proper clothes for so long, I find it too good to be true.
To complete my outfit, they use hot tongs to tame my frizzy hair.
Partially pinned up, my locks fall over my shoulders in a cascade of curls, and just as I’m summoned to depart, the youngest maid dabs a red stain onto my lips.
With an avoidant turn of her cheek, she looks as though she wants to say something but thinks better of it.
Once I’m outside, I blink against the brightness of the cloudy overhead sky, the fresh air a balm for my frazzled nerves.
In the castle courtyard, attendants run back and forth, making last-minute adjustments to the saddles strapped to a white mare and black stallion.
It appears the Witch-King has decided against sharing his steed, as he so aptly put it.
Guards jump to attention as my captor strides into view, mounting his horse in one fell swoop, the beast giving a little prance.
To complement the grandeur of my gown, he’s outfitted himself in a dark dress coat of regal quality, which molds to his muscled form.
The sword he threatened to run through me hangs at his waist, that iridescent jewel glinting at the end of the pommel.
I’m surprised he doesn’t wear my stolen circlet, which makes me realize I’ve yet to see him wear any crown.
Looking down at my undignified feet, I can’t help but wish for shoes. Perhaps they keep me this way to make escape more difficult.
I’m guided by the elbow and assisted onto the mare’s sidesaddle.
“Her name is Pearl, m’lady,” the attendant says, not unkindly. “And the king rides Salt.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. I hate to ride sidesaddle, but it does make it easier to rearrange my skirts so they drape down to hide my stockings.
The Witch-King trots over, and the attendant hands him the reins of Pearl. It’s clear he wants everyone to see that I hold no control.
That’s fine.
I’m just relieved to have finally left that tower.
As the castle courtyard continues to bustle with servants busy with chores and loitering courtiers, I realize we’re raised on a hill, and my view from here shows an angry sea crashing against a pebbled shoreline.
My thoughts wander to Lir, but there isn’t much time to think about him as the Witch-King leads my horse through the portcullis.
All of a sudden, black tendrils swirl around me, creating ropes of smoke and shadow, binding me in place.
My head snaps toward the Witch-King, but he doesn’t even glance back.
What a bastard.
Soldiers ride a few paces behind us, carrying the rippling black banners of the ivory tree. Silently, we travel down a path lined with pine trees into a sprawling village.
If I thought the City of Alexandria was falling into disrepair, then I didn’t know what true poverty looked like.
The buildings here are dilapidated. Doors are gone, with nothing to protect the homes from the outside except ripped fabric.
Whole swaths of neighborhoods are missing; charred remains left behind.
Vendors have wares for sale on the street, but their produce stalls are full of wilted cabbage and other scant vegetables.
A too-thin mother holds a squealing baby as she yells at her husband to finish a task.
Children in rags run alongside us until the Witch-King throws out a handful of coppers.
The elderly stand on corners begging, prompting the guards to pull loaves of bread from satchels to pass out as we wind through the village center.
The air smells of fish rot, but I avoid covering my nose for fear of causing offense.
I close my eyes momentarily—this is nothing like Cliodna described. The castle. The village.
None of it.
A mass of commonfolk grows thick in the streets, many hoping for more food or coins. Some of them have silver irises, just like the king. Some beg for news about the infirmary camps. Harsh words fly. The people are dirty and angry.
A group of men, wearing scowls and stinking of drink, saunters out of a dark alleyway and circles Pearl.
With his back to me, the Witch-King begins to soothe the crowd, easing their growing concerns.
Seizing his opportunity, one man flips out a rusted blade and cuts the rein, freeing my horse from the Witch-King’s control.
My breathing stops as shock invades all of my senses.
Even if I want to do something, I’m unable because of the shadowy ropes that still bind me in place.
At the sharp glitter of metal, Pearl rears back and whinnies.
I scream.
The Witch-King whips around and curses, while the guards readies their swords, waiting for a directive.
The Witch-King yells at the drunk men, “Disperse at once, lest you make your final mistake.” But they are devoid of reason. Pure murderous rage shines in their drooping eyes. They’ve probably dreamed of this moment, and here I am, offered as revenge on a silver platter.
A behemoth of a man in ripped overalls snarls, snatching me down off Pearl. My heart nearly beats out of my chest. I want to scream again, but my body freezes in place. He expels hot breath into my ear and grunts, “No ‘Xandrian slut queen is going to ride through my streets—ugghh!”
My bindings disappear, and the man’s pupils dilate until blackness consumes his eyeballs, shriveling them to nothing.
A force of slithering shadows penetrates the remaining holes—nostrils, ears, and mouth—like serpents trying to find their way out of a burrow.
His skin drains of color, and his veins turn rotten and necrotic as he crumples to the ground without life.
The other men plotting violence with him scatter over fences and into alleyways behind tenement buildings.
The guards go after them, but the Witch-King waves a hand, and they fall back to their stances.
Staring at the retreating men, he motions for a captain to come forward.
“Find out if he had a family. The wife and children shouldn’t be punished for the death of the father.
Give them this.” The captain catches the leather pouch of coins and nods before taking off toward the slums.
I stare at the dead body on the ground. Before I can process what I’ve just witnessed, large hands encircle my waist. I turn my attention from the gruesome scene to peer into my captor’s strained face as he lifts me onto the saddle in front of him.
He wraps his arms around me, gathers the reins once more, and shelters my frame by pulling my back flush against his torso.
My pulse doesn’t slow; I don’t feel any safer.
The crowd of villagers grumbles and points at the corpse lying in the street and then at us.
Their king addresses them, “Too long we’ve suffered deprivation—all because of the Metalla reign.
This captured queen proves the turning tide in what feels like a losing war.
Now, we have Alexandria right where we want them, begging for mercy.
We will finish what they started!” He grabs my arms for emphasis, sending a jolt through my spine.
“But be warned: this woman is a spoil of war. My captive. My prisoner.” He growls, “Mine.” He spins his stallion around before adding, “Touch her and die.”
No one has ever defended me like this, especially not with such swift violence. There were times when Balor offered the illusion of protection, but this feels different. My resolve hardens—to use this to my advantage, to use him as he’s trying to use me.
He urges Salt onward, back the way we came, as my mind falters with what to do and what to say. I finally settle on, “Thank you for not letting them hurt me.”
“If you think I’d allow you to be murdered before bringing you to justice for your crimes, you are wrong.” He rubs his left arm, stretching and flexing it to alleviate some discomfort.
“Then why did you set your shadow hounds to kill me?”
“You misunderstand,” he says darkly. “My hounds might have dragged you to me by your ankles, but they would have delivered you very much alive. I will let no one have the satisfaction of taking your life except by my own hand. Regardless, you’re here now.
” He pauses before adding, “…and I’m not done with you. ”
His casual words chill me to the bone as he wraps his cloak around us. He adjusts his position on the saddle meant for one, using his strong legs to squeeze my thighs as he urges the horse onward. His arm tightens around my waist to keep me from falling.
“What do you mean?” I try to keep my voice from trembling.
“A topic we’ll discuss during dinner.”
As if on cue, the bruised clouds open, and steady raindrops fall—giving me the perfect opportunity to swallow my fear and lean against his chest. “Forgive me,” I say weakly.
“The sight of so much death makes me ill.” His arm muscles tense, but he doesn’t push me away.
My head tilts ever so slightly, grazing his exposed neck.
A woodsy scent envelops me as I pretend to relax in his embrace.
* * *
I step into a spacious dining hall with charcoal-colored paneled walls and ornate chandeliers dripping with garnets.
My wool stockings slide across the black marble floors jagged from a broken foundation as the scrape of a chair alerts me that my seat at the mahogany table is ready.
Two place settings sit near each other at the far end.
At least we’ll be able to speak without distance.
The clock on the fireplace mantel ticks, and I wait patiently until the Witch-King strides through the entrance.
He grabs his chair before an attendant can assist him.
As he sits, he waves for the platter to be brought out—an open broiled fish with its head, scales, and tail still attached, greens and cabbage, and two small but steaming potatoes.
No sauces. No butter. No bread.
The food isn’t nearly as luxurious as what we eat in Alexandria, but after today in town, seeing such abundance would make me sick. I grit my teeth, remembering the gaunt children playing in the dirty streets.
After serving me a portion, he claims the fish head for himself and forks the eyeball, plunking it into his mouth. He chews aggressively. A few moments pass before he asks, “Is there a problem with your food?”
My queasy stomach leaps at his scrutiny. I peer down at my plate and sip the wine in my goblet. “My mind is on other matters.”
He sets his fork down with a clatter. “Please enlighten me to the thoughts of a queen. Go ahead.”
“Well, if I’m to stay here as your captive, shouldn’t we at least learn each other’s names?”
“I already know your name,” he states, cocking an eyebrow, “Tabitha.”
My back goes rigid. “I don’t know yours, though, and I hardly think it’s fair.”
“But you do.”
“I assure you I do not.”
“You do.”
“I only know you as the Witch-King of Ashland.”
“Correct.”
I stand and walk to the fireplace, warming my hands over the crackling embers.
His words grow closer behind me, reverberating like the voice of a forgotten god. “I have no first name. I am Ashland. I am the land, and the land is me. We became one the minute I became the Witch-King. Like my father before me, I am an extension of this land.”
“If you have no name…” A shiver runs through my body, but I don’t turn around. “Then what do your friends and family call you?”
“When I was a boy, there was a name I was given.”
“And now?”
“Those who are worthy call me Ash.” His breath is on the back of my neck.
I turn around and raise my eyes to meet his, locking onto his silver gaze through lowered lashes—our heights, a stark difference.
With a hammering heart, I place my palm on his rigid chest, caressing upward to his neck, and ask in a low voice, “What does one have to do to earn that worth?” Tendrils of my curly hair tumble between us like a curtain providing privacy. The air heats between us as time slows.
He doesn’t move.
I drop to my knees, purposefully ignoring the distaste growing in my belly. Looking up at him, I give him doe eyes, offering myself for his desires.
“Do I appear slow of mind to you? This is the second time you’ve treated me as if I’m an imbecile, and I assure you I’m anything but.”
Every fiber in my being freezes. “No, of course not.” I retract my hands as if someone slapped them away.
“Get off your knees.” He pulls me up by my elbows, bringing our bodies even closer than before. Chest rising and falling in quick succession, he pauses.
But I can’t give up.
I bridge the gap—an inch of space between us. He lowers his face. My toes tip forward the tiniest fraction. A wave of raven hair falls over his forehead as he whispers in my ear, “I’ll show you how I deal with people who try to manipulate me.”
Every harsh word steals my breath.
Grabbing my wrist, he drags me, not caring that I trip over the train of my dress, the fur trim tearing as I stumble. I attempt to pull back. “Let go of me!”
“You forget your place, my lady.”
Out of the dining hall, through corridor after corridor. Maids duck into doorways. Servants turn away. I dig my heels in, but they scrape along the floor, forming stinging blisters under my wool stockings.
He lifts a tapestry, and we descend a spiral staircase, going deeper and lower under the castle.
“Please—please, don’t do this—”
My body stops, colliding with his. I wonder if he can feel my racing heart through the fabric separating us.
“Never forget we are enemies,” he warns before wrenching me down the stairs.
We arrive at a dimly lit stone archway, where water drips and men moan from behind dungeon cells.
Guards snap to attention upon seeing the Witch-King.
He orders them, “Keep your distance from her. She’ll only bring you to ruin. ”
He shoves me, and I fall into a private cell with nothing but a wooden cot, a stinking refuse bucket, and scratch marks etched into the walls.
No window.
No light.
The whispers crackle.