Chapter 12
T he dining hall is darker than I remember it. Or maybe it is my mind, which is gloomy as I enter the room with my captor.
The king sits at the head of the table, but the prince is nowhere to be seen. I was hoping he would have been here for support or to present a united front. The sight of his empty chair makes my stomach sink. I glance around the room, but it is empty except for the servants waiting in the shadows. One of them I recognise from the kitchens, and they give me a subtle smile.
“How lovely of you to join me,” the king bellows, grinning. He talks as though I have a choice in the matter and not as though he has taken all my choices from me. He has only said one thing to me and already my temper rises. I grind my teeth together, trying hard to focus on what Inez told me. Do not rise to his antagonising . With difficulty, I pinch the corners of my skirts and curtsy. I can play the cowed commoner for one evening.
“Thank you for the invitation, Your Highness,” I say, keeping the venom out of my voice as much as possible. It seems to work—he gestures to the seat next to him. A servant darts out to pull the chair back for me. I incline my head in thanks to them, and their eyebrows shoot up as if shocked I had even looked at them. A flare of anger rises at their treatment, but I force it back down again. I uncurl my fists.
As soon as I am seated, I realise how uncomfortably close I am to the king. I find myself missing the prince’s presence. He, at least, was able to act as a buffer between us. The king eyes me curiously.
“A fine dress,” he comments. There is an unkind familiarity in his eyes like he has been reminded of something unpleasant. I shift uncomfortably under his gaze.
“Thank you, my king,” I reply quietly. I wonder if wearing the dress of his late wife, whom he executed for cursing their son, was truly the best choice. Before I have time to defend myself, he moves on.
“So.” He sits forward and picks up the gleaming cutlery. His knife is unsettlingly large. “How are you settling into our humble abode?”
I try to push the escape attempt out of my mind.
“Very well, Your Highness,” I reply and pick up my own knife and fork. He looks at me expectantly, and I realise I need to elaborate. “The, uh…facilities are very…magnificent.”
“Indeed?” He chuckles at my obvious struggle with social niceties. “And my son? How are you finding him?”
He stabs his fork into a piece of meat as he speaks. I frown. How much does he know? His face gives nothing away.
“I…do not know him all that well, Your Highness,” I reply hesitantly. “He only called on me last night.”
“Is that right?” the king says evenly.
His expression is mild, but something simmers below the surface. Something I have seen in my father’s face many times. Something I know well. A mixture of entitled rage and disdain. I choose to say nothing. I keep my eyes fixed on my plate, head slightly bowed.
“He took long enough to bed you, did he not?”
Silence.
“I suppose he has done well, as you appear to have learned your place after only one night with him.” He laughs as though he has told an incredible joke. I press my lips together and desperately douse my anger.
“This meal is lovely, my king.” I try to change the topic, taking an enthusiastic bite of my roasted rosemary sparrow. “Thank you again for the invitation. ”
“His mother was a bitch, do you know.”
I choke on my sparrow, the meat lodging in my throat.
“I suppose the blame is on me for marrying for love instead of title,” the king continues as though he does not notice my spluttering. “She was beautiful, of course. No doubt about it. But Saints! She was hard work.”
He takes a large swig of his wine as I dislodge the sparrow and frantically blink away the tears springing to my eyes.
“I…” I cough, my throat burning. “I have not heard much of the queen, I admit.”
The king snorts.
“A queen she was not.” He raises his hand and snaps his fingers. The sound cracks through the room. At once, a servant appears with a jug of wine and refills his goblet. “In title, yes, due to me. But in every other way, she never stopped being a commoner.”
I am vaguely aware of this. Aunt Meena never spoke of it, but I heard others in the village speak in hushed tones. It was a great tale of love that happened before I was born—the young, handsome king decided to forgo the many available heiresses in favour of a common girl in Mossgarde. At the time, it had been a great morale boost for the townsfolk. People believed perhaps any one of them would have a chance at riches and comfort someday.
The wedding itself was a grand affair which some of the older members of Mossgarde still spoke about, albeit quietly and in private.
“That was the last time I used my heart to make a decision.” The king chews, open-mouthed, and regards me. “What do you know of the curse?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“True love will break it, Your Highness.”
“No, not that. The curseitself. What that bitch ,” he thumps a meaty fist off the table, rattling the plates and making me flinch, “did to my only heir.”
He looks at me expectantly, lip curled. His eyes are ablaze.
“She cursed him out of spite, Your Highness,” I recall what I have heard in the village and fight hard to keep the tremor out of my voice. He is even closer to me now, leaning forward with his hand still curled in a tight fist. I am painfully aware of how easily he could overpower me.
“Spite, yes!” He spits on the ground in disgust. “She was not just a commoner but a monster . Vindictive. What kind of mother curses her own son?”
He fires out each word with a terrifying poison that makes me want to recoil. I tremble with the effort of remaining composed and upright. Despite the tension in each muscle of my body, readying me to fight or flee, I refuse to cower. The role I had intended to play has evaporated under the heat of his anger.
Hold your tongue, Shivani.
I remain perfectly still, each muscle frozen in place. Eventually, the king sits back and uncurls his fist. He takes another messy drink of his wine. It leaks down the side of his mouth and leaves a blood-red trail from the corner of his lips into his fair beard.
“This is where you come in.” The king flashes me an unsettling smile. I lower my eyes. “You and all the other volunteers.”
Goosebumps spring up along the back of my neck and I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.
“To break the curse?” My voice wavers despite my best efforts.
The king gives a humourless laugh.
“Truth be told, I do not believe this curse can be broken.”
The floor falls away from beneath me. The dress, which had been so comfortable before, becomes stifling.
“But…” My mind struggles to formulate the words. “You told us true love could break it. You said so on the day the queen died.”
“Well, yes. Spirits were very low that day, you understand. Part of being a king is knowing what little white lies are necessary to keep the peace.”
I gape at him.
“But why ask for volunteers? Why keep us here?”
He looks at me as though I am stupid.
“She came from you. A commoner. I need to keep this village in check somehow and what could be a more delicious punishment than ensuring the rest of you common girls are pruned?”
The air leaves my lungs. I try to breathe but my vision tunnels, darkening at the edges. His words ring in my head like a high-pitched squeal.
“But…” I trail off, my mouth opening and closing.
I have been a na?ve fool. The curse is unbreakable. We have been sent here to die, every one of us. I think of how my chambers are devoid of anything I could use to escape, even the shoddy ledge outside the window. Strategically placed to eliminate any chance of leaving. I think of the bloody chopping block in the village centre.
Nausea overcomes me, and I stand abruptly. The king looks up at me, curious but not alarmed.
“This is a death sentence,” I croak. I place my hands flat on the table to steady myself. My legs are weak.
“Speak up, girl,” the king replies with irritation. The sickness in my stomach curdles into rage.
“You…you…” I squeeze my eyes shut and push back against the violent wrath hammering in my mind. Myophidis blazing and I desperately want to reach out to it. To raze this whole castle to the ground and the king with it.
“Go on.” He sits back and raises his eyebrows, a smug smile on his face. “Spit it out.”
I manage to pry my fingers open from where they had been balled into fists. They shake, but I stand firm. The guards ready themselves, and I know I have only one course of action.
“I will break it,” I say.
“What?”
“I will break the curse.”
Silence lays, thick as marsh water. The king throws back his head and laughs.
“You are most welcome to try! After all, each one before you has tried and now their pretty heads decorate the foundations of my castle.”
I think about picking up my dinner plate and launching it at his face. I have bitten my tongue so often now my mouth tastes of blood. When I smile, it is murderous.
“I have four months. True love may not break it, but something will.”
Aunt Meena taught me everything I know about the world and all the people who inhabit it. There is a limit on all magic. I can find the limit on whatever magic afflicts the prince.
“I admire your optimism,” the king replies, although his tone indicates the opposite. He gestures to the guards. “Let us see how you feel once you see this curse in person.”
I swallow hard. The guards seize me, grabbing my upper arms.
“Wait—”
“Enjoy your night, Never Queen.”
The guards drag me from the dining room. I struggle against them, but they hold firm, marching me down a set of narrow spiral stairs.
We reach a cold section of the castle. The rug fades into a tattered end, leaving bare brick, and the air is foul. The stairs fall into darkness with only a few lit torches on the wall. It is only when we are forced to descend them in single file that the guards let go of me.
I wrap my arms around myself to try and rub away the goosebumps springing up along my skin. I shiver against the cold. But also against the uneasy feeling I am being brought somewhere I am not meant to be.
We descend the steps slowly in the semi-darkness, unspeaking. The only thing breaking the silence is the occasional animalistic scream. It sounds both far away and far too close. It bounces off the walls, echoing around us. Despite the cold, sweat trickles down my back. There is a hard, metallic tang in my mouth from where I bit my tongue.
When we arrive at the bottom of the spiral staircase, the guards stop short. He holds up his torch, and I peek out from behind him. The dread slowly growing in my stomach transforms into fully-fledged terror.
The dungeon is lighter than the stairs, lined with several large torches. They cast an eerie orange glow across the room. More noticeable than that is the huge domed cage in the middle.
It takes up almost the entirety of the dungeon. It is made of thick, ugly metal bars running out from the brick floor and curving up to meet at a point. But it is what is inside the cage that turns my blood cold.
Its size is breathtaking, hunched over in its cage and nearly as wide. Dull scales coat its skin, interspersed with large bulbous boils, red and painful. It wields thick, sharp claws instead of hands, but the knuckles are twisted and knotted as though broken. A thick tail lined with spikes swirls behind it menacingly. Its face is warped unnaturally, as though it has been crudely carved from wet clay. Angry yellow eyes glower at us from behind the bars.
I try to take a step back, but I bump into the guard behind me.
“We shall see you in the morning, miss.” He grins at me.
“No, please. Please do not leave me here.”
Panic rises in my chest.
“Order of the king, miss.” The other guard shrugs, and they both leave, slamming the door behind them.
With a shuddering breath, I turn and face the Beast of Mossgarde.