“We have injured and dead,” the king called, his voice deep with fatigue. “See to them first. And alert their families.”
The guard who were able slid from their tired mounts and assisted those who weren’t. Kjell and King Tiras continued on through the wide street and climbed a tree and guard-lined hill to the domed fortress I’d glimpsed beyond the gates. When we neared the entrance, King Tiras swung off his horse and without fanfare, lifted me down behind him. My legs were like water, and they pooled beneath me. He swept me up again, much to my chagrin, and carried me across the courtyard, through palace doors that were opened for him with deep bows and stiff salutes, across a wide foyer and down a long hall which turned into the most enormous kitchen I’d ever seen. King Tiras plopped me unceremoniously on a kitchen stool and barked orders at the servants, who scurried from all corners.
“Feed her. Bathe her. Put her to bed.”
A woman in a dress of crisp black stepped forward, bowing deeply. She looked older than the tittering maids who watched the king with awe and admiration, and she seemed to be in charge.
“Yes, Majesty. Welcome home, Sire,” she said smoothly, eying me with equal parts disdain and curiosity. I had no doubt I resembled a skinned rat.
“And lock her in the north tower,” he added as he left, not looking back to see if his orders were heeded.
After eating in the kitchen—a meal I was too tired to enjoy—I was escorted to the north tower, to a room so sumptuous it would have been a pleasure to be a prisoner if I’d cared about rose petals in my bathwater and sleeping on silk sheets. I didn’t. I was grateful I would not be cold or uncomfortable, hungry or naked, but beyond that, I longed for Boojohni and news of his welfare. I needed the woods near my home and my room at my father’s keep. I didn’t know if I’d ever return.
I was bathed and dried in front of a roaring fire, though the day beyond the open windows wasn’t especially cold. Lavender oil was brushed into my hair and massaged into my skin as if I were royalty instead of a captive from Corvyn. Three women attended me, and when their simple questions were met with my silence, they gave up trying to converse at all, sharing glances amongst themselves.
“Can you hear, Milady?” one asked, her voice sharp. They thought I was being quietly contemptuous.
I nodded.
“Do you understand us?”
I nodded again.
“Can you speak?” she snapped.
I shook my head, no.
She had the grace to look slightly chagrined, and the two other ladies-in-waiting tsked in shock.
“You don’t speak Jeruvian or you don’t speak at all?” the youngest of the three asked curiously.
I shook my head again. That was two questions with two different answers. But they seemed to understand when I touched my throat.
They murmured words of regret, and I knew they were bursting to discuss my ailment, if not with me, then with each other. The palace court would talk about me for a while, then they would forget about me all together. I had that effect on people. Silence was a close cousin to invisibility.
When they finally left me alone and locked the heavy door behind them as they’d been instructed, I crawled into the huge bed draped in white gauze and slipped between the downy covers, worrying again about Boojohni. I doubted he’d been given a second glance, not to mention a warm meal and a place to rest. But my final musings before succumbing to sleep were not of my faithful troll, but of the young king who reigned over Jeru. He was not what I had expected.
For three days I saw no one but the staff. I was fed. I was bathed. I was dressed in fine clothing. No one spoke to me, no one even made eye contact, and I stayed locked behind the heavy door. I spent most of my time on the huge balcony overlooking the city. I was kept in a tower so high, the people below were tiny poppets, just flashes of color and energy and life, far beyond my reach. I thought about finding a way to climb down, but there were guards stationed around the perimeter and I didn’t think I could scale the palace walls, though I studied them carefully and looked for possibilities.
On the third night of my odd imprisonment, my covers were thrown off me, and I was dragged from my bed by a desperate Kjell. He didn’t explain himself or tell me where I was going, but his grip was bruising and his expression tight. He hurried me through empty corridors and down winding stairs lit by blazing sconces until he stopped in front of a huge, metal door that made me think of dark dungeons and tortured souls. My toes curled against the cold stone floor, and my teeth began to chatter. I gritted them stubbornly and refused to cower when Kjell unlocked the door with a heavy ring of keys and shoved me inside.
“Help him,” he commanded tersely. “Help him, and I’ll help you.”
I stared at him in confusion, but he said nothing more as he pulled the door closed between us and locked me inside. I yanked on the handle, testing what I already knew to be true, and listened as his footsteps retreated then stopped. He hadn’t gone far. His desperation was audible, as if he stood shouting his concern through the echoing halls.
But it wasn’t Kjell who called out from the shadowed corner. It was the king.
“I told you to go, Kjell. Get out!”
I took several steps forward, unable to see beyond the heavy table bolted to the floor and laid with a simple, untouched meal. A goblet brimming with burgundy wine had me clearing my suddenly parched throat. There were sconces lining the walls here as well, but only one was lit, and the flickering flame created dancing ghosts and warning whispers on my skin. The meal was fit for a king, but these weren’t the king’s quarters. Obviously. It was the kind of room where prisoners were housed, the kind of room I’d imagined myself being held in on the journey to the city.
“Kjell? You bloody bastard. Leave me!” the king bellowed, obviously sensing my presence, but unable to see me. I crept around the table and past the partial wall lined with bolts and shackles and a heavy chain that had clearly been there for some time.
He was pressed against the wall, crouched there, as if he were too weak to stand. Manacles circled his wrists and ankles, though each manacle was attached to a length of chain that should allow him a small range of motion. It seemed more to contain than to torture, though he was definitely suffering. His shirt was opened, and his skin gleamed slickly beneath, as if he was expending great effort not to fight against the restraints. His chest heaved and his body shook. He was a big man, his muscles bulging beneath breeches that clung to his crouching legs, but he was folded into himself, his hands fisted in his long white hair, his brawny back bent in what appeared to be distress. His body cried help though he demanded to be left alone.
He lifted his eyes and peered at me through the hair that shrouded his face. He didn’t look surprised to see me, though his shoulders sagged in defeat.
“Are you a Healer?” His voice was soft. Pained.
I waited until he lifted his eyes again, and I shook my head. He groaned softly then asked, “If you aren’t a Healer, why are you here?”
I couldn’t answer, so I stepped closer.
“Stay back!”
I hesitated, frightened.
His body trembled, and his skin rippled as if the muscles of his back were caught in a violent spasm.
“Go!” he roared, the sound otherworldly, a lion or a beast given the gift of speech. “Leave!”
I couldn’t go. I couldn’t even scream. I couldn’t beg or plead or barter for my life. Still, I scurried to the heavy door behind me, pounding against it.
“Kjell!” Tiras bellowed. “Get her out of here!”
The door remained closed.
“Kjell! I’ll kill you!” he roared.
But apparently Kjell did not believe him, or maybe he intended for us both to die. I wondered if King Tiras was contagious, exposed to a deadly illness that would kill me when it finished him off. Why Kjell thought I could help him was beyond me.