Reckoning (9 page)

He walks towards a huge throne next to the Minister Prime and offers a small wave before trying to sit. As I watch, something doesn't seem quite right. The King falls the last few centimetres onto his seat, hitting his head on a curved part near the top of the throne. If it hurt, then he doesn't react, instead leaning against the head rest and blinking quickly as if trying to stop himself falling asleep. I feel a sense of confusion around the room, the hush of his entrance being replaced by murmurs of bewilderment. Angrily, the Minister Prime extends his arm, demanding a silence which is instantly granted.

On the other side of the King is the woman in green who led us into the hall. She stands and surveys us before introducing herself as Deputy Minister Prime Ignacia. She has dark black hair, styled high in a way I have never seen before. Her voice is deep but full of authority, although she has a way of making it sound as if she isn't talking down to us.

She welcomes us as this year's Offerings and then asks for those from the South to stay standing while everyone else sits. There is a ripple of applause from the seats above but I continue to watch the King, who appears to be struggling to stay awake. His eyes are closing for seconds at a time before opening again. The way I felt intimidated by his charisma a few moments ago now seems misplaced.

After the South, the West's Offerings stand and are clapped, before it is our turn. It feels slightly silly to be praised simply for being who you are but I go with it and enjoy seeing Wray's reaction. He turns a full circle, taking in the reception, before we sit again.

After we have all been introduced, Ignacia says it is time for the official welcoming banquet, at which a large set of double doors open and people dressed in white trousers and smocks appear carrying plates of food. Suddenly there is noise again, whispered approval passing around the table and the sound of metal knives and forks being raised.

The meal is unlike anything I have ever known. Huge platters of meats are placed in front of us: pork, chicken, beef, lamb along with potatoes, vegetables, breads, gravies, and many other things I don't even know the names for. Wray's eyes are bulging as an entire turkey is placed in front of him. At first there is a politeness, with us all looking at each other, before it quickly becomes a free-for-all. All around the table are Offerings grabbing at the food, tearing chunks of meat as we eat with our hands. Before the food arrived, I did not feel hungry but now I am famished, breaking all the manners my mother ever taught me as I join in the frenzy. It isn't just the amount of food which I find astonishing, it is the taste. The meats are juicy and rich, the bread warm and soft. I barely know where to reach next, our various arms and cutlery crossing as we stretch across each other.

Wray is eating a large drumstick from the turkey with his hands. He grins at me between mouthfuls and I can tell he, like me, has never seen anything like it. In my mind I make a note of everything I want to try but I am barely a quarter of the way through when I feel my stomach begin to seize. I fill a goblet with water and wash it down but, if anything, I feel fuller. Around me, I can see the other Offerings reaching a similar point but I look to the box to see the King still eating. In one hand, he has a bread roll while he is grasping a bottle of wine in the other. I wonder where his appetite comes from considering he must see this type of spread whenever he wants.

His head is bouncing from side to side and I suddenly realise who he reminds me of. In Martindale, there is a man named Mayall who always seems to have a bottle of wine near him. He disappears whenever the Kingsmen are around but frequently sleeps on the streets, even on the coldest evenings. As the King's eyes roll back in his head, I understand that he is drunk. The images of our leader flashed to us on screen always show him as strong and noble; nothing like the man I see above me who cannot feed himself fast enough and looks as if he may topple over. I feel embarrassed about my own behaviour, eating with my hands and shovelling food as if it is normal, when my mother and Colt will be in our cold house this evening with next to nothing.

Across the table a few seats away from Wray, one of the other Offerings is watching me. As I catch his eye, he looks away quickly but then glances up again to see if I am still peering at him. He is one of the Elites from the West and has black hair and dark, olive skin. Somehow I can tell he is thinking something similar to me about the food. He offers a half-smile, widening his eyes as if to say ‘What can we do?' and I like him instantly. He reaches for a piece of squishy yellow fruit I have never tried before. He hasn't said a word but he is right, of course. We are unable to do anything about the wider situation around our Realms but that doesn't mean we should deprive ourselves – especially as there is more food in front of us than we might usually eat all week. My stomach feels full but satisfied as I also chew slowly on a piece of the yellow fruit and give my new friend a knowing nod.

As the sound of eating begins to wane, the people in the white uniforms emerge from the doors again, clearing the remaining food and our plates. I start to wonder what will happen to what is left but the doors quickly open again and before I know what is happening, there are plates of extravagant desserts in front of us. I have tried chocolate a couple of times but have never seen anything like the cakes in front of us which are dripping in it. That is barely the start, though, as other creations covered in cream, fruits and many other things I can't even describe are placed in front of us. My belly is bulging against the fabric of the dress but I almost feel obliged to keep eating if only to try the amazing new foods. None of us know exactly what is in store and this could be the only time a feast such as this is put on for us.

The chocolate cake is soft in the centre with a thick covering that is so rich I feel myself gagging. I eat a thin slice though, before cutting another piece, this time from a cake with strawberries on the top. Wray is still eating with his hands, while the Elite boy from the West is licking his fingers, having admitted defeat. I point at a spot on my chin before he realises what I am trying to say and wipes away a smear of cream.

Eventually the tables are cleared and the sounds in the room change to that of glasses and goblets being slurped from and placed on the table. Then, I turn to see the Minister Prime standing with his arm outstretched and the room falls into complete silence. His facial expression has not changed since we arrived and it is only now that I realise he didn't seem to be eating when everyone else was. On his right-hand side, the King has finished but there are pieces of food stuck in his beard and he is still holding a wine bottle.

‘Welcome to Windsor,' the Minister says, somehow making it sound threatening. ‘I thank you all for coming and hope you will be up to the highest of standards.'

I shiver but not because of the cold; it is because his words feel as if they are flowing through me. It is strange that he thanked us for coming seeing as none of us had a choice.

‘I know you will all be wondering what is in store for you but those questions will be answered tomorrow, for now…'

He doesn't get to finish his sentence as there is a large clattering noise. Across the table, Wray has knocked his goblet onto the floor and dives under the table to grab it. He emerges looking nervous and embarrassed, holding the metal cup aloft and placing it on the table, bowing his head towards the Minister and saying sorry.

The Minister Prime exchanges a look with the King, who rises to his feet. At first I think he is going to speak but instead he walks towards the row of steps which lead down towards us. He holds the rail but I can see him wobbling slightly and it seems as if everyone is holding their breath. The Minister Prime is still standing but even he has narrowed his eyes as he watches the King, curious as to what is happening.

The King stumbles towards a Kingsman at the bottom of the stairs and pulls a sword out of the officer's belt. It appears heavy and unwieldy as he unsteadily waves it around, before seeming to figure out its weight and straightening himself. As he peers towards our table, the atmosphere changes. Wray looks at the King and then glances towards me. He is licking his lips, his eyes darting between the two of us. Above us, there is a hush but, whereas the earlier ones felt respectful, this seems full of fear.

As he bounces the sword up and down in his grip, the King continues to approach, passing me and walking around the edge of the table until he is standing next to Wray. The next few seconds slow almost to a stop as Wray stares up at the man standing over him and then turns to me, his eyes wide as he knows what is going to happen. Nobody speaks or moves as the King pulls the sword back before thrusting forward with a loud heave of effort.

In an instant, a droplet of what I know is blood lands on my cheek as the whites of Wray's eyes stare into me, asking why he had to die.

10

I see the next few minutes in flashes. Wray slumps to the side as people start screaming. The King is laughing, throwing the sword to the floor in disdain and then strolling back towards the stairs. I hear movement as a handful of Kingsmen swarm and then the Minister Prime is saying something. There are words such as ‘calm' and ‘move' but I'm not even sure they are complete sentences. Instead, I just see Wray's dead, frightened eyes asking for an answer I can't give him.

I am vaguely aware of being in a line of people trooping through the corridors at speed before I find myself back in the dormitory. I sit on my bed as no one dares speak. Instead, we stare at each other, using each other's shock as a reminder that what we have just seen actually happened. Some of the girls take off their dresses, trying unsuccessfully to wipe away the spatters of blood as I look down to notice reddened darker spots on the material of mine. I remember the feeling of something hitting my face and lick my fingers, scrubbing at my skin in an effort to wipe away what I think is there.

It is hard to know what is the more shocking: that poor Wray is dead, or that our King – the person we have grown up idolising – could have stabbed him so callously.

In a blink, I understand what the word ‘Offering' means: we are exactly that, free for the King to do what he wants with. Whether he puts us to work, or skewers us through a chair, we are his.

In the bathroom, I hear somebody being sick and wonder if it is the physical shock of what we have seen, or if she has come to the same realisation I have.

As my senses return and the room drifts into focus I stand and walk around, trying the door once more and examining the windows. As before, we are locked in and I know this will be the way I have to get used to living.

I can't help but think of Colt and my mother and feel relieved they are not a part of this. Then I remember the way Wray told me that being chosen as an Offering was the proudest moment of his mother's life. There is a lump in my throat but I force myself to swallow it, desperate not to show any emotion in front of the strangers around me.

People are beginning to find their voices but we still seem to be split along our selection lines. The eight Elites are at the far end of the room from me, while I have managed to take the bed with the most space around it. The Trog, Faith, is by herself on the bed in the corner closest to me, so I walk across and ask if she is okay. She seems grateful that someone has acknowledged her. Wray was also a Trog and so she must be wondering if that was why he was killed. I try to reassure her, although I have no idea.

Faith explains that she has been ill recently, seemingly desperate to convince me there is a good reason why she is a Trog. I tell her I understand. The truth is it really doesn't matter what you are if the King you have grown up being told to worship can do such a thing.

Faith is short with untidy blonde hair and an ill-fitting dress which clings to her unflatteringly. She is desperate to understand something that to me is senseless, insisting the King must have been confused or ill, or any number of other arguments which don't stand up to what we all saw.

The chattering stops instantly as the door unlocks with a heavy clunk. Some of the girls are only partially dressed and, as they reach for towels or clothes to cover themselves, it feels as if we are all holding our breath. None of us knows what to expect as Ignacia sweeps in, still wearing the green gown. She stands in the doorway, looking around the room, before drawing herself up as straight as she can to address us.

‘Hello, ladies,' she says, glancing from side to side, trying to engage us all. ‘I just wanted to apologise for the …
accident
earlier on. Hopefully you can all stay calm about things.' She pauses and rocks back on her heels as if expecting somebody to reply. As if her calling Wray's death an ‘accident' makes it one. I'm not sure she even believes what she's saying. She certainly doesn't hold the authority the Minister Prime has, her eyes darting back and forth looking for a confirmation that doesn't come.

‘I do have another reason for being here,' she adds. ‘Which one of you was wearing a silvery dress earlier? It was quite long, apparently.'

She peers from side to side, waiting for someone to own up but nobody does. Given the fact we are still in shock from what we witnessed in the hall, it is unsurprising.

Ignacia frowns as she is forced to start looking around the room a second time. She discounts me as I still have on my purple dress, while Faith probably isn't the shape she is looking for. As she turns towards the Elite end of the room, the girls move stealthily to one side, revealing Jela, who is sitting on her bed in her underwear and a towel. Her long blonde hair is wet and the way she is wrapped in the material makes her appear tiny and vulnerable.

‘Was it you?' Ignacia asks, stepping towards Jela, who nods but seems confused.

‘Where is the dress?'

Jela nods towards the wardrobe next to the bed. ‘It's got blood on it,' she adds quickly.