The Shadow Throne (7 page)

Even more soldiers appeared, and I told Imogen to get to the top where Evendell could see her and protect her. Once she went down the other side, she’d be out of sight with a clear path toward the boat. I swung at whoever was closest to me, found my mark often enough, and dodged attempts to leave similar marks on me. When the crowd thinned to only a few, I broke through them to follow Imogen.

By then, she was nearly at the top of the hill. But instead of running down the other side, Imogen paused to look back at me. A soldier came out of nowhere and lunged for her, but her knife was faster and she left him clutching at his bleeding leg.

“King Jaron is down there!” a heavy man at the crest of the same hill yelled. “That’s him! Shoot him!” He pointed directly at me, then an archer nearby raised his bow and nocked an arrow. Where was Evendell, or Herbert, to fire at him first? I needed a place to hide, but the hillside was bare. I was in trouble.

Imogen must’ve heard the order too. The archer’s eye was on me, so he didn’t see her coming when she crashed into him. His arrow that had been intended for me flew far off course. Imogen picked herself up, but the heavier man grabbed her arm. She bit down on his flesh, and when he released her, she ran again.

I yelled as I ran up the hillside, hoping to draw their attention back to me, but their anger was focused on Imogen now. The archer drew another arrow and lined it up with her as she ran away along the spine of the hill. She turned back, just long enough to look for me again.

Despite the noise and confusion throughout the camp, a whoosh through the air became louder than all else. The archer’s arrow found its mark high in her chest. Still turned toward me, her face twisted with pain, and then she fell from the top of the hill. Her body rolled down the other side and out of my sight.

I continued running, certain that I could find her and save her again. Somehow.

But even as I ran, I heard a soldier call from the other side of the hill. “We’ve got the girl! She’s dead.”

And with those words, my entire world collapsed.

W
hatever happened next was a blur. I didn’t take another step after hearing of Imogen’s death, and might’ve fallen to my knees. Either that, or a soldier in pursuit pushed me there.

I wasn’t sure how many men surrounded me next. Was it fifty or a hundred? It couldn’t possibly matter because I wasn’t fighting back. I had lost any sense of how to fight back, or why I should try.

Imogen wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be, because I had just spoken to her. Only moments ago she had run her fingers through my hair, and was very much alive. All I had to do was find her and then surely I would discover the wound wasn’t as bad as I had thought. We could still run from here, together.

Except that I had seen for myself where the arrow pierced her chest. Blood had poured from the wound — far too much of it and far too quickly. She could’ve been gone before her body touched the ground.

One of the soldiers hit me hard across the jaw, but kept me braced so that he could add to it and punch my left eye. I gave him no resistance as he continued to beat me, and in fact, I barely felt it. I couldn’t see how he thought any pain to my flesh mattered at all in comparison to the rending of my heart.

They eventually got me on the ground, wrenched my sword from my grasp, and tore off my jerkin. Two men immediately began fighting over the leather but were ordered to preserve it whole for the commander. I was carefully searched for any tricks I might’ve carried with me, then my hands and legs were chained together. Without care for the pinch in my shoulders, they rolled me onto my back, presumably so that I could see the commander who had captured me. Perhaps they didn’t realize that my left eye was already swelling shut, and that I had better things to look at with my right. I turned my head to avoid him and felt the sole of his boot on my cheek, pressing my face even farther to the side.

“So this is the boy king who has caused us so much trouble?” he sneered. “I’m not much impressed.”

He removed the boot, then bent on one knee beside me. I kept my head turned away from him but felt his hot breath as he spoke. “I wish I could report that the girl died quickly and without pain,” he said. “But I found her alive at the bottom of the hill — barely. She begged me to have mercy on you. I told her I had no such intentions. And in the last breath of her life, she asked me to give you a message, from her heart straight to yours.”

This time I did look at him, though from his tone I knew he was bringing me anything but words of love. He grinned wickedly and showed me two of his fingers, wet with blood. Her blood. He ripped at my undershirt until he got my bare chest and brushed his fingers across the skin, creating two red lines there. It stung like acid, and hurt almost as much as if he’d stabbed me.

“Get him inside and locked down,” the commander ordered. “No rescuer will come within a mile of him!”

Someone pulled a dark sack over my head, and then they picked me up and carried me away by the chains. Several minutes later, I was deposited in a nearly black room filled with cold air that suggested I was in some underground location.

From there, I was transferred to irons fixed on the wall. It eased my situation somewhat because there was enough length on the chains that I could move my arms in front of me and slide to a sitting position. But nothing else improved. In the privacy of the room, one of the men who had carried me there kicked at my legs and gut, cursing me and telling me he’d had friends on the wall I exploded. He kept at it until another voice finally told him to stop.

After that, I withdrew into my own mind. I kept going back to those final moments. Imogen’s expression while I untied her. There was fear and doubt, but it was more than that. Anger that I’d rescued her, but maybe relief as well. Roden had said that Imogen looked at me as if she loved me. Had there been love anywhere in her expression?

I didn’t know. All I could think about was why she had stopped the archer. Why couldn’t she have just kept running and saved herself?

Aware that I wasn’t giving him any attention, the man who had kicked me before started at it again, harder this time. His foot connected with the very spot where Roden had broken my leg, and the pain of it forced a reaction from me.

“Ah, you have a weakness there,” he said. “I’ll remember that.”

“All of you are dismissed.” That voice belonged to the person who had kept a boot to my face. The men who responded called him Commander Kippenger.

I heard the room empty, then noted the sound of a knife being removed from its sheath. He placed the blade at the base of my neck and I hoped he’d make my death quick. My heart already felt as though it were full of holes, so he couldn’t make it worse. I just wanted it over fast.

But that was not his intention. He ran the knife back down my torn undershirt and sliced it off me in pieces. I wished he had removed the blood too. I couldn’t bear to feel it on my skin. Then he reached down and pulled the king’s ring off my finger. Finally, he removed my boots, I assumed to keep me from running away. I had no thought to even try. When all was finished, he pulled the sack off my head. I should have blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light, but there was so little, no adjustment was needed.

I was in a hastily dug prison cell, almost entirely buried underground, and lined with rough wooden boards to hold back the earth. The only existing light came through cracks in the roof high above us, but those gaps also leaked dirt and water and likely invited rats inside as well. Due to the nearness of the swamplands, the ground beneath me was muddy at best. Yet the irons on my wrists and ankles were anchored deep in the wall. I couldn’t pull free from them, even if I had the will to attempt it.

Kippenger was tall, with dark blond hair and a prominent nose. I supposed there’d be women who found him handsome if they didn’t stare too long and see his flaws. Namely that he was obviously a cruel sort of devil who seemed to take my capture as his personal badge of honor.

“There,” he said once he stood back to look at me. “Whatever you were before, you are nothing now. To the rest of the world, you will be dead. King Vargan is on his way here. He thought he was coming for the interrogation of your servant, but he’ll be pleased to see we now have a much higher prize.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t care.

“Vargan will spread word of your death to the farthest reaches of these lands,” he continued. “Robbed of their king, within days Carthya will be extinguished like a candle in a breeze.”

My mind was already wandering again. I wondered whether Herbert and Evendell had survived. If Mott had gotten away, if he had seen what happened to Imogen. If he had seen me. And what they’d do to me here if I refused to surrender in this war. The blame for the destruction of my country lay solely at my feet.

And I had no will to make any of it better.

T
he most difficult time to be hungry is when the pangs first start. When the body realizes it’s missed a meal and signals that it wants food. But after a while it gives up asking; it gives up expecting anything. The pangs will return, of course, and the hunger never goes away. But once a person has reached this stage, he has bigger problems than the next meal.

Hunger was the least of my concerns.

In the first couple of days following my capture, I was left almost entirely alone. My prison was well guarded — I knew that from the conversations that filtered down through the boards over my head. But I remained in the darkness, was given nothing to eat, and had only the muddy water that dripped from the earth above to drink. The few visits I did get were only to be sure I was still there, and to add to my injuries in whatever way entertained the vigils. In all that time, I never fought back, never said a word, never gave a single indication I registered their presence. As far as I was concerned, if they were going to tell everyone I was dead, I might as well behave that way.

On the morning of the third day, their treatment changed. A couple of Vargan’s soldiers came with a bowl of soup they insisted I eat. I gave them a thorough description of where they could shove it and waved it away. The taller of the men threw the bowl at me, as if I cared about that, and they left.

Later that evening, a plate was carried in with a chunk of stale bread and a cup of dirty water. I tossed the bread into the corner, hoping the rats would prefer chewing on it rather than getting any closer to me. I tried to hit someone when I threw the cup, but didn’t manage to throw even as far as the vigil’s feet.

Commander Kippenger was immediately summoned, and yelled a lot about how much trouble he’d be in if I didn’t start eating. Somehow, that single fact made the hunger easier to bear.

The next morning, a woman was sent in with a towel that she used to wash me up. I begged her to wipe whatever was left of Imogen’s blood off my chest and she did. Only then did I feel able to breathe again.

“I helped take care of the girl once they brought her here,” the woman said. “They offered her every possible reward for information about you, but she always refused.”

It hurt to hear about Imogen, yet I realized not hearing about her was worse. I had spent much of the past two days thinking back on things the priests of the churches had taught about an afterlife. If they were right, that all good people became saints in heaven, then surely that was where Imogen now rested. My family would be there as well. Whether it was true or not, I chose to believe that’s where she was, happy and free from any worries or pain. It helped.

After the woman left, a chair was brought into the room. A herald outside announced the presence of King Vargan, though by the prickle of my skin, I’d already sensed him nearby. Moments later he entered my prison.

In his youth, Vargan had been a commanding presence, but time had worn away at him like seawater against a sandcastle. His gray hair was tied back and he had thick round spectacles that enlarged his dark-saddled eyes. A servant accompanying him discreetly mentioned the spectacles and Vargan quickly removed them, as if he hadn’t wanted anyone to see. When he gave them to his servant, he was then handed a cloth, which he pressed to his nose. I found that odd, since it hadn’t even occurred to me how it must smell in here. He stood in the doorway, stretched his back, and then studied me as he walked forward. Eventually he settled into his chair, though he still hadn’t spoken a word, and I had yet to acknowledge him.

“I’m told you won’t eat,” he said finally.

“Avenian food tastes like salted dung,” I muttered.

“I expected some humility. I could let you die in here.”

“I wish you would.”

He shifted his weight and looked me over. “Captivity has been hard on you. You look terrible.”

“So do you. At least I have an excuse.”

He chuckled softly. “The boy king single-handedly invades my country, causes the death of the girl he loves, and now is mine to treat in any manner I see fit. As you were told, we immediately sent word of your death far and wide, along with an offer to your prime regent for peaceful surrender.”

“I’m glad you’re offering,” I said. “He’ll happily accept your surrender.”

He chuckled again. “When we met on the night of your family’s funeral, I said that I liked you, and I do. You’re a spirited young man, greatly in need of discipline, but with many qualities I admire. I wish we could’ve been friends.”

I said nothing. My wishes for him were far less kind.

“Your position in this war isn’t good, Jaron. The best choice for any of your men is to put down their swords. There will be a heavy price for their loyalty, and I hope you won’t require that of them any longer. Do you think I’m not serious? The two archers who came with you are dead. Did you know that? They stayed to help you when they ought to have run.”

I had figured they must be gone, but it was still terrible news. I took note that he didn’t mention Mott. Perhaps there was a chance he had somehow escaped.

Vargan continued, “If it was only my army, you would still be outmatched, both in strength and in numbers, but there is also Gelyn and Mendenwal against you. I heard about your fight with the captain of your guard. Now he’s left and taken the finest of your soldiers from what I’m told. Your remaining armies are scattered, without the strength to defend any single area. And I have you, still in mourning for that girl.”

He referred to Imogen as “that girl,” which was an insult to her. Yet I preferred that to hearing him use her name. He had no right to speak it, not after what he’d done.

Vargan leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “We’ve waited as long as we can to bury her. I wonder if you want to see her body, to see where the arrow struck. You may wish for the chance to mourn properly.”

Still I remained silent. The thought had occurred several times to ask to see her, but ultimately I knew seeing her that way, having that one last memory, would destroy me even faster.

Vargan shrugged indifferently. “We know nothing for her gravestone other than her first name. She died in battle, and deserves more than that.”

Amarinda would want Imogen adopted into her own house. I was sure of that. “She was Imogen of Bultain,” I mumbled. “That was her name.”

He nodded. “And is there any epitaph you want added?”

The words had already formed in my mind, and yet I waited until I was looking directly at him before I said, “Here lies Imogen of Bultain. Whose death prompted a revenge that marked the final days of King Vargan.”

Vargan’s face hardened and he stood. “Consider yourself lucky I don’t bury you beside her. Because of your insolence, she will have no gravestone. There will be no memory of her ever having been here.”

If only memories could be abandoned so easily.

“I took her!” Vargan yelled. “And before this is over, I’ll take everything from you.”

“There’s nothing left,” I mumbled.

“Are you sure of that? You’ll give me whatever I want, or you’ll learn what it means to lose everything. Mott, that servant you care so much about. I will let you watch every minute of his slow execution. Rulon Harlowe — he’s like a father to you, isn’t he? It won’t take much to end his life. And the princess. She’ll be lucky to escape with as little pain as that kitchen noble you loved.”

By then, he had my attention. Coming from anyone else, those might have only been threats designed to frighten me. But Vargan would relish the chance to carry them out. If I didn’t cooperate with him, using one person after another, he would destroy me.

He called for his vigils, then pointed at me and said, “Let the devils humble him. The next time I see this boy, I want him eager to bow at my feet. He will not defy me!”

The vigils bowed to their king and some of them escorted him up the stairs. The others came closer to me, pounding fists into their hands, preparing to carry out Vargan’s orders.