Page 3 of Prize for the King
I freeze. Is that what’s going to happen to me? Will I be raped by a nameless soldier and forced to carry his child?Gods.I thought I had a handle on my panic, but the accelerating pounding of my heart proves me wrong. Terror roils in my gut, slimy like tentacles of some underwater monster.
Isn’t it strange? I wasn’t afraid of death, butthisI can’t handle.
I slowly lower the chemise I was about to take off. Avinia sobs, her eyes closed. The room reeks of her waste and fear, and when another vibrating thud shakes the castle, a frightened whine tears out of my throat.
I’ve never been with a man before, not like this. And to think that I will be forced to the floor, my legs violently pried apart by an enormous Agnidari, and then, my insides plowed open by an unnaturally large appendage… I force back a sob as sweat breaks out all over my body, a cold, sticky layer of terror.
No. Anything but this.
Something’s happening to me. I can’t breathe, gasping in shallow, too small inhales. My throat is tight, my chest shrinking with everypanicked heartbeat. I press both hands to my heart, shaking my head, as wheezing sounds tear out of my mouth. The world grows dim, darkness spreading before my eyes.
I can’t breathe. I’ll die.
I grab onto that thought and cling to it with all my might, thinking,Good. I’d rather die. So it’s all right.
Somehow, that thought pulses like a beacon of calm. The next breath I take is a bit deeper, my throat opening to admit air. I realize I’m on my knees, and I press my hands to the lovely carpet, coughing and taking in big swallows of air until I’m almost well, just a bit dizzy and lightheaded.
It passed, whatever it was, leaving me shaken but purposeful.
When I blink the darkness away, I see the room is empty. Avinia must have gone to hide somewhere less obvious.
It’s eerily quiet, too. My heart sinks when I realize the sounds of the battering ram have stopped, and there are no more screams in the courtyard.
They must have broken through our last defense. They are here.
I am still for one heartbeat, and in the next, I jump into action. Hastily, I put on my gown, doing up every second hook of my bodice. It will look untidy, but I don’t have time to worry about appearances, do I? All I need to do, the most important thing, is make it clear I amnota servant.
My white-gold diadem glitters on top of the dresser, the diamonds reflecting the dawn, and I snatch it so fast, a sharp edge cuts my palm. Already out the door, I ram it into my hairdo that’s messy and loose after the sleepless night.
The corridor is eerily quiet as I sprint toward the staircase, my steps muffled by the thick carpet, this one red. Would it be preferable to the gray one, I wonder? Blood will be barely visible against the scarlet.
That’s how I manage to keep running despite the heaviness in my chest, the weight of terror in my belly. I focus on trivialities, a sweaty lock of hair sticking to my temple, an unsteady heel in my shoe that must have loosened during the long hours of nightly pacing.
If I let myself think of the future, I’ll lose it.
Down the stairs I run, throwing myself into death’s arms. Now I hear sounds. My steps echo on the marble, so white, it’s blinding. The tall, narrow windows admit the full glory of the golden dawn, but also—I turn my eyes away with a cringe—the sight of bodies outside. They are heaped around the well, the pile almost as tall as the wooden roof above the well casing.
Who does that?I think, nausea tickling the back of my throat.What sort of army puts the bodies into piles while still fighting?
The sight freezes my blood, so I speed up, terrified I’ll lose my nerve. I want a proud, dignified death. I cannot run away and hide.
The doors to my father’s throne room stand wide open. I burst through without paying attention—and collide with an unnaturally tall form of a warrior.
I know it’s a warrior from the clink of armor, the scent of blood, and from the musk—male musk that surrounds him like a lethal halo.
A hand shoots out to grab my arm, firm and unyielding. I gasp, swallow my terror, and catch my balance. My eyes are glued to the floor in front of me, because if I look up and see the Tyrant’s army in my father’s throne room, I will soil myself like Avinia.
The silence is deafening, but it’s different than the dead emptiness of the corridors on my floor. It’s textured with small sounds of breathing, shuffling, a cough, a whispered word, a small sob. Yet nobody speaks for a long, blessed moment, in which I focus on the boots in front of me to calm down.
They are uncommonly large, made of brown leather, and muddied, but not just with any mud, no. This substance is what I imagine iscreated when one mixes soil, fresh grass trodden by military boots, and then blood, and possibly bits of entrails. It is a stinky, murderous mud, and I want to throw up on those shoes to cover it up with something nicer.
But before I have time to rouse my stomach into action, a voice cuts through the silence, desperate and afraid.
“My prize! No! Please, no!”
I flinch, my head jerking to look up at the throne before I stop the motion. I’ve never heard my father this terrified. He was always a pillar of strength, a protective, prying force that hovered over all my moments, either waking or sleeping, until I felt smothered and small.
Hesounds small now.
