Page 2 of Prize for the King
At least it won’t be long. The inner courtyard doors aren’t half as sturdy as the high castle’s gate. They’ll break through within minutes.
When I look back at Avinia, a puddle spreads around her black, high heeled shoes. It grows larger, claiming more and more of the wooden floor until it reaches the carpet and sinks in, staining the silvery gray two shades darker. I was right. Itisabsorptive.
“They are inside, they are here, they are inside…”
Avinia seems to have forgotten me. Her eyes are empty and stupid, her lips chanting a panicked plea that is not a prayer or even a wish.
So much for teaching me all those worship chants, I think. Gods are useless, after all.
Just let me die swiftly,I send out a quiet prayer.That’s all I ask for.
It’s shockingly easy to avoid panic when one simply accepts one’s fate. It is inevitable to perish, ergo, I can do nothing to change it.
There’s freedom in utter, inexorable helplessness.
A commotion breaks out in the corridor outside my rooms, sounds of quarrel drifting in through the door Avinia left ajar.
“You cannot… The throne room… Protocol!”
“I need to see my daughter!”
Unlike the first minister’s feeble objections that I only hear fragments of, my father’s voice rings loud and authoritative. I brace for his entrance, doing my best to ignore the familiar, squirming feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Caliane!”
My father stands in the doorway, filling it with his bulk. He’s a tall man, with a body muscular and robust, though the gray hairs at his temples betray his age. His eyes are sharp, nose hawkish. His chin and cheeks, swarthy from daily rides out in the sun, are clean shaven. He’s wearing his best ermine cloak.
I want to quip that he chose a nice shroud for himself, but I bite my lips shut and take a deep breath to calm down.
“Yes, Father?”
“Undress. Now.”
My lips slacken, and the bottom of my stomach falls away, exposing me to a sickly vastness of terror. I am frozen, dumbfounded. Avinia, who’s stepped away from her waste, sobs quietly in the corner.
When the moment stretches past natural, my father huffs impatiently and steps over the puddle. I flinch, my hands curling into fists in my lap. I want to raise them up to my chest, but it will only make it worse.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks, voice thunderous. “There’s no time! Undress and put this on.”
A swathe of coarse, brownish-gray fabric lands in my lap. I catch it before it slides off, slowly unrolling a dress that’s nothing like my usual garments. It’s shapeless and badly made, the stitching uneven. As the hem unrolls to the floor, a brown bonnet falls on the carpet. I look up at my father, uncomprehending.
“They don’t slaughter servants,” he explains in clipped words. “Change right now. And remember I love you, my beautiful daughter. You’ve always been my most beloved prize.”
He bends low to give me a kiss, and I readily offer him my face, choked up by guilt. He’s always looked out for me, and I suspected him of…
Not now.
A firm, warm kiss presses to my forehead, then he’s gone, the bumbling minister following miserably at a trot to keep up with my father’s long strides. I glance at Avinia, who hiccups into a handkerchief. I suppose she is a kind of servant. She’ll probably live.
As I undo the fastenings of my gown, I share that thought with mygoverness.
“So you see? You won’t die, after all,” I trill in my best trained Cheerful Princess voice.
I can do Sulky Princess, Bratty Princess, and Curious Princess even better, since they come naturally to me, but they are forbidden. Avinia had me train the Cheerful one the longest.
My words don’t comfort her at all. If anything, she shakes even harder.
“They rape all women,” she whispers, her bloodless lips barely moving. “That’s how they conquer everything. They rape and impregnate us with their bastards, so their race replaces ours with time. Their members are so big, they maim women. They tear them open.”
