Sophia, Princess Among Beasts

by James Patterson

  “Stop being vague,” I said. “Tell me what you’re doing lurking in the hallway.”

  “We are to spend a little time together,” he said.

  I shuddered at the thought. “Ares still thinks I’ll choose one of you,” I said.

  Mordred’s smile was sly. “He knows you will. Let us talk, Princess. Perhaps you will come to like me.”

  I plucked the flower from my hair and threw it back at him. “I highly doubt it.”

  “You must admit, I am better than some,” he wheedled.

  “Considering the scum you call your friends, that’s hardly saying much,” I said.

  He grabbed my arm and thrust his face close to mine. “I was hoping for a friendly conversation,” he said. His fingers were cold and his breath smelled like a tomb. “Or perhaps a kiss.”

  I yanked myself away. “I’d sooner cut out my tongue,” I said.

  Mordred’s face darkened. “Watch what you say to me, girl.”

  But I knew from my book that Mordred was greedy and weak, and his only true power was that of deceit. “I’m not afraid of you,” I said.

  “But perhaps you should be.”

  “You’re a sycophant and a coward,” I said. “If you are kind, it is only because you are not strong enough to be cruel. Had you more power, you would be more despicable than any of your fellow knights. You are a worm who longs to be a cobra.”

  As I spoke, Mordred grew paler and spots of color began to bloom on his cheeks. He raised a hand—he wanted to strike me. But this time I did not flinch, and he lowered his hand on his own.

  “You spoiled, insolent girl,” he hissed. “Ares made a mistake in taking you. He should’ve left you to die like the rest.”

  And then he turned on his heel and stormed away. Die like the rest? What did he mean?

  I hadn’t even put my hand on the door to my room when a tall white form appeared at the end of the hall. It was Hasshaku Sama, wafting down the corridor like a ghost. “I suppose Ares has sent you as well,” I called to her.

  She said nothing, only bent her head in acknowledgment.

  “But you don’t like me,” I said. “I’m too old for you.”

  Hasshaku Sama’s laugh was the hiss of a snake. “You are too old to be eaten, true. But as a companion you may show more promise.”

  “You will not get a chance to find out,” I said. “Float away, back to Ares, and tell him I refused you. Tell him I refuse you all.”

  Hasshaku Sama inhaled slowly. “I will,” she said, “but not because I obey you. I go because I can sense that I will not enjoy your company.” She looked me up and down. “You look like a charwoman,” she said.

  “And you look like a piece of muslin hung to dry on a line,” I answered.

  Hasshaku Sama seemed to shimmer and vibrate with rage. “I will not tolerate this insolence!”

  “By all means, don’t. Leave me,” I shouted, and then I pushed my door open, stalked into the room, and slammed it closed behind me.

  I went to the fire and prodded it with the iron poker. It flared up, bright and crackling. I put my head in my hands. I was tired and drained; I craved the oblivion of sleep. I could not stand these monsters, and I could not stop thinking about the fate of my beloved kingdom.

  Cold and exhausted, I kicked off my boots, turned to my bed, and gasped.

  Reiper lay sprawled across my pillows.

  CHAPTER 47

  Hello again,” he said. He leisurely gathered himself into a sitting position, a demon with the face of a god.

  I could feel the blood drain from my cheeks. My pulse beat hard in my throat. I pressed myself against the wall. I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I would scream.

  Reiper took note of my reaction, and the tiniest hint of a smile flickered on his terrible, perfect face. “This is a cold welcome for a suitor.”

  I struggled to control my voice. “Who let you in?”

  His smile inched wider. “Silly, beautiful girl,” he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I do not need to be let in anywhere. I think you of all people should know that.”

  That vile, soft voice.

  I thought back to that awful night at Bandon Castle, when the air was thick with fear and panic. I remembered my father’s men running madly through the hallways, shouting in terror, desperately trying to prevent a horror that had already happened.

  I saw my father’s lifeblood spilling onto the floor.

  I put my hand on the smooth curves of the harp. Somehow it steadied me. “You were in my castle that night, weren’t you?” I asked. “It was you who found me in the hallway. Did Ares attack my people? Does Bandon still stand?”

  Reiper said nothing.

  My voice was a whisper. “Did you kill my father?”

  His eyes, black as depthless space, flicked away toward a narrow window. Moments of tense, cold silence passed, and then he turned to look at me again. His face was utterly emotionless, his eyes unblinking, and I had the sense that I was being somehow evaluated. Judged. He was trying to decide what I knew, and what I deserved to know.

  I refused to speak or look away from him.

  Eventually Reiper broke his stony gaze. “Has no one told you, Your Highness, that it is better not to ask questions when you will not like the answers?”

  “My father did not teach me to honor ignorance,” I said, “but rather honesty. Bravery.”

  “You certainly seem to care a lot about him,” Reiper replied. “He was a killer, too, you know.”

  “He was a warrior, not a murderer,” I said.

  Reiper rose from the bed and went to stand by the fire. I wished that it would explode from its grate and consume him. But it flickered pleasantly, and its quiet crackling seemed to speak of warmth and comfort.

  It was a lie.

  “Did you kill my father?”

  “I don’t know why it matters,” Reiper asked. “Does a tree care which axe felled it?”

  Chillingly, his words reminded me of Raphael’s when I’d asked him whom they were planning to attack. “Stop evading my question. You seek to be my suitor, and so you must give me what I want.”

  Reiper nodded. “Of course. I know what a princess wants. Gold, priceless gems, perfumes from lands beyond the sun—”

  “I want the truth.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”

  “I have been called worse,” I said.

  “I am an honest man, and so I will tell you,” Reiper said. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

  “I will not.”

  “Suit yourself.” He began to walk the perimeter of the room. “I can kill with a look, or with a wave of my hand, did you know that? And you’ve seen for yourself how easily I can slay a speechless demon or a knife-fingered killer with a sword. But I prefer the intimacy of a knife,” he said. “I like to feel the blade going into the flesh. Did you know that it makes a sound like tearing? Like threads ripping? Did you know that it feels different to kill a man than it does an animal? Physically, I mean—emotionally there is little difference. As far as I am concerned, a man is but a pig on two legs. But there is more fat on a man, especially a rich, well-fed one. The skin can be tough, but the knife goes through fat like butter.”

  Reiper stopped and turned to face me. “Oh, the great Warrior King, he begged for his life just like any peasant. He wept. He even spoke your name—as if I would be moved to pity by an orphaned princess! I had brought my sharpest dagger, with a blade so thin and evil it could cut the eye that merely looked at it.” He paused. “But for your father, I chose a duller knife.”

  My pulse quickened. I could almost hear my blood rushing through my veins. “Stop now,” I gasped. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  But Reiper went on. “You asked for the truth, and now you shall have it, Princess. There’s no changing your mind when it gets unpleasant. You see, I wanted it to hurt. I wanted it to last. What satisfaction is there in death if it comes too quickly? Murder should be
a leisurely process. There’s more to savor that way.”

  He threw another log onto the fire and I—I just stood there, paralyzed with horror.

  “And so, Your Highness, I found your father in a midnight hallway, and there in the darkness he pleaded with me to spare his life. As the words poured from his gasping, gluttonous mouth, I slowly plunged the knife in so deep that even the hilt was inside his body. My hand drowned in blood. I could have grabbed his entrails and wound them around my wrist like a rope had I wanted to. Oh, the sounds he made! The agony he knew in those moments… it was one of my best kills.”

  I couldn’t bear it anymore. I covered my ears, but I could still hear his voice.

  “The honest murderer is the most dangerous,” said Reiper, “for he has no fear, or guilt, or shame. Pride, perhaps, in the savage death he brings. I did take a bit of your father, you know. Here—here is a little slice of his heart. Would you like to hold it? Dried, it makes a fine talisman.”

  He moved toward me in the flickering half-light.

  No, no—

  I stumbled backward, throwing up my hands, trying not to see the small, shriveled, brownish thing he held out to me.

  “Hello, my beautiful princess,” he whispered, just as he had on that horrible night. “I think I’m in love.”

  The room spun around me, and then everything went dark.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 48

  I woke in my bed with Florence standing over me, her pale face lined with worry. “I found you in a heap on the floor,” she said. “Whatever happened? Are you ill?”

  I sat up stiffly. My throat felt parched and my head throbbed. I rubbed my eyes and then looked quickly around the luxurious room, as if Reiper might still be lurking in the shadows. There was no one but me and Florence. But Reiper’s presence seemed to linger in the air, poisoning it.

  My breath caught at the memory of his vile words.

  “How do you stay here?” I sobbed. “How do you serve such monsters?”

  Florence handed me a steaming mug of milk, spiced with cinnamon and clove. “You are hardly a monster,” she said.

  Gasping, I took a sip. It was warm and soothing. “You know full well that’s not what I meant.”

  Florence sat down on the edge of my bed—a liberty Jeanette would have never taken. “You are so young still,” she said gently. “There’s much you do not understand.”

  “I’m seventeen, and my mind is hardly deficient.”

  Florence smoothed the silk coverlet and then looked up at me. “But you have not yet had to make a terrible bargain,” she said quietly. “You have not had to give up one thing in order to keep something else.”

  “I think I’ve given up a lot,” I said. “My crown, my freedom—”

  “But not willingly,” Florence said. “And that difference—between what is forcefully taken and what is voluntarily sacrificed—is a great one, my dear.”

  She stood up quickly and turned her back toward me. It was clear she didn’t want to talk about this anymore. I wondered what it was that Florence might have given up. What secret was she keeping?

  “Will you go to the village again today?” Florence asked, her tone falsely bright.

  I swung my legs over the bed and dug my toes into the fur rug, just as I used to at Bandon. “Yes, of course. If I have to stay here, fending off suitors all day, I’ll go mad.” And, I thought, Raphael wants me to come back—and there is a matter I must discuss with him.

  Florence smiled. “Mad? Then perhaps you will be more like the rest of us.” She handed me another woolen dress, well worn but clean. “I think Lelia, the servant girl, hopes you will keep exchanging garments with her.”

  “So I will,” I said. “I have little use for satin.”

  Florence paused at the door. “Why, child, were you on the floor?”

  I took a deep breath. To say out loud what I had learned—it made my heart ache all over again. It was as if I could still see the pooling blood, still watch my father’s face grow slack and gray in death. “He killed King Leonidus. He killed my father,” I finally said.

  “Ares?”

  “No, Reiper.”

  Florence nodded almost imperceptibly. She did not look surprised. “I am sorry, my dear. I hope the knowledge…” She seemed at a loss for what to say next. “… brings some peace,” she finally said.

  “It has done the opposite.”

  “Ares holds the throne by Reiper’s will,” Florence warned. “I must beg you. Do not test either of them, for each is worse than the other.”

  I didn’t answer. I would do far more than test them—I had already made that vow.

  Florence gathered up an armful of soiled linens and made for the door. “Be careful when you leave the castle, child,” Florence said as she shut the door. “And do not forget to return.”

  I dressed quickly and hurried to the village, meeting neither harpy nor tatzelwurm on my way. I asked the dog-faced man, who was plucking a chicken in his yard, where I might find Raphael, and he directed me down a narrow lane to the blacksmith’s workshop.

  The shop was dimly lit but blazing hot inside. An inferno of flames roared inside a giant forge, and Raphael was right in front of it. I watched as he pulled a glowing red piece of iron from the heat and then began to beat it into shape over a metal anvil. His chest was streaked with dirt and sweat, and the fire made a halo around his dark head. As my eyes wandered over his strong jaw, tense with concentration, the ropes of muscle straining in his arms, I felt a flare of heat rising from my core. I did not think it was from the forge.

  I dragged my eyes back to his face and I yelled as loudly as I could above the clang and din, “I’m glad to see your wounds have healed so quickly!”

  He looked up, caught sight of me. “Perhaps because I had such an excellent nurse yesterday,” he said.

  The flare in my body rose higher at his cheeky smile. “A-Are you making a sword?” I stammered. “I’m not sure you’re doing it correctly. Is it supposed to curve like that?”

  Raphael laughed and set his hammer down, wiping his brow of sweat. “I’m not making a sword, Your Highness. It’s a blade for a plow.”

  “But why a plow? You’ve been conscripted into Ares’s army.”

  “I assume he will provide his soldiers with fighting weapons.” Raphael held up the crude tool. “In the meantime, we must eat. Food doesn’t magically appear on a plate, you know. We must grow it.” A smile flickered in the corner of his mouth.

  “You tease me,” I said, smiling back. “I’m not so ignorant as all that.” I stepped closer to him, my voice lowering. “But how can you do it? How do you go about your daily work, while waiting to be called to bloodshed?”

  He looked down at me, his dark eyes boring into mine. His voice was barely audible over the din of the forge. “What do you think I should do instead?”

  What did I think he should do? Suddenly unsure of myself, I turned away from the intensity of his gaze. Through the grimy window of the smithy I saw a narrow lane and a girl skipping down it, her tattered skirt far too short for her coltish legs. Her wild, curling hair was the same bright copper as Fina’s—and as Rosa’s had been. My fingers twisted in the rough wool of my skirt. As she bounced out of sight, I knew, suddenly and certainly, that I could not let this girl’s village suffer as my village had.

  I felt my heart beat faster because of what I was about to say—and because Raphael and I stood so close together that our bodies almost touched.

  “Take matters into your own hands,” I said urgently. “Into our own hands.”

  Raphael frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand, Your Highness.”

  I waved my arms around the room. “You have fire, you have metal, you have hands. Make yourself swords!”

  And then he laughed. “All right, I admire your spark. But this is iron. Ares’s blades will be steel.”

  “I’m sure yours could kill just as effectively when wielded by brave men. And women,” I added. �
�When they fight not for Ares, but against him.”

  Raphael stared at me for a long moment—it seemed as if he couldn’t comprehend what I was talking about. But wasn’t it obvious? The best way to stop the attack on Bandon Castle was to mount an attack of our own.

  Then he spoke. “I think you’ve lost your mind,” he said.

  “There are more of you than there are of them,” I insisted.

  “More of who?”

  “Villagers,” I cried. “There are a thousand of you! Ares doesn’t have a vast legion of knights.”

  “He doesn’t need a legion with the killers he’s got,” Raphael said.

  “But they aren’t invincible—put a sword through their bodies, and they die like anyone else. I’ve seen it.”

  By now some of the other smiths had stopped their work to gather around us. I saw, with some surprise, that there was no hate in their eyes. Instead there was curiosity.

  “What does she want with us?” asked a man with an eye patch.

  “Nothing,” Raphael said quickly.

  I looked the man in his one good eye. “What Raphael means to say, actually, is nothing—except revolution.”

  CHAPTER 49

  At that, Raphael flung his arm around my shoulder and all but dragged me outside.

  “Excuse me,” I said, trying to shrug him off. “You can’t just haul me around like a stack of firewood.”

  Raphael’s eyes flashed. “It’s just as I feared, you really have gone mad. Or maybe you were always mad. You can’t wander into a room of men and talk about rising up against Ares and his knights.”

  “Should I speak to the women instead?” I asked.

  Raphael looked as if he’d like to shake me, but I had to make him understand. “Don’t tell me these villagers want to be on Ares’s side,” I said. “They all hate him, I know it.”