The King's Whisper

by T. S. Cleveland

  “I’m not going to sell you,” he said, releasing Felix’s wrists, a tinge of disgust in his voice.

  “You’re not?” Felix sniffed.

  “No,” answered the king, those strange eyes narrowing. “I’m going to keep you.”

  3 - The Generosity of a King

  The camp of bandits yelled their concurrence and began removing their black bandanas, revealing their faces. Felix doubted that was a good sign.

  “K-keep me?” he asked, hugging his arms protectively around his middle and trying not to faint. “What does that mean?”

  The bandit king cocked an eyebrow at him. “It means I liked your playing, Flautist.” He motioned to a bandit beside him, a woman with spring-tight ginger curls and as much dirt on her face as charcoal smudged around her eyes—that is to say, a lot. “Selon,” he said, “escort my new flautist to my tent and see him readied.” His eyes flitted over the collar of Felix’s shirt. “The winter woods are no place for lace.”

  “My pleasure, King,” answered Selon, grabbing Felix by the elbow and dragging him away without another word.

  He went with her silently, for what could he possibly say? No, thank you. I prefer the first option of death? He was alive and had the chance to stay alive, and once the shock of the last hour and a half wore off, he would be thankful. Possibly.

  As Selon shoved him forward through the parting crowd of bandits, he scolded himself for playing the flute too well. He should not have gone with “Wolf Run” and been such a show off. He should have played something simpler. Enough to impress, but not enough to beguile. He had never managed to beguile anyone in his life, and now he was being herded towards a tent to be readied in whatever way a bandit king’s flautist was readied.

  The king’s tent rested toward the back of the camp, no larger than the others they’d passed, and when Selon nudged him through the flaps, there was nothing kingly about its interior. It was small, for starters, and scarcely filled. There was enough room for him to stand, and it was wide enough for a pallet of fur blankets on the ground, but with two people inside, it was already cramped. Selon began rummaging through a crate that was pushed up against the back corner, and, after a moment, she pulled out a heap of clothing and threw it to Felix. He caught the clothes, clutching them awkwardly to his chest and not knowing what to do next.

  “Go on,” she urged him impatiently. “Shed your princeling gear and put that on.”

  “I’m not a princeling,” Felix reminded her as he poked at the heavily worn leather on top of the bundle.

  “Then you won’t mind not dressing like one, right?”

  Felix didn’t mind changing. He just minded doing it in front of the woman bandit, who was leering at him with an expectedness he didn’t much care for. “Would you turn around, please?” he asked.

  She doubled over with laughter, going so far as to actually slap her knee, but then she gave a little sniffle and turned her back to him. “Modesty will do you no favors all the way out here,” she told him. Her red curls bounced as she continued to laugh, and Felix spared a moment to glare at her back and compare the shade of her hair to rust on an old bucket, before giving his attention to the clothes.

  He slipped out of the attire Queen Bellamy had given him and quickly slipped into what obviously belonged to the king. The breeches were soft and worn, but they would never have stayed fixed on his hips without their accompanying sash, which he tied in a sturdy knot around his waist. Next, he rolled on thick, woolen socks that stopped at his knees, and then he stepped back into the queen’s delicate slippers. Apparently, Selon did not think it likely he would be a good match for the king’s spare boots. The shirt he pulled over his head had him practically swimming in mismatching pieces of fabric, but he tucked it into the breeches as best he could and tried to settle the garment so it wouldn’t hang off his shoulders. Clearly, the bandit king had an ample supply of muscles hidden beneath his furs, a poor match to Felix’s own spindly form. The last addition was a fur pelt of his own, one that slipped over his head like a poncho and settled over his torso, all the way to below his sash. It covered his arms, but didn’t impede his movement, so he would have no trouble lifting his flute.

  With his new attire donned, he cleared his throat, and Selon turned back around, chortling when she saw him in the too-big clothes. He blushed and looked at the ground.

  “You look ridiculous,” she laughed, reaching forward and tugging at his elbow. “Let’s show King.”

  He had no choice but to stumble after her as she hauled him from the tent, and he jumped when half the camp started clapping and hollering. Too afraid to meet any of their eyes, he followed Selon, keeping his focus on her rust-bucket curls, until she’d led him to a bigger tent in the middle of camp.

  She didn’t announce herself, just entered, dragging Felix along with a grip so hard it pinched his skin. The king, who was bent over a map spread over a tree stump table, looked up when they came in, along with several other bandits, one of whom was the man Felix had head-butted. Now that his bandana was off, his swollen nose with dried blood around the nostrils was evident, and Felix was glad for it. He would have been gladder if not for the lump on the back of his own head, proof of their collision.

  The king was frowning again, and Felix couldn’t decide if he preferred to be frowned at or smirked at. Both expressions were daunting, and he would have liked for the man to keep his eyes to himself, but that didn’t seem like it would be happening any time soon. The king straightened up from his lean over the map and looked at Felix with purpose, like he was searching for something specific. If it was Felix’s dignity, he’d need to look harder. For the moment, he was running on pure shock and an unhealthy dose of fear.

  “Where’s your flute?” the king asked suddenly, and Felix realized he’d been looking for his satchel, which was now hidden beneath animal skin.

  He hastened to dig it out, presenting it with open hands. “Here, Your … Highness?”

  A few snickers sounded from everyone but the king, who snapped, “Don’t call me that.”

  Felix bowed his head, completely ignorant as to the correct protocol for interacting with bandit kings. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to address you. Do you prefer King? Just King?” The other bandits had addressed him as such, and he hoped he wasn’t crossing a line by saying it, as well. But the swollen-nosed bandit cackled at the name, and the king’s frown evolved into a much scarier grimace that had his fierce eyebrows bashing violently together on his forehead.

  “Torsten,” the king said, so sharply it sounded like a curse.

  Felix nodded, despite his lingering confusion. “King Torsten?” he asked, and he swore he could almost hear the man grinding his teeth.

  “Not King,” he snapped. “Just Torsten. But seeing as I’ve attained you as my flautist and not my scribe, you should have little need to address me at all. Just do as I say, when I say.”

  Felix’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  “For example, right now, I’d like for you to play something while I confer with my friends. Something light, Flautist. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Torsten.” Felix spat out the words before he could filter them into something more polite. When the bandit king’s mouth opened—whether to chide him or order his execution—Felix lifted the flute to his lips and started playing before he could speak.

  The bandits all watched him for the first few moments of his playing—something simple and unobtrusively melodic this time—before returning their attention to the map splayed on the table. Felix stepped back until he hit the tent wall. He played in the corner, trying to make himself invisible, becoming his music and nothing more.

  The king—Torsten—and the others quickly fell into their work, whatever it was, while Felix kept up a melody, calm and smooth without being tiring. He was the background mood, and the mood was casual studiousness. When several minutes had passed and no one had looked twice at him or asked him t
o change songs, Felix was able to relax a bit and let his mind and ears wander to his inattentive audience.

  Torsten was pointing to the map, eyes squinted, and the others were huddled around him. “They’ll be using this contact point here,” he said, “until they’ve rebuilt the palace.” He looked up at the swollen-nosed man. “There weren’t at least a few goods in the carriage, Jossy?”

  “Didn’t get a good look, myself, if I’m being honest,” Jossy answered, his voice stuffy from his bloody nose. “I was the grabber.”

  Torsten glanced at Felix, and then returned his eyes to the map. “Harold?”

  A man with wispy hair and a thin mustache gave the king a shrug. “From the looks of it, the only goods the guards were looking after was the princeling. I had a look inside the carriage and under the driver’s seat after I took care of the guards, but I didn’t find anything of interest.”

  Felix stumbled over the next note, and all the bandits looked at him. He felt his face reddening as he quickly corrected the melody, and a few moments later, the attention was off him again. But now he was too disturbed to eavesdrop. The one named Harold was the bandit who’d approached Merric when he was on his knees in the snow, trying to get up again. He was the one with the nocked bow, aiming an arrow at Merric’s head.

  He took care of the guards. Felix knew what that meant.

  It meant Merric was dead.

  And no one was coming for him.

  Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t dare stop playing. The only reason he was alive was to entertain the bandit king, and he doubted crying was the entertainment the man sought.

  Ten minutes later, his tears had dried and the meeting was over, the bandits dispersing and leaving the tent. When it was only Torsten and Felix, the king rolled up the table map, stuck it carefully into the pocket of his trousers, and strode for the exit. As he passed Felix, he paused.

  “Follow me, Flautist.” He walked out of the tent, and Felix followed directly, still blowing away sadly at the flute. After a moment, Torsten spun around and delivered him another frown. “You can stop playing now,” he said.

  Felix put the flute back in his satchel and began stretching out his arms and rolling his sore wrists as he followed the bandit king towards his tent. Exhausted though he was, adrenaline began to pump through his body anew as he fretted over what exactly being “kept” by a bandit entailed. The songs he knew speculated a wide array of possible tortures, half of which pertained to the location of the bandit’s bed. But when they reached the tent, Torsten entered without pause, and before Felix could walk in behind him, he re-emerged. He held a bowl in his hands and handed it over.

  “Fetch yourself supper. There’s stew cooking on the fire over there. Eat quickly and then find me.”

  Felix nodded, and then bowed, because he wasn’t sure what else to do, and then he scurried off towards the cook fire. It was the largest of the fire pits in the camp, and a young man who didn’t look much older than himself was stirring a pot of delicious smelling stew. Upon Felix’s approach, he paid him a fleeting glance over his shoulder and motioned for him to come closer. He had long hair that he wore in a braid, and thick spectacles, and when Felix came close enough, he ladled a heaping helping of stew into his bowl that looked like pheasant, potatoes, and leeks.

  “Thank you,” Felix said, holding the steaming bowl up to his face and inhaling.

  “Take a seat before you drop,” the cook instructed, going back to stirring the pot.

  As that sounded like a wonderful idea, Felix settled on a rock beside the fire and dug in. He was worn down and starving and the food was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

  “Slow down,” the cook warned. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

  Felix took the advice, but wondered why it was that even bandits thought he was incapable of taking care of himself. He remembered Merric in the carriage, only a few hours ago, afraid of him catching a cold. The thought of him made his chest tighten painfully.

  “Please don’t cry into your food,” moaned the cook. “It’ll mess with my seasoning.”

  Felix wiped his eyes. “It’s seasoned perfectly,” he said with a teary smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a better stew.”

  The cook turned from his pot to stare at Felix. “You’re really not a royal, are you?”

  Felix shook his head. “I’m not a royal. I’m not anyone special at all.”

  “There must be something special about you, or King wouldn’t have let you stay.”

  Let him stay? As if it was a privilege? “Lucky me.”

  “He’s not so bad, you know.”

  “Says the bandit,” glowered Felix.

  “Says Dot.” The cook saluted him with his spoon.

  Felix took another bite of his food, thinking. He swallowed. “Felix,” he offered at last.

  “Felix the Flautist,” Dot repeated doubtfully. “Sounds like a story.”

  Felix consented to a nod as he chased a potato around with his spoon. “Not a very good one.”

  When he finished his supper, Dot took his bowl and pointed him in the direction of Torsten. Felix found him beside his tent, sharpening arrowheads. He didn’t speak, just stood there quietly, watching. Torsten didn’t frown or smirk while he busied himself with the arrows. His face was smooth and relaxed as he worked. Only when Felix shuffled his feet and adjusted his weight nervously did he look up.

  “You’ve been crying,” he accused gruffly, setting his work aside and standing.

  “Yes,” Felix snuffled, rubbing at his eyes. “My friend is dead and I’ve been kidnapped by bandits.”

  The king took a step forward and Felix scampered back. “You’ll play during dinner tonight, and you will not cry. No one likes a weepy flautist. It’s depressing.”

  “Gods forbid I put anyone in a b-bad mood,” Felix replied, surprised by his own defiance.

  The king seemed surprised by it, too. “You’ve a sharp tongue on you. Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you for your insolence?”

  “A little,” Felix admitted, sounding far, far braver than he felt. “But what use is a flute without a flautist?” He was acting brash and not at all like himself, but the day’s culmination of tragedy and horror was pushing him to not care, and something about the bandit king’s face made him want to lash out. Merric was lying dead in the snow miles away. The least Felix could do was speak an angry word or two to the man who’d orchestrated his death.

  The king ignored his words, perhaps not knowing what to do with them, and instead looked past Felix’s head, his eyes fixed beyond his halo of curls. “You may sit while we dine, but you’ll stay where I can see you.”

  Felix took a deep breath. “I prefer to stand while I play, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Have it your way,” Torsten said.

  Have it his way? Felix bit his tongue to keep from responding. Perhaps he had spent too much time with Scorch, for he was suddenly feeling a dire need to run his mouth like a fool. A part of him—a larger part than he knew he had inside himself—wanted to see how far he could push at Torsten, but the greater, more sensible part of him knew the man was an unknown quantity. There was no telling whether or not he would push him too far and end up getting himself killed by the end of the day, after one too many sharp-tongued comments. And even with Merric dead, Felix wasn’t suicidal. He had no intention of dying in a bandit camp, no more than he had any intention of remaining to be the bandit king’s personal flautist. He would find a way to escape, but it wouldn’t be through making the man before him more aware of his rebelliousness than necessary. So he smothered the urge to tell Torsten exactly which way he would like to have it, and gave him a bow, low to the ground, the same as he paid the queen.

  Torsten scoffed, but Felix didn’t know him well enough to determine whether it was with amusement or disgust. Judging by his accompanying scowl, he assumed the latter.

  “Happy tunes for dinner, Flautist,” Torsten said as he walked past, brushing agains
t Felix’s shoulder as he went.

  Felix responded with a tiny scoff of his own, straightened the fur around his shoulders, and pulled the flute from his satchel. He chose the queen’s flute again, the single silver lining of his dark day.

  The bandits were loud as they dined. They drank ale from a cask—no doubt acquired through dubious means—and rapped their spoons against their bowls in salute of Dot before they began to eat. There was no order to their seating arrangement. Rather, they all came together in a vague circle around the cook fire, their leader sitting casually amongst them instead of atop his dais. Felix remained where he could be seen by Torsten, moving around as he played, walking the perimeter of their dining circle.

  He gave the man what he had requested, a happy atmosphere, playing tavern songs with fast, bright pacing. The bandits seemed to approve, though he didn’t know how they usually acted when there was no music to accompany their dinner. When he passed behind Torsten on his journey around the circle, he watched the man turn his head to keep him in sight. Their eyes met and held for too long before Felix looked away. He tried to ignore him for the rest of dinner, but he was positive he was being watched closely by startling hazel eyes.

  The reality struck him anew, as dinner was winding down, that the king most likely kept him for reasons beyond his skill with the flute, and that those reasons may be forced upon him sooner rather than later. When Torsten held up his hand and narrowed his eyes at him, Felix took it as his cue to stop playing. He lowered the instrument from his mouth and bit his lip, breathing too hard and feeling sick.

  He watched in silence as the bandits handed off their empty bowls to Dot, some tugging playfully on the cook’s braid, others clapping his shoulder, and then they all began to disperse to different sections of the camp, many disappearing into tents. Night had fallen as they ate, and though the hour could not have been terribly late, Felix supposed even bandits occasionally needed an early night. And that would have been fine if not for the way Torsten was stalking towards him as if he was some kind of prey.