The King's Whisper

by T. S. Cleveland

  “With me,” he ordered as he walked, and Felix shivered, but did as he was told.

  They walked directly to Torsten’s tent. The king disappeared inside for a moment before popping back out and thrusting a straw-stuffed pillow in Felix’s face, as well as a blanket. He was still fumbling with them when Torsten dropped unexpectedly to his knees and clasped a metal cuff around his ankle.

  “W-what are you doing?” he asked, trying to squirm away.

  Torsten wrapped his hand around Felix’s calf to still him, tightening the cuff with his other hand. It was attached to a short chain, and he fastened the other side around one of his iron tent pegs, securing it with a lock.

  “You’ll sleep here,” the king announced, tugging at the chain a few times, and when he was satisfied with its integrity, he stood. After seeing the look on Felix’s face, his smirk returned. “Surely a flautist is no stranger to sleeping on the ground.”

  It was true. Felix had slept on the ground plenty of times, and in winter, too. But never in chains and never so far from a fire. He almost mentioned that, before he remembered how lucky he should feel that the king was not forcing him into his bed. Sleeping outside, on the ground, with nothing but a straw pillow was the better choice between those options, and so Felix nodded weakly and tried to smile gratefully.

  “This is only a precaution, Flautist,” Torsten continued, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Even if you managed to free yourself, there are always several of us on watch, and believe me when I say they will be watching you.”

  Felix nodded as he looked down to study the chain. He didn’t know how to pick locks. His best bet would be pulling the peg from the ground, which would make the king’s tent collapse and definitely wake him, not to mention that he would never get so far as to wrench a peg from the ground and not have the bandits patrolling catch him in his mischief. No, he had no illusions of being able to escape that night.

  “Thank you for this,” he said, giving the straw-stuffed square of cloth a squeeze. He was used to sleeping on straw, and he supposed it was better than nothing.

  “You’re welcome,” the bandit king responded stiffly. “I’ll be waking early, but you won’t need to get up as soon as I do. By breakfast is fine. I’d like a song then.”

  “Of course,” Felix said with another bow, this one faintly mocking, as he was tired and scared and he couldn’t help himself from the meager pleasure. “You have the generosity of a king.”

  Torsten must not have liked that, because he turned away abruptly and stormed through the tent flaps. It was too bad he didn’t have a door to slam and hardwood to stomp his feet upon, or it would have been a lovely exit. Felix curled up on the ground outside the tent, pushing the chain out of his way and setting his head on the pillow. The cuff was heavy and would quickly become uncomfortable, but there was nothing he could do about that. Besides, it was the chill of the night that made him the most uneasy. He was thankful for the thick fur and pulled it as tightly around his shoulders as he could, trying to bury his nose into its warmth. He looked longingly at the fires spread across camp, all of them too far away to provide him any comfort.

  Inside the tent, he could hear Torsten shuffling around as he prepared for bed. He thought he might have heard a bit of humming, but then it stopped and was replaced by a heavy sigh as the king settled into his pallet of warm furs. The night before, he had been wrapped up in Merric’s arms in a luxurious bed. Now, he was shivering and scared, his teeth already clattering together from the cold. He wondered if he would freeze to death. It would be an unsatisfying end to a lackluster story. So really, it would be quite fitting.

  4 - The Unusual Habits of Fruit Bandits

  He slept fitfully, as was to be expected after the day he’d had. Dreams of Merric plagued him. He thought of the soft kisses they’d exchanged in the carriage, and the ruby gleam of his hair when he’d stood guard, trying to protect him, always trying to protect him. He saw Merric staggering on his bad leg, trying to run, trying to catch the bandit that held Felix kicking in his arms. He saw the moment the arrow shot through his thigh, the surprise in his eyes—the eyes he’d yet to write songs about—and he saw the pain twist his mouth as he’d fallen forward. He heard the zip of an arrow and a grunt as a body hit the ground.

  So uncomfortably did he sleep, he found himself waking up at the smallest of sounds. He was freezing, curled into himself, his hands like ice where he burrowed them between his thighs for warmth. It was a miserable night, Felix was miserable, so when the king emerged from the tent at dawn, when the winter air was misty and the sky above the trees was still a wash of periwinkle and pink, Felix opened his eyes. He watched Torsten take his first deep breath of the morning, and a blossom of white vapor clung to the air upon his exhale. A shiver wracked Felix’s body, and he hid his nose in the fur pelt, which was now nearly as cold as the ground, with bits of snowflakes layering its soft tips. He couldn’t lie there another second; he had to get his blood moving.

  Torsten glanced down as Felix sat up, the chain around his ankle creaking from the frost that had formed along its surface. “Go back to sleep,” he said, and it was almost an order, but not quite.

  Felix shook his head and raised himself to his feet, shaking from the cold. “I-I’m not tired,” he insisted. He was tired—exhausted, really—but he’d rather be moving around and warming his bones by the fire than trying to go back to sleep in his freezing state. He stared into the king’s eyes, too cold and worn to look away.

  Torsten was frowning again, but he shortly bent to one knee and removed the cuff from Felix’s ankle. Felix tried not to groan from the warmth that blossomed where the king’s hand wrapped around his calf, steadying him.

  When he’d gathered up the chain and tossed it back within the confines of his tent, he tipped his head at Felix. “Come, Flautist,” he demanded.

  They walked to the center of the camp, toward the cook fire, where Dot was already busying himself over the same pot as last night, accompanied by several frying pans. The smell of bacon made Felix’s mouth water. Dot smiled at him as they approached, but grimaced when he saw Torsten. “Up too early again, King,” he groused. “When are you going to learn there’s nothing that can be done before the camp’s pulled up their underclothes for the day?”

  “Your underclothes are on,” Torsten replied humorlessly, accepting the mug of tea he was handed.

  “So they are. Can’t be cooking bacon without underclothes. Learned that one the hard way, didn’t I?”

  “The bacon had never tasted so good,” said the king, and Felix’s eyes widened, because that was definitely a joking tone, and wasn’t this an inappropriate conversation to be having with one’s king, even if said king was the King of Bandits?

  “It tastes good this morning, too,” Dot continued, “if you’ll stop frowning long enough to try some.”

  Torsten shrugged and took a sip of his tea. “See that my flautist eats first. There’s something I need to look over, and then I’ll eat. I promise.”

  Dot tutted in annoyance and Torsten walked off without another word. Seconds later, a strip of thick-cut bacon was placed in Felix’s hands, piping hot. He juggled it between his palms, blowing on it until it cooled.

  “You heard King. Eat up.” Dot pushed his spectacles up on his nose, the lenses steamed from the heat from the pot.

  Felix did as instructed, his eyes fluttering shut at the taste of something hot. When he’d finished one piece, Dot threw him a second, a third, and then booted him away from the cook fire. “Get out of here, quick, before I give it all to you.”

  While the food had filled Felix’s stomach, it had done nothing to warm him, and as he walked through the bandit camp—only now beginning to bustle with the wakening of more bandits—his shivers persisted, worse than ever. Not knowing what else to do, he searched for Torsten. Oddly enough, he was in the very first place Felix thought to look, the tent beside the dais in the center of camp.

  Inside, he was hunche
d over another map, holding a candle in his hand and squinting down at the little symbols that marked the main roads of southern Viridor. His mug was set at the edge of the parchment, keeping the map from curling inward. The tea was untouched, steam spiraling up into the chilly air, seemingly forgotten.

  Felix positioned himself discreetly in the corner of the tent, as he had the day before, not wishing to disrupt the intense map-staring, but barely a minute went by before Torsten broke the silence. “Play me a song, Flautist,” he said, his eyes not straying from the table.

  Felix reached into his satchel and removed his flute. It was as cold as ice in his hands, but he lifted it up regardless and tried to think of a suitable tune for early morning map reading. He settled on a slow, thoughtful piece that he never played on tavern nights. He’d found that the horses in the barn quite liked it, though, when he’d played it for them during quiet moments.

  He wetted his lips and began, but his fingers were too stiff to keep with the rhythm of the music. He faltered, his hands shaking, and the flute fell to the ground. Naturally, that’s when Torsten finally looked up. He studied Felix doubtfully, like he was a crinkly map with illegible markings.

  “S-sorry,” Felix mumbled, bending down to fetch the flute. He was blushing, could see the flute shaking in his hands as he lifted it to his mouth. Would the bandit kill him if he couldn’t hold it long enough to play? He pursed his lips, readying himself to try again. A heartbeat later, Torsten was around the table and taking the flute from his grasp. Felix shuddered as his fingers were enclosed between two large, warm hands. “What are you doing?” he asked, eyes widening at the sight of Torsten’s hands closed over his own.

  “You’re ice cold,” Torsten said in an accusatory tone, his forehead creased with confusion and more than a little anger. He rubbed at Felix’s hands and brought them up to his mouth to blow a puff of hot air.

  Felix shook his head and tried to pull back his hands, embarrassed. He should have taken better care to warm them by Dot’s fire. “I’m fine,” he said, distracted by the damp heat of Torsten’s breath on his skin.

  Torsten was reluctant to let him go, but when Felix gave another tug, he acquiesced, giving back his hands and looking thoroughly distraught. “Why are you so cold?” he asked.

  Felix stared at him in disbelief. Did he really not know? Had he really not realized? “I slept outside,” he answered shakily, feeling as if he could cry. “I was far away from the fire and had but a single blanket. It’s winter.”

  The bandit king looked venomous, and Felix wondered if he remembered that he was the one who sentenced him to sleeping outside all night. Was he insane, perhaps? Or lacking an efficient memory? More importantly, why did he, beneath all the horrible glowering, look guilty?

  After Felix was subject to an inordinate amount of glaring, Torsten grabbed his mug of tea, ignoring the way it made his map roll up, and put it in Felix’s hands. “Come with me,” he said, leading him from the tent by the elbow. He promptly set him down beside the nearest fire, the one closest to the dais, and then he stormed off, muttering something to himself that Felix couldn’t make out. He returned a minute later with his arms full of fur blankets that Felix recognized from the pallet in his tent. Without hesitance, he draped one over Felix’s lap and wrapped another around his arms, all the while scowling, as if it was Felix’s fault he was too frozen to play his flute.

  “Drink that while it’s still hot,” he ordered, gesturing to the mug.

  “Drink your tea?” Felix asked, in the throes of befuddlement.

  “That’s what I said,” Torsten snapped, and then he stomped off without another word.

  Felix sat beside the fire, bundled up in the bandit king’s blankets, drinking the bandit king’s tea, his hands beginning to tingle with warmth. He sipped the tea. It was peppermint, and still hot enough to burn his tongue, but the heat felt divine as it slid down his throat. He remained there for a long time, slowly defrosting, while everyone else continued to wake up for the new day. Selon gave him a curious look when she passed by, and the one named Jossy—whom Felix had given the bloody nose—laughed and patted him on the head. He didn’t like that, shrank away from the touch, but other than that, no one bothered him. Not even Torsten, when he finally reappeared from wherever he had disappeared to, walking right past him and vanishing back into the large tent. A few other bandits followed him inside: Harold, Jossy, and three more whose names he’d not yet learned.

  When his tea was finished, he decided to get up, pleased to find that his limbs had stopped shaking and his fingers were no longer numb. He gathered up the king’s blankets and walked them back to his tent, laying them down on the pallet and trying to make it look nice, like it hadn’t been disturbed. Then he returned his mug to Dot, who slyly passed him another piece of bacon. Felix chewed on it slowly as he made his way back through the camp, but he came to a standstill outside the large tent. Torsten was inside, probably squinting at another map, and he didn’t want to be disruptive. He hesitated.

  “Flautist!” Torsten suddenly yelled, and Felix hurried through the flaps.

  Upon his entry, Torsten looked up from the tree stump table. There was no longer a map unfurled upon its surface, but a scroll of some kind, full of an inky scrawl. Surrounding him were his bandits, some looking over his shoulder and some seated on the ground, sharpening arrowheads from a large pile.

  “Come here,” Torsten ordered, and Felix hastened around the table to his side. His inhale was loud, bordering on a gasp, when Torsten took his hands. He prodded at his fingers and palms, his lips curved in a frown. Only when he was satisfied that Felix’s hands were warm enough did he pull the flute from the back of his trousers and return it.

  “Play me something,” he demanded, and Felix nodded, stepping back into the tent corner. He flexed his hands, brought the flute to his lips, and returned to playing the song heard by none before but sleepy horses.

  When he had finished, and was taking a breath while he thought of another song to play, Torsten waved a hand at him. “Take tea, Flautist,” he said, not looking up.

  “But I just had tea,” Felix reminded him.

  “I know.” Torsten’s eyes darted up, narrowing dangerously. “Take tea,” he repeated.

  Felix lingered a moment longer, but when no one said anything else to him, just continued to mutter and point to different sections of the scroll, he bowed out of the tent. He heard a few chuckles as the flaps shut behind him, but put them out of his mind. If the bandits found him humorous, that was good. He was being kept alive for their entertainment, wasn’t he? Let them laugh. Felix had been the recipient of laughter his whole life.

  Dot’s eyebrows rose when he returned to the cook fire, but he filled a mug of tea quietly and passed it over with a smile. Felix accepted it with an appreciative nod and returned to sit beside the fire closest to the tent, in case he was called back inside. Occasionally, he heard raised voices from within, but for the better part of twenty minutes, it was relatively peaceful.

  When the bandits finally emerged, Torsten followed out last, still rolling up the parchment between his hands. “I’ll have music with my breakfast, Flautist,” he said as he passed, and Felix jumped up to follow him across the camp.

  While the bandit king ate, Felix played another melody, one he had only worked on in his head. It was a simple tune, but strong. As he played it, he remembered pale skin and a smattering of moles, red hair falling over green eyes.

  When Torsten finished eating, he turned to Felix. “You’ll stay with Dot until I return.”

  Felix didn’t ask where he was going, because he didn’t care, nor did he think he would get a response, so he just nodded and put his flute away. He watched as Torsten grabbed his bow and quiver from within his tent, and then mounted one of the horses harnessed at the edge of camp. Jossy, Harold, and a few others slinked after him, and together they disappeared into the trees.

  Felix let out a sigh when they were gone and turned to Dot. “Wher
e are they going?” he asked, because maybe he was a little curious. But only a little.

  Dot tossed his thick braid over his shoulder. “Where else would a group of bandits go?” he asked, a spark of mischief visible behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. “It’s time for another raid. Especially since the only thing we got out of the last one was you.”

  Felix’s heart picked up its pace. “A raid?” For some reason, he’d foolishly imagined that Torsten would spend the whole day looking at maps, grumbling, and listening to music while he force-fed Felix tea. “What happens during a usual raid?” he asked, because, although he was horrified by the idea, it was also an excellent opportunity to learn more about the nature of bandits, and if Felix was to be writing a tale about his ordeal, he wanted as many details as possible.

  Dot looked at him suspiciously as he wiped down his stew pot. “Do I look like I could tell you? I’m the cook.”

  Felix agreed that Dot looked less like a bandit than the others, but he was still living in a bandit camp and exchanging pleasantries with the bandit king. “You’ve never been on a raid?”

  “I have,” Dot sighed. “We all have. But it’s been a long time.”

  “Then tell me what happened on one of the raids you went on before,” Felix implored.

  “Aren’t you a curious creature?” said a woman’s voice from behind him.

  Felix spun around to find Selon approaching the cook fire with an empty mug. She laughed at the surprised look on his face and gave Dot a nudge with her elbow. “If you want to know so badly, why don’t you ask King?” she asked with a wide smile.

  “I’m not even supposed to address him,” Felix pointed out. “I doubt he would approve of me asking him questions.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, running her hand down the length of Dot’s braid and giving it a tug. “It’s been a long time since he’s had a flautist. Keep playing him those sweet songs and see what happens.”