by Bex Hogan
Regardless, there are many bandits still to catch, including the most deadly and notorious group, led by a brute named Karn. They have managed to elude our every attempt to find them, so strong is their network of terror. The closest we got was discovering a stash of their weaponry and taking it for ourselves. It wouldn’t be too difficult to believe Karn would send someone to kill me – I’m sure he’d love the Viper title for his own – but what is harder to believe is that any of his men would be skilled enough to catch a blade like that.
I slide down on to the cold ground, my foot tapping nervously as I try not to think about Torin. Did the healer get to him in time? Or is it already over? Burying my head in my hands, I bite back tears. I’ve already lost Grace, my sister in all but blood. I can’t lose him too.
Should I have used magic to help him? Could I have done? Since I left Esther on the Eighth Isle, I haven’t had time to think about that side of myself, of all the possibilities I gave up when I turned down her offer to teach me to become a Mage. Or maybe I just haven’t allowed myself to dwell on it. I made a choice to leave the West, to focus on bringing peace to the East instead, and there has been no place for magic in that fight. I buried that part of me, the wild, uncontrollable force that I fear so much, that I desire so much.
I bang my head hard against the wall, desperate to free my mind of these maddening thoughts.
No, my urge to use magic was simply a foolish impulse. I wouldn’t have known where to start – a truth that claws at my guts. If I’d allowed Esther to teach me as she offered, could I have healed Torin?
There are no answers. I can only wait. I will do nothing until I know Torin is going to live.
When dawn breaks, I hear footsteps approaching.
The sight of my visitor causes my heart to pound, but I don’t move.
‘You can have five minutes,’ the gaoler says to him, before leaving us alone.
And I run to grasp Sharpe’s hands through the bars.
‘How is he?’
‘Alive.’ Sharpe squeezes my hands tightly. ‘For now.’
My relief is palpable. ‘Thank goodness.’
Sharpe shakes his head. ‘He’s unconscious, Marianne. He’s not waking up.’
‘Don’t worry, that’s fine. His body needs time to rest – probably the healer gave him something to keep him asleep.’ I can feel the weight of the night lifting from me and am keen to reassure Sharpe that all is now well.
But his face remains like stone and he won’t stop shaking his head.
‘You don’t understand,’ he says. ‘I’m certain the healer is keeping him asleep. But not just so he can heal.’
I finally realise what Sharpe’s telling me. ‘They don’t want him to clear my name.’
Sharpe bows his head. ‘I’m sorry. The King wants the trial to happen immediately. He already has every important advisor here for the wedding, every ally at his disposal. He’s making his move to be rid of you.’
I can’t say I’m surprised.
‘There’s more,’ Sharpe says. ‘He had your chambers searched.’ And his fingers tighten round mine.
‘He took the document, didn’t he?’ Of course the King would have wanted to destroy the evidence that he was willing to step aside for Torin.
Sharpe nods. ‘He will not want you left alive, Marianne.’
No, he won’t. But what will he do about his son?
‘And Torin?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sharpe says, his voice clipped with worry. ‘Maybe the King hopes without you Torin poses no threat. Perhaps he’ll wake him once …’
‘Once I’m dead.’
‘I fear for him,’ Sharpe says. ‘But I don’t think the King would murder Torin.’
And yet I’m beginning to suspect that he may have already tried to.
‘You know I didn’t do this, don’t you?’ My question is barely a whisper; the answer matters so much to me.
‘I wouldn’t be here if I thought for a second you’d done it.’ And he actually gives me the smallest hint of a smile, the first I’ve seen from him in months, and if he’s offering it as a sign of friendship and comfort, it works.
‘Thank you.’
‘I will do anything I can to help you,’ he says, though we both know there’s little that can be done.
‘Sharpe, can you get word to my crew? I don’t know how they’re going to react to this, but tell them to sit tight. The last thing the Isles need is us declaring war on the King the day after our alliance.’
The gaoler is returning now, so Sharpe just nods. ‘Be safe,’ he says and squeezes my fingers one last time before dropping them.
‘Look after him,’ I call out as Sharpe walks away and then he’s gone, leaving me alone once more.
My blood runs white-hot with fury. Could it really be true? Is it possible the King hired someone to murder Torin just to keep his power? All it would have taken was a nod from Braydon that I wasn’t in the room and he could have sent an assassin to ensure there was no one left to force him to abdicate. Or did he intend to have us both killed? To turn our wedding bed into our death bed?
I see no one else for the rest of the day. No food or drink is brought to me, and by the following morning it becomes clear that none will be. Perhaps this is the King’s tactic. Starve me, weaken me. What he’s forgetting is that I’ve been on rations for months – as have most people. While he commandeers far more than his fair share of supplies and continues to keep his belly full, the rest of us have grown used to surviving on very little. I can withstand a few days’ fasting. It won’t be the first time. And as for being alone – well, I almost prefer it.
But after I’ve watched the moon rise and fall four times through the cracks in my wall, my isolation is disturbed. The gaoler approaches, accompanied by three other guards. The way their eyes greedily devour my body tells me instantly what they’re here to do, and though I’m tired, I’m also angry.
I don’t move from my corner, where I’ve been huddled for the past two days, making the most of my own body heat, and watch as they come into my cell, locking the door behind them.
I say nothing as they haul me to my feet and then circle me, as if I’m a mere object for them to play with.
My hands are still in irons, and this is making the men foolhardy. Believing me to be restrained, they inch closer.
‘Not so tough now, are you?’ It’s the gaoler who speaks first. ‘Without your men to make you look strong and keep you safe.’
‘And there’s nothing safe about us,’ another says.
The youngest of the guards reaches to grab my chin and pulls my face towards him to inspect it. ‘She’s just a girl.’ He sounds surprised and a little relieved. Perhaps my age and gender reassure him that I can’t hurt him, despite the fact that I’m the Viper. Perhaps he thinks that I earned the title by way of cheating or lying. As if just anyone could claim it. Or perhaps he simply thinks I slept my way to the top.
‘Please,’ I say softly, playing up my apparent vulnerability. ‘Don’t do this.’
They laugh and the gaoler comes nearer. ‘There’s no point begging,’ he says, his voice suddenly devoid of humour.
I raise my eyes to meet his and this time when I speak, there’s no hint of weakness. ‘I wasn’t. I was giving you a warning.’
And I make my move, before they have a chance to make theirs.
With the flat of my hand I smack the gaoler hard in the forehead, throwing him backwards. In the split second he’s dazed, I spin to duck the blow coming from the guard on my right, and land a punch of my own into the chest of the man on my left, which, with the weight of the irons behind it, cracks his sternum, making him drop to the floor with a shriek.
The first two are coming back for me now. I lunge at the gaoler, lifting my shackled hands over his head and using his body as an anchor to raise myself up so I can kick the other guard hard in his throat, rendering him unconscious. It’s all happening too fast for the gaoler, and he has no time to react a
s I fling my body round so I’m on his back, pulling the irons hard against his neck. While his hands flail wildly to try to stop me, I pull harder until he can’t breathe any more and passes out.
That leaves the youngest guard, who’s standing in the furthest corner and looking like he might wet himself.
I untangle myself from the body now lying on the floor and make my way to him, grabbing his collar to slam him against the wall.
‘You tell the King he continues to underestimate me,’ I say, my voice sounding more like a growl than anything human. ‘Tell him the next time he sends men to my cell, they’ll be carrying them out dead, understand?’
The guard nods, his brow dripping with sweat.
‘Good.’ I release him. ‘Now get these pigs out of here.’
Broken-sternum-man is already crawling towards the door, and the young guard drags the other two bodies out, nearly forgetting to relock my cell in his haste to be away from me.
It’s only after they’ve gone and the blood stops careering round my body that the pain starts to make its presence known. Somehow, during the fight, I managed to dislocate the shoulder that the assassin struck earlier.
Damn.
I’m going to have to pop it back in.
Resting the palm of my hand against the wall, I take a deep breath, before forcing all my weight towards it, shoving the bone back into place.
I pass out for a moment and wake up on the floor, shivering and in pain, but I’ve done it. I make no effort to get up, exhausted. The agony was worth it: in the midst of the chaos I stole the key from the gaoler’s belt without the young guard noticing and I don’t even have to move far to conceal it in one of the cracks in the wall.
Though I don’t imagine the guards will try that again, it’s hardly made the arrival of food and water more likely. Their humiliation won’t go unpunished, so I can expect to continue starving until such time as the King decides to make his move.
And when he does, I’ll be ready.
Two weeks after my wedding day, the court is assembled in the palace’s central marbled hall, a space usually reserved for summer balls.
It’s taken the King far longer than I would have expected to pull this sham of a trial together, and I wonder what’s happened to cause such a delay. Perhaps the King had less support than he supposed and had to resort to blackmail and other threats to get the testimonies he required. Whatever the reason, I knew things weren’t going well for him when water started being delivered to my cell. He wants me weak, not dead. Not like that anyway – it has to be public. Official.
I haven’t heard from Sharpe since I saw him that first day, and I can only assume his silence means he’s been unable to leave Torin’s side. And so I’ve bided my time, wanting it to appear as if I’ve given up, all the while waiting, safe in the knowledge that no one has discovered the stolen key yet. Once I’ve found out what the King is up to, I will be ready to escape.
He had me dragged into the hall early this morning, still wearing the blood-stained shift that I wore the night of Torin’s near-death, and the murmurs of disgust were audible. I’m filthy and I stink. I can only imagine how I look, but it certainly isn’t imposing, threatening or any of the things the Viper should be.
Half the First Isle seems to be congregated in the hall; my once cheering wedding guests are now a jeering crowd.
I’ve been made to wait, sitting on my solitary chair, positioned so that everyone can gawp at me, which they do relentlessly, until eventually the King arrives and the show begins. It quickly becomes clear that this is going to be quite some performance.
‘My dearest Islanders,’ the King begins. ‘Thank you for coming today, though I deeply regret that such attendance was even required. My son …’ He trails off, his voice breaking with false emotion. ‘Forgive me,’ he continues, his hand pressed against his chest, eyes swimming with crocodile tears. ‘Prince Torin is gravely ill, fighting for his life, and all I want is to be with my child.’
Oh, please. I doubt the King’s been to visit Torin even once. Nevertheless, a spike of fear shoots through me. Is he telling the truth? Is my husband’s condition still so serious? Or is this another part of the King’s act? Perhaps I should just stand up, flee this hall, and fight my way to the healing room, leaving a trail of bodies strewn on the floor in my wake.
Only the knowledge that such an action would jeopardise everything we’ve all fought for – the stability of the East – stops me from doing exactly that. Instead I sit and force myself to listen to the utter bilge pouring from the King’s mouth.
‘It breaks my heart,’ he’s saying, ‘that this woman –’ and he pauses to point at me – ‘whom I embraced as my own daughter, should have betrayed us all in such a fashion. That she could be responsible for the possible death of my boy.’
Our eyes meet and I see no sorrow in his. Just a steely determination to destroy me. Whether or not he intended to have me killed that night is irrelevant now. This is my assassination.
The King looks away and resumes his attack on my character. ‘I wouldn’t have believed her capable of hurting Torin if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. The memory of her looming over his body, her knife in his chest …’ Again he pauses to collect his composure. ‘Well, you can all see his blood on her clothes.’
There’s a murmur of horror and disgust from the crowd, and I glance over at the jury to gauge their response. The King has assembled quite the council to judge me – it’s made up entirely of his advisors and governors from the other Isles. Men who belong to him. And from the look on their faces I’d say they’re enjoying the King’s performance as much as he’s enjoying giving it.
‘It grieves me to say this,’ the King continues, not sounding in the least bit aggrieved, ‘but our Viper is far from what she seems. She has deceived us all, and today it is sadly my duty to reveal to you her true nature.’
The proceedings continue with Braydon, which is to be expected seeing as he can give evidence that will align with what the King wants everyone to believe.
The King stands him opposite the jury, which means I’m looking almost directly at him, though Braydon avoids making eye contact.
‘Would you please tell the court what happened on the night of the attack?’ the King asks him, looking supremely confident before his council.
‘The accused left the wedding chamber in the early hours of the morning, wishing to return to her former quarters.’
There is a hum of surprise in the room at this, for why would a bride wish to leave her new husband on their wedding night? Instantly this is cause for suspicion.
‘And did she go alone?’ The King seems to be enjoying this rather too much for a man whose son’s life is hanging in the balance.
‘No, though she wished to. I insisted upon accompanying her.’
‘Why was that?
Braydon now looks over at me. ‘Because I’ve never trusted her. She’s a Snake.’
There’s a general nodding of agreement through the congregated court, and I fight not to roll my eyes given that these same courtiers were fawning over me not that long ago.
‘Indeed,’ the King says. ‘And what happened then?’
‘I escorted her back to her old room, where she insisted she would remain, for fear of disturbing the Prince if she were to return. I was reluctant, but it was not my place to question her, and so I bade her good night.’
‘And when did you next lay eyes on her?’ The King is coming to his triumphant climax now.
‘When I burst into the Prince’s chamber and discovered her crouching over him, her knife sunk deep into his chest, the window still open from where she’d climbed in.’
The cry of outrage that echoes through the hall brings a small smile to the King’s lips and a blow to my heart. They’re all so willing to believe me guilty and, this time, the pang of fear I experience is entirely for myself.
When the room settles down, the King addresses the jury once more.
‘T
his testimony on its own may seem evidence enough to condemn the accused, but I implore you to listen to the remaining witnesses to truly grasp the lengths this girl is willing to go to for power.’
I bristle at his use of the word ‘girl’. I’m the Viper. I did what no other dared do – stood up to Captain Adler and won. The King’s choice of words seeks to undermine that, to diminish who I am, and, despite my fear, I seethe.
Braydon is excused from the stand, and in his place the King parades person after person to besmirch my name. He starts with guards, most of whom I’ve never seen before, who reel off fictions revealing my ‘constant abuse of power’. I’m not sure anyone listening really believes that I flounced round, flinging glasses of wine into guards’ faces for the sheer fun of it, but it doesn’t matter. The King is clearly just warming the crowd up.
Next, the chambermaids who dressed me for the wedding are brought in and testify that I shared with them my reluctance to be married. That I was the most joyless bride they’d ever seen. How I admitted I was only marrying Torin for his throne. They look at the floor as they repeat words they’ve been told to speak, and I feel sorry for them. I don’t believe they are here by choice, and hate to think what threats have been made against them. And the fact is, though I never said such things to them, there is some truth to their accusations. I was a reluctant bride. Just not for any of the reasons they might imagine.
When the chambermaids are done, it’s the turn of the senior advisors. The first to take the stand is Lord Pyer, Royal Overseer of the Mines on the Sixth Isle, and cousin to the King. Though I’ve never spoken to the man before – hadn’t even heard of him before the wedding – he manages to give me a look of pure disgust as if we’re mortal enemies.
‘I have long counselled the Prince not to marry this woman,’ he says, as if he disapproved of the marriage and hadn’t been laughing and drinking with everyone else to celebrate it just days ago. ‘But she bewitched him out of all sense.’
