by Morgan Rice
She understood it intellectually; yet in her heart, it was beyond painful to live with day in and day out. She hated pretending to be in love with someone else. It was contrary to everything she was, to the life she had led. Yet to save Royce, she saw no other way.
What was worse than all of this was that, as much as she hated to admit it, she did not feel entirely uncomfortable in Altfor’s arms. As she settled into married life, she could not help notice how easy it was, how comfortable she felt, how kind Altfor was to her, how gentle his touch. He tried so hard to make her happy. He genuinely loved her.
That, too, was a funny feeling. She didn’t want him to love her. She wanted him to hate her. That would make all this so much easier.
And while she did not love him, she also had to admit to herself that she did not hate him, either. There were much worse men in the world. And that feeling was what made her hate herself the most.
“Do you see this?” he asked.
She looked up, startled from her thoughts, to see him waving gently out to the land before them. She took in the vista, startled by its beauty. Here, at the end of the stone plaza, looking out along the western orchards, leaning against the marble railing, she saw the whole countryside spread out before her, a view she never tired of. She saw the rolling hills of Sevania, the sun shining down on glorious farms and vineyards. Fields of color bordered them, farmers tilling the soil, collecting the flowers.
She squinted and could just make out one of the distant villages dotting the landscape—hers—and the thought filled her with longing. She missed her people dearly. She missed her old, simple life. She would give up all of this in a heartbeat to be farming. These, the trappings of wealth, brought her no joy. Only freedom could bring her joy.
“It is all yours now,” Altfor continued, turning to her with a satisfied smile. “I have been appointed by my father on this day as Duke. As my wife, you are Duchess, and you now own all of this land jointly with me. All you see before you, the Western lands, I am giving them all to you.”
She looked back at him, stunned. With just a few words he had given her more land than her ancestors could have worked off in a lifetime.
“It is true,” he said, smiling. “My father conferred the new title upon me this morning. I am the chosen son now. I am the one who will rule all of this.”
He smiled as he gently pulled a strand of hair back from her face and ran his fingers along her cheek. She wished his fingers were not so smooth, his touch so loving. She wished she could feel repulsed by him. And she hated that she did not.
“You are my wife,” he said. “Anything you want, anything you see, is now yours. That vineyard there; that orchard; those people’s homes; that entire village. Anything you want. I can build a castle just for you. I can have the peasants mine the gold mines of Sevania, fashion you the finest jewels you’ve ever seen. It is a prosperous land we live in, and it is yours for the taking.”
He smiled, clearly thinking she would be impressed.
Yet she felt only repulsion. She wanted none of it. Those lands he spoke of, as if they were his private playthings, were her lands, her people’s lands. She had worked them with her bare hands, had helped make them what they were—not him. What gave him—or any of the nobles—the right to lay claim to any of it?
Inside, she fumed. But she forced herself to hold her tongue. She reminded herself that he meant only to express his love to her. He was ignorant of how she felt. And she knew that to fight with him now would do no good. She forced herself to remember what she really wanted: Royce, and her people, to be free.
“Tell me,” he pressed. “What would you like?”
Genevieve took a deep breath, a long, slow, sad breath as she turned and studied the countryside. It was such a beautiful land, and such a shame that it was controlled by so few. She wanted the people down there to be free.
“I ask for one thing only,” she finally said, her voice soft and gentle.
“Tell me, my love, what is it?” he said, pressing her hands. “Anything.”
She took a deep breath.
“To give my family, and my village, back what is theirs. To allow them to own their own land and to no longer tithe to the nobles. They must give away most of what they have and they often go hungry. Especially the children. Just allow them to keep their own crops.”
He blinked, clearly stunned.
“I should be surprised by your selfless request,” he said, “yet I am not. It is in keeping with your nature. Your heart is truly pure. You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”
He smiled and nodded.
“Your request shall be granted. Your people can keep whatever they want.”
She felt a huge rush of relief. She marveled that she had just achieved more than an entire army could. Perhaps Moira had been right after all.
“And what about you?” he pressed. “What can I give you?”
She shook her head.
“I want nothing.”
He clasped her hands.
“Surely, there must be one thing?” he pressed.
Suddenly, it came to her. There was one thing.
“There is,” she said. “Royce’s brothers. They remain in the dungeon. Yet they harmed no one. I would like them to be free.”
Slowly, like a dark cloud moving in on a summer day, his face darkened.
“You still dream of him, don’t you?” he asked, his voice dark. It came out as an accusation.
She looked away, hoping he would not see the expression on her face.
His face darkened even more, and after a long silence, his jaw clenched.
“No,” he said, harshly.
With that single word he turned and strutted off. She could see how much she had angered him, and a new sense of dread filled her. She wondered what vengeful act he would take.
Would he have them killed?
Royce, she thought, as a tear fell from her cheek, studying the distant horizon, come home to me.
*
Genevieve walked quickly through the castle streets, on urgent business, the villagers all bowing their heads dutifully as she passed, as if she were royalty. She did not realize how elegant her dress was until she saw the faces of all these people getting out of her way, bowing, saying, “My lady,” from every direction. It was not long ago when she would herself be the one to be hurrying out of a noble’s way. It was unnerving to her. She wished they wouldn’t look at her this way. She wished they would just accept her as one of their own, as they used to.
Genevieve walked quickly, trying to ignore all the attention, forcing herself to stay focused as she hurried to where she needed to go. As she thought of her destination, she felt a flurry of anxiety in her stomach. It might not go well. And it was very risky of her to even try.
She crossed the castle courtyard, bustling with people, horses, dogs, chickens, keeping her head lowered, trying to stay inconspicuous, until she passed through a low stone arch. She turned, passed through an open-air corridor, and stopped before a thick, oak door.
It was blocked by two royal guards, and they stared back, puzzled.
“My lady,” they each said.
She nodded back, her heart pounding inside, trying to keep her cool as she stared back at the entrance to the dungeons.
“I have come to see Royce’s brothers,” she said.
They looked her over skeptically.
“On whose authority?” one asked.
“The Duke’s,” she lied.
A long, tense moment of silence followed. Her heart pounded, as she was flooded with anxiety. What if they denied her access? What if they told the Duke?
They exchanged another glance, then finally, to her immense relief, they stepped aside and opened the door. She breathed deep inside. Clearly her appearance, her dress and jewels, carried more authority than a letter from the King himself. It amazed her how people always judged on appearances.
Genevieve walked in, heart pounding, knowing each step was getting
her deeper into trouble. She was, after all, defying the Duke’s command. She could only hope that word would not reach him.
It was dim, cool, and damp in here, and Genevieve shuddered as she walked quickly down the bare stone corridors, escorted by one of the guards. He led her down a twisting set of spiral stairs, claustrophobic, getting darker as they went. Soon the only light to see by was from his flickering torch.
Genevieve could hear the squeal of rats in the darkness as they reached the lowest level. They marched down another stone corridor, until finally they came to a heavy iron gate. As they did, the guard marched away, leaving her facing two new guards.
They unlocked the cell and stepped aside and Genevieve entered, her heart breaking to think of Royce’s brothers—who had been like brothers to her—down here. She walked slowly, cautiously, passing rows of cells, desperate faces staring back at her solemnly in the darkness.
Finally, she stopped before the final cell. She turned and peered into the darkness and there, her heart fell to see, were Royce’s three brothers, all sitting on the stone floor, dejected. They looked back up at her like cornered animals, eyes wide with surprise—and all at once they stood and hurried across the cell.
“Genevieve!” Raymond exclaimed.
She could hear the relief in his voice, as he rushed forward and grabbed the bars, his brothers beside him, hope slowly creeping into their faces. Seeing them made her think of Royce, and she felt her heart tear with emotion. She felt hope for the first time since this ordeal had begun, yet she also felt a wave of guilt. She hated herself for not coming here sooner, but this was the first time she’d been afforded the leniency to travel freely.
“What has happened?” asked Raymond.
“Where’s our brother?” asked Lofen.
“Is he safe?” asked Garet. “Have you heard anything?”
That was so like them. Here they were, sitting in a dungeon, and all they cared for was their brother’s safety. It deepened Genevieve’s sadness and made her hate herself even more. While these fine men were all suffering, she was enjoying the luxuries of living in the castle—and in the enemy’s arms. The enemy they had risked their lives to free her from.
“I have heard nothing,” she replied, a tear falling as she did.
Their faces fell with disappointment.
“I pray for him every day,” she added. “And watch for him every night.”
Raymond suddenly had a new look to his face as he slowly looked her up and down, recognizing her garb for the first time. A look of disapproval—and then of suspicion—crept over his face.
“And yet you wear the garb of the nobles,” he said, his voice dark and hard.
The other brothers examined her, too, and she watched their faces drop with condemnation.
“Have you forgotten our brother so soon?” Garet asked.
Genevieve felt a pain in her chest at his words.
“I love your brother with all that I am,” she said.
“And yet your dress says otherwise,” Lofen replied. “Have you married one of them?”
They looked at her, aghast, and she did not know what to say.
“Had I a choice?” she finally replied. “I was taken, remember?”
“We remember very well,” Raymond replied. “Our brother lost his life—we have all lost our lives—because of that day.”
“What would you have me do?” she asked.
“To be taken is one thing,” Lofen said. “To be wed is another.”
She shook her head, trying to get the words out, unsure what to say. The problem was that she shared their feelings—she hated herself, too.
“It is not what you think,” she finally said, trying to explain and not knowing where to begin.
Yet as she stood there she could see in their faces that their feelings were hardening. They were all beginning to hate her, their minds made up, and she could see that nothing she said would change their minds.
“I’ve come here to talk to you,” she explained, in a rush. “To see if there is some way I can help you. To try to free you. To try to find a way to—”
“We want nothing from you,” Raymond spat.
The venom in his tone hurt her heart.
“It is clear what you have become,” he continued. “You’ve turned your back on Royce—and have become a traitor to us all.”
“I have not!” she cried.
One by one they turned their backs on her and retreated to the far end of the cell. They would not look at her again.
Genevieve broke down weeping. She did not know what to say, how to explain herself. She wanted to tell them she would die for them, any of them. But the words would not come out, replaced only by sobs.
Genevieve slowly realized that nothing she could say would make any difference now. Coming here, she realized, had been a horrible mistake.
Unable to control her emotions, she turned and ran, weeping as she fled the dungeon, wondering if she could ever have her old life back again.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Royce walked off the plank and took a step onto dry land for the first time in weeks, and stopped, breathed deep, and smelled the air, smiling. He relished the feeling of being back on dry land, of having steady earth beneath him, of returning to his homeland. The voyage was over. He had made it.
It was a disorienting feeling at first to not have the earth moving beneath him, and he felt relieved and disturbed at the same time. He was relieved that he was finally off the ship, away from the Black Isle, back on the same continent as his family and Genevieve—yet disturbed because his arrival here only meant one thing: it was time for him to face the Pits.
Beside him, Mark, Altos, and Rubin stepped forward, the four of them standing side by side, surrounded by dozens of Empire soldiers who stepped up to greet them, new shackles in hand. Royce looked around and found they had docked in a small, teeming harbor village, led into a bustling crowd of villagers hurrying about their daily business. Within moments all four of them were already shackled, with nowhere to run.
Royce stood with the others in the small town square as dozens of curious villagers glanced at them askance. His homeland seemed much busier, faster, more crowded than when he had left it all those moons ago. Perhaps the emptiness, the quiet, of the Black Isle had seeped into him. The faces of all these people seemed to be those of strangers, and Royce hardly felt as if he had returned home.
Royce felt the cold metal of new shackles on his wrists, and he knew he was at a crossroads. The apprehension in his stomach deepened as he looked at his friends’ faces staring back and knew that this was very likely the last time he would see them again.
Mark stepped forward and managed to reach out a hand, and clasped Royce’s arm before the soldiers could yank him away.
“You’ve been a good friend,” Mark said. “I hope to one day repay the favor.”
Royce thought of all they had been through, and he could only nod as he clasped his friend’s arm.
“You already have,” Royce replied.
Altos clasped his arm.
“Do not forget me,” he said meaningfully.
And then, to Royce’s surprise, Rubin stepped up too, clasping his arm before he was yanked away. He nodded sadly, and Royce could see in his face a look of respect, one he’d never expected to see from him.
“I am good to my word,” Rubin called out. “I shall repay my debt to you.”
Royce found himself yanked roughly by the shackles, pulled forward into the crowd. He looked back, but could no longer find his friends, each yanked in a different direction. At the same moment, a leather mask was pulled down roughly over his face, leaving slits for eyes and slits to breathe, but disguising him otherwise. This was, he realized, how they adorned the fighters in the Pits.
Royce was soon led through chaotic village. Shouts and cheers rose up as a crowd began to take notice and thicken around him. They all peered at him as if he were an animal in a zoo, paraded through the town. He did n
ot like the feeling. Some villagers patted him on the back, while others taunted him.
Royce understood the crowd’s reaction. Most of those thrown into the Pits, he realized, were hardened criminals, there for murder or worse crimes. They assumed he was the same. If only they knew, Royce thought, that he was there for no other reason than for attempting to retrieve his stolen bride. Would they greet him like this then?
Royce was pushed and shoved down the center of the village, while the cries of the crowd reached a deafening point. He felt something building, as if he were being led somewhere.
Finally they stopped short, and as the crowd parted ways, Royce stopped and looked down in shock at the sight before him.
There, at his feet, was a massive pit, twenty feet in diameter, twenty feet deep. At its edge stood hundreds of spectators, cheering as he walked forward. Before he even had a chance to process it all, Royce heard a clinking, then felt his shackles being unlocked as he was shoved forward.
Royce was airborne. His stomach dropped as he fell through the air, falling a good twenty feet until he landed on the muddy ground below, winded.
The crowd roared, and Royce scrambled to his feet, disoriented, his body covered in mud. He tried to quickly get his bearings. He looked up and saw at once that the walls were too steep and muddy to climb. Even if he could, up above the pit was ringed with hundreds of people, leaning over with pitchforks, clearly eager to prod him back down. It was a deathtrap.
Royce looked around, heart pounding, wondering why he was alone down there—when suddenly, the crowd erupted. He looked up and saw a blur of motion as something suddenly got shoved over the side. The crowd went wild as it landed in the pit, opposite Royce.
Royce stared in shock. He expected to see another fighter. But it was no fighter at all.
There, hardly twenty feet in front of him, was a monster. It resembled a tiger, but had two heads, long fangs, and long claws. It snarled as it stared back at him with angry red eyes.
Royce heard the frenzied clanging of metal, and he looked up to see the villagers frantically exchanging sacks of gold, betting on his fate.
