As she looked at him, he saw her expression change. It was like a clay mask was cracking, peeling away, revealing the true woman hidden beneath. “Please,” was all she said, but he heard the unspoken volumes beneath that single word. This woman had seen horrors, and she couldn’t bear to witness another.
Helmuth swallowed, bending down to tug off his trousers. He fought with the new pair for a few moments, but he was accustomed to dealing with legs that didn’t obey his commands, and soon he wore the required garb.
“Come,” she said. “I will wash you.”
Helmuth had never felt so utterly inhuman. Though he knew in his heart she hated what she was doing, he still wanted the woman to look at him as she scrubbed the weeks of salt and grime from his skin. He wanted her to see that he was a person, not a possession.
He tried speaking. “What is he going to do to me?”
The tightening of her lips. A quick, unnecessary blink. She is trying to block me out, to pretend I am not real. It’s her defense mechanism.
“Please. I won’t fight it. But I need to know.”
Her eyes closed. Opened. Her hands, however, seemed to operate independently of her mind, her emotions, never ceasing their work.
You are an untouched canvas, the king had said. But that wasn’t true, was it? It wasn’t about physical touching, though the memory of the king’s hands on his face made his skin crawl. Helmuth’s entire life he’d felt beat up, knocked down, even if no one had ever physically abused him. He didn’t have the scars to prove it, though he knew if his heart was carved from his chest and examined it would be bruised and laced with slashes.
To his surprise, the woman spoke. “It is better if you don’t fight him.” She spoke so low, less than a whisper, and he had to lean closer to hear.
“Did Vrinn fight him?”
The woman’s entire body jolted and a shudder ran through her. “Vrinn was…special…to the king.”
That word—special—that might’ve been a compliment in another context, felt like a vile curse. For some reason Vrinn had been favored by the king, which likely meant he was called forth more often than the others. Day by day he’d been driven closer and closer to the brink, until…
“Why?” The question hung in the air between them, and for the first time the woman’s hands ceased their scrubbing.
Her eyes met his, and in that single stolen look, he could see the self-hatred and fear, the anger and weariness and sadness. “Because he took the longest to break,” she finally said. She stood and handed him a towel. “Now get dressed.”
Lying in bed, waiting for…something, Helmuth stewed. The anger, as it had in Blackstone, seemed to take form inside him—a claw, gnashing teeth, a monstrous shadow. His heart ceased to beat, replaced by the pulse of a force more powerful than any he’d experienced in his life, even that of kings. Familiar thoughts returned:
What am I? What is this thing inside me?
The next thought, however, was altogether different:
How can I use this against King Streit?
Used to being tormented and mocked, Helmuth had never been prone to violence. Even if he’d wanted to lash out at those who’d bullied him, he would only look like a fool, unable to do more than stand in place and swing his crutches in wild arcs. Even his own nasty brother, Wolfric, had been unwilling to face him in combat. Not for fear of losing, but for fear of being part of such a ridiculous spectacle.
But now…
He remembered the fog he’d created somehow. Despair had radiated from it. He’d seen the fear in the eyes of grown men—the same men who’d oppressed him and the other boys, forcing them to work for an unseen lord hidden behind the walls of a great castle.
At first he’d been scared of whatever was clawing at his insides, trying to get out.
But now…
What did he have to lose?
Many hours later, the gray-haired woman appeared at his door. “The king has summoned you.”
He wanted to say no, but knew that was a mistake. Openly defying the king would bring his wrath down on them all.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed and grabbed up his crutches.
The corridor was as quiet as before, flickering with torchlight. He ignored the gazes he felt as he passed the open rooms, the faceless boys who came before him. Underground, time seemed to move differently. Slowing, slowing, and then speeding up like a rolling wave finally crashing on the shore.
He crashed into the throne room, where he saw the stone chair from behind. Bright torches burned all around, fixed into standing stone pedestals. The bright sunny sky was long gone, replaced by a night sooty with gray clouds. On the edges of the throne:
There, a black boot. There, a smooth hand, fingers absently drumming the armrest. The tip of a dark-haired scalp, groomed perfectly.
“Leave,” the invisible king said. The command wasn’t for Helmuth, and though the king surely could not see her, the woman bowed and departed the way they’d come. And then:
“Approach.”
Helmuth crutched over, arcing around the raised platform until he stood before the king. His four legs were set all in a row, two useless flesh and bone, and two finely carved wood. A gift from this very man.
The king’s dark eyes were full of something akin to amusement, but not quite. Excitement.
“You are ashamed by your legs. Why?”
“I am not ashamed.” Helmuth’s response came too fast, and even he could hear the lie in his voice.
“Why?” the king repeated, and Helmuth sensed he didn’t want to ask the question a third time.
But what could he say? That he was mocked as a child? That his own father had believed him to be too weak to inherit his birthright? That he’d run away from wealth and privilege so he could become a beggar on the streets? All these terrible things were caused by his withered legs, weren’t they? So yes, he was ashamed of them. He hated them.
More than that, he hated that his eyes pooled with tears and that one broke loose from each eye, meandering down his cheeks, funneling to the tip of his chin.
The king had risen at some point, though Helmuth couldn’t remember when. Now he stood before him. He cupped his hand and reached out. Helmuth didn’t recoil, though he wanted to. But the king didn’t touch him, no, he simply placed his cupped hand beneath his chin and caught the tears before they could fall to the ground.
“You don’t need them anymore,” he said with a soft smile. And then, while Helmuth puzzled over the meaning of his words, King Streit kicked out Helmuth’s new crutches.
The king had left after that, taking the crutches and leaving Helmuth lying on the floor, the skin of his elbows and wrists burning where they had been scraped by the fall.
He lay there for a while, staring up at the ashy sky, waiting for the woman to return to help him back to his room.
No one came.
Eventually, he pulled himself to a sitting position, drawing the legs of his pants up. His withered legs seemed to glow in the darkness, pale and small. He understood something:
Without his crutches, he could be more easily controlled. The king wouldn’t have to worry about him escaping, if the king ever worried about such trivial things. It’s not like the rooms had doors on them, and yet the boys all sat there staring, obediently waiting to be summoned.
They were broken, defeated. Hopeless.
Then what hope do I have? Helmuth thought.
Though he knew the answer was “none,” he rejected that. He’d made it this far without his father, without his brothers and sister, without the status that came with being a prince, even a maimed one.
So, inch by painful inch, he crawled out of the room, down the hall, and into his room, dragging his useless legs behind him.
When he reached the bed, he pulled himself up using the frame and post, falling once, banging his elbow. But he was determined, and he tried again. The second time he made it, slumping onto the thin mattress, his chest heaving.
He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next day—or was it still night?—Helmuth half-expected to find his crutches back by his bedside.
They were not.
His arms were sore and bruised, so he lay in bed staring at the rough, stone ceiling. He heard muffled sounds from time to time, other boys being summoned, presumably, but not him. He wondered about that open door to his room. He hadn’t been commanded not to leave his room, did that mean he could? Did the other boys simply choose not to leave out of fear?
The boredom will drive me mad long before the king does, he thought.
He slipped from his bed, easing himself down to the floor. The thought of dragging himself across the abrasive ground again almost made him rethink his decision. So he tried something else:
He placed his palms on the ground, locked his elbows, and lifted himself up, until his behind hovered a few inches off the floor. He crossed his feet together for balance—he could move them that much, at least. Taking a deep breath, he took a…step?...moving his hand forward, his arm almost giving way under his own small weight. To his surprise, however, it held. His arms, unlike his legs, were not weak. Though he’d never specifically trained them, they’d grown used to doing everything for him.
They didn’t fail him now, though the next six paces toward the door took a long time, and he had to rest after every two. When he reached the gap in the wall, he peered down the corridor. Nothing moved. Silence ruled. Silence and a king.
Helmuth was spent. It was all he could do to reverse course and make his way back to his bed. By the time he reached his bedside, he had no strength left to pull himself back up, so he curled up on the unforgiving ground and drifted into a restless sleep.
In the two weeks that followed (though it might’ve been two months, for all Helmuth could tell), the gray-haired woman often passed his room, but never stopped. Never even looked in. Like clockwork, however, he would awaken to find food and drink. It was usually hot, like she’d left it there the instant before he awoke. The food was fit for the palette of kings, and Helmuth knew it well, though he ate not for taste but for strength, replenishing his depleted reserves.
For he had not been idle, practicing his new way of getting around, strengthening his arms and core muscles. He could now make the jaunt to the door and back again twelve times over without trouble, and even pull himself back into bed afterwards.
He felt a strange sense of accomplishment each time, though he knew it was but a fraction of what normal people could do.
So day by day, he dined on duck confit and rose petal soup and stewed snails in garlic sauce, guzzling the tins of water and taking only small sips of the strawberry wine that accompanied his meals.
Helmuth grew stronger.
The gray-haired woman returned when he was halfway through his daily exercises.
“The king?” he said, raising his eyebrows and feeling a shred of something between fear and excitement. He wasn’t sure why the excitement was there, except perhaps because it was something different. Though his exercises distracted him, the boredom was always there, hanging like a fine mist.
She nodded. “Follow me.”
She turned and walked away, not offering any assistance. The king instructed her not to, Helmuth thought, as certain of this fact as he was of anything in this place.
He followed, feeling not unlike a crab as he departed his room, one hand at a time. He forced himself to go slowly, to pace himself, his eyes forward, ignoring the temptation to peek into the other rooms and gauge the boys’ reactions.
This is nothing, he reminded himself, a thought which fell away the moment he entered the sunny throne room and saw the king standing there, his face awash with an expression that could only be…
Pride.
It practically radiated from him, his eyes sparkling not with amusement but with satisfaction. His lips knit together and he nodded.
Helmuth couldn’t help it—he bathed in that expression, relishing the pride of someone he barely knew and didn’t want to know. Because he’d never felt pride like that before. Certainly not from his own father.
“You see, son? You never needed those crutches, did you?”
Helmuth found himself nodding. And beaming, his lips curled into a smile that made his cheeks ache.
What am I doing? The smile faded. “I did not,” Helmuth said, feeling suddenly empty. Hollow. He’d thought he was doing something for himself, but now he understood. He’d done exactly what the king had wanted him to. He did this for the king.
Now, King Streit stepped forward and reached out. Not toward Helmuth, but into empty air, grabbing something Helmuth hadn’t noticed before. A rope. Helmuth craned his head back to follow the rope’s path, where it reached the opening in the ceiling, curling out of sight over the boulder’s edge.
“Climb,” the king said.
Helmuth stared at the rope, not understanding. Well, he did understand, but tried to deny the truth of what his brain was telling him.
“What if I fall?”
“Try again,” the king said.
“How high?” He already knew the answer.
Felt it in the icy dread shivering down his spine.
“To the top.”
With that, the king left him alone with the rope under a beautiful azure sky mixed with puffy white clouds.
Helmuth’s skin was slick with blood and sweat. His hands were rough and scraped, chafed by the rope, which cut into him each time he touched it.
He’d lost count of how many times he’d fallen, even as day turned to night, the clouds clearing to reveal a heavenly firmament glittering with stars of many colors.
He was bruised and bleeding, and it was a wonder he hadn’t broken any bones—at least as far as he knew.
The most severe of the falls had been from a height almost as tall as the king, made worse by the fact that he’d tried to prevent it by grabbing at the rope, which only jolted his body into an awkward twist. He’d landed on his shoulder, barely cushioning the landing before his head cracked down a moment later.
Now, stars danced before his vision, and he was beginning to wonder whether they had fallen from the sky with him.
A voice snapped his head to the side, and he tried to blink away the spots of color.
Krako, the carriage driver, stood there, looking strangely alone and naked without his wagon and horses. “You all right?” he asked, leaning to the side to look at him.
The question seemed to jar something loose in Helmuth, and he nodded. I will be. Just as soon as I escape from the king.
Escape? There was no escape.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Krako said, running a hand through his thick beard. Helmuth knew the man’s apology should anger him—after all, it was he who had delivered him to the king—but it didn’t. From everything he knew about Krako, he didn’t seem like a bad man. Who knew what leverage the king had over him?
“I should keep climbing,” Helmuth said, though the thought of falling again made him nauseous.
“You should rest first. Here, have some water and food.” The man reached down and collected a tray from the ground, holding it out.
Realization flooded through him. “He sent you?”
Krako nodded.
Helmuth’s heart ceased beating, replaced by the pulse of something other, a different kind of beat. Darkness to light. Shadows to flame.
Before he could clamp down on the energy bristling inside him, it was already out, fog wafting from him like smoke from a fire.
Krako took a staggering step back, nearly dropping the tray. “What the—” he started to say, but then he dropped to his knees, his body shaking, ropes of mist surrounding him. “Please!” he wailed. “Please don’t, please don’t, please please please…” His words descended into shuddering sobs, tears pouring down his cheeks and dripping onto the food he’d brought.
The sight unnerved Helmuth and he managed to grab ahold of the smoke—not with his hands but with his mind
, much like a horseman might regain control of a mustang via its reins.
The mist returned to him, melting into his skin.
It obeyed me, he thought, staring at his own chest with awe. Just beneath his thin, linen shirt, a light glowed softly, occasionally blinking. Then it was gone.
Slowly, Krako stopped convulsing. The tears stopped flowing. He looked up, his eyes wide and white.
And then he ran.
Helmuth considered running too. Well, crab-walking away as fast as he could, down the hall and wherever it led after that—hopefully to a way out.
In the end, however, he realized that such a rash decision was foolish. He would only be caught and punished. So he sat down to wait, sliding the tray toward over and dining on cold pepper lychee soup, garlic-buttered pumpernickel, and braised pork tendon. He gulped the small cup of water and then, after only a moment’s hesitation, did the same with the wine, a rose-colored concoction that tasted both sweet and bitter.
The entire time he expected to hear the telltale clop of the king’s fine boots echoing from the tunnel, his angry strides announcing his return.
Surely Krako would tell him what happened.
Surely the king would be furious.
He would bring soldiers with him.
They won’t be enough, Helmuth thought, the idea startling him. Violent visions danced through his head. Men writhing, tearing at their armor. Soldiers turning their swords on themselves, their killing strokes swift and unmerciful. And the king—the most powerful king in the world—begging for mercy from a cripple.
Helmuth gasped, feeling nausea rise in the back of his throat. Though he was no stranger to stories of violence—after all, they were some of his favorites—they were only stories. He had no desire to see people hurt in real life, and certainly didn’t want to do the hurting himself.