AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A strong hand fastens around my wrist and I wonder how my peaceful evening with my father turned into this.
My father.
I look around and see he’s finally come to the door to look for me, his face ashen at the sight of the soldiers. A wild part of me wonders if he’ll do something—try to save me. I know, logically, he can’t physically stop these men, but he could fight for me in other ways, couldn’t he? Step forward and try to reason with them, beg for mercy, offer to take my place?
My heart sinks when he doesn’t move an inch, frozen in place. I take in his bloodshot eyes and stricken expression and am reminded that Isaac Thorn gave up fighting a long time ago.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’ll be back. I promise!” I call as they begin to lead me away.
But the promise is no more real than the gold necklace now clutched in the soldier’s hand.
Handsome portraits of King Albrecht sit in buildings across the country, but seeing the man in person tells me the artists value their lives too much to have painted an accurate likeness. In person he has the same mean black eyes as his men, paired with the pout of a spoiled child.
A bead of sweat rolls down my neck from waves of heat being thrown out by the four huge fires that burn in the castle’s throne room. I’m used to working near open flame, but I’ve never known a room to be so warm at this time of year. I stare at the logs piled up by the fireplaces. They must go through half a forest each week.
It makes the entire atmosphere stifling and yet Albrecht sits there wreathed in furs and jewelry, looking utterly comfortable and extremely irritated.
But not at us, not yet. There are other prisoners with us, criminals waiting to go before their monarch. Up front is a boy who looks about Sanna’s age. He’s shifting, seeming ready to bolt, as Albrecht hurls venomous words his way.
“Pathetic, worthless. No son of mine will be seen losing to a fletcher!”
“I’ll practice, Your Majesty.” I admire the way the young prince manages to keep his voice steady when he’s so clearly afraid. “I’m already one of the best archers in the keep.”
“One of the best,” Albrecht spits. “If I thought all I’d get from you was mediocrity I would’ve rethought bedding your whore of a mother.” He swigs from a goblet of wine, not noticing the stream of red that trickles down his chin. “Thank God she’d dead so she can’t see what a disappointment you are.”
The tops of the boy’s ears redden, but otherwise he seems to remain calm. “I shall try harder, I promise.”
Albrecht ignores him, waving over a servant girl. He proceeds to pull her close, murmuring in her ear. She keeps her face artfully blank, but I don’t miss her flinch as he puts a bejeweled hand on her rear and squeezes it before letting her go. He must’ve sent her to the armory, because a moment later a bow and quiver of arrows is being handed to the boy. The soldiers pull forward the first prisoner in our line: a man in an apron. A cook, I guess.
“You will prove your archery skills here and now,” Albrecht barks. My mouth goes dry.
“You don’t think…” whispers Thatch.
But I very much do.
The man opens his mouth to beg or protest, but the king drowns out his words.
“Oh, do shut him up. It hurts my ears, all this constant whining,” he grumbles.
The cook is quickly muted with a gag as Albrecht points to the spot he must stand.
“Show us what you’ve got,” the king says to the boy, almost playfully. This whole show seems to be exciting for him, certainly more entertaining than his son’s apologies or the cries of a doomed man.
The young prince looks down at the bow in his hands, then the man in front of him. The room holds its breath.
“Aim for the heart,” Albrecht orders. “Now!”
The boy lifts his arms in a fluid, practiced movement. A heartbeat of hesitation, and he releases the string. I look away, but hear too clearly the swoosh of air, the thud of impact against flesh followed by the muffled scream of the cook.
Albrecht shouts “Again!”, and I look up to see that the first arrow has hit home, but the cook is still alive, kicking out his legs in terrible jerks as he slides to the floor.
Sorrow is evident on the boy’s face, and I wonder how such compassion can survive in a place like this.
The boy raises his arrow once more and I notice he’s adjusting his aim, drawing the string tauter for a more forceful shot. It whooshes through the air, and the cook’s head is driven back, the second arrow protruding from it.
“Merciful God…” Thatch whines quietly.
But the mercy was all the boy’s. I can see now, how he tried to make the death quick, aiming a killing shot. And it worked.
