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“Are you not grateful?” Victor Corentin snarled. “You never were. Always a spoiled brat living in the shadow of her father. You’ve never had respect for your betters. Our benevolence for your father’s sake is over now.” His voice was a bed of nails, ragged and sharp. “A good keeper will teach you that. Put you in your place. Maybe we should let you sit in your cell until you have the gratitude this offer warrants.”
With a smile that sent a jolt of fear down my spine, he crossed his arms over his chest, daring me to do anything but thank him for that disgusting offer. He looked downright joyous at the prospect of giving me to his slimy friends.
I held his eyes, forcing on a mask of calm and strength, despite the true fear that had wormed under my skin.
Until then, I had truly believed everything would work itself out. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I figured they would realize that and let me go. I should have known better. I did know better.
Chapter3
Kaia
As expected, I awoke curled up on my cramped and itchy, straw-covered steel cot, shivering while trying to shake off the now-customary nightmare. I had to relive a variation of the same horror repeatedly since the soldiers arrested me five days before. I always managed to wake myself up before the worst parts—my mind subconsciously not allowing me to relive one of the worst weeks of my life, but they took their toll regardless.
The sunlight previously streaming through the small, bar-covered window by the ceiling had been replaced with a small measure of moonlight, making the cells appear gloomier and more ominous than during the day. The penetrating darkness and complete silence from outside suggested it was the middle of the night, but there was no accurate way to know how long I had been asleep. There was little light, and the one small window was up way too high to look out.
The continuous staccato ping of water falling from somewhere in the shadows was the only sound breaking the eerie silence.
Summer was rolling into fall, and while the days were generally almost bearable, the nights were bitter in my concrete room.
I hugged my knees to stave off the cold. Every inch of my body protested the movement. When I stretched my arm over my legs, the sleeve of the burlap sack stuck to the brand, ripping away the little healing I had managed. It still throbbed as painfully as the day it was burned onto my skin, still raw and blistered. Every time I moved, the skin pulled, undermining any heating that had occurred. It would heal eventually, assuming I didn’t catch an infection, but I was sure it would scar horribly.
This position also compressed my cracked rib, making breathing more difficult. But shivering hurt just as much.
My stomach growled. I hadn’t been fed in three days-- not since I stopped talking during the interrogations. What was the point? They didn’t listen, and the less I spoke, the more they did— the more they gave away. It was the only way I learned anything.
I eyed the chamber pot in the corner, debating if I could put off using it any longer. The sheer agony that task would bring aside, the pot was disgusting. It had never been changed and nearly overflowed onto the wet, filthy concrete floor.
Everything else in the cell was equally as disgusting. The straw I laid on was spoiled but seemed cleaner than the floor. The concrete floor and battered stone walls were stained with burnt red splatters and smears. The smell of iron and feces combined with the general dank smell of mold, mildew, and lost dreams.
My sense of smell had faded with time, making the odor less offensive, but it was back in full force after the scent of fresh-cut gardenias and lemon cleaner from the Council Chamber. It churned my insides.
I decided to get up and get it over with. It was going to be another long, restless night anyway. Being talked down to by the council was exhausting, but it lit a fire inside me, rather than dragging me deeper and deeper into the numbness I’d forced myself to exist in to escape the pain of the previous days. Too much had happened.
As hard as it was, I had been prepared to talk about my father during the interrogation. I had not been ready to speak of a Keeper, especially someone Victor Corentin has recommended.
Victor had been right about some things. Father did spoil me in many ways, sheltering me from what he could. There was never any real fear of the repercussions of my actions since Father would have shielded me from the worst of the outcomes, so I wasn’t forced to grow up too quickly. The suite Father and I shared was modest but comfortable. We didn’t want for much, and until recently, I had lived a reasonably easy life. We were safe from threats, both from within and beyond the capital's boundary.
Other women did not have the same experiences. They did not fight. Father trained me at night in secret before his rounds. They rarely spoke in the presence of men, their keepers. They were broodmares and teachers. Hopefully, we would raise boys who would grow to be men who would defend our country and strengthen our armies. But unfortunately, sometimes you had girls and were forced to prepare them to raise and train the next generation of boys.
If my opinions were considered, I didn’t find anything wrong with keeping the house and children. Being a mother was vital, especially if you bore a son. Plus, I loved children. But I wanted to be needed as more than a broodmare.
I closed my eyes, sucking in a breath and holding it, mentally preparing myself for the inevitable pain moving would bring. I gritted my teeth, holding my dislocated arm to my chest, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, allowing the momentum to pull me to a seated position. Pain was everywhere, but I forced myself to stand and limp to the pot, relieving myself.
The crash of the far door interrupted my wallowing as footsteps sounded down the hall, echoing throughout the cellblock.
At the end of the hearing, the king had told the guards to return me to my cell and ordered that I not be touched again, ‘to preserve my looks for my keeper’. It wasn’t a particularly comforting demand, but I had hoped it would save me from these nightly visits. Even with the king’s warning in place, I was concerned. There were worse things than bruises, which these men had repeatedly proven.
No matter who was approaching, I knew I needed to prepare myself. I wouldn’t allow anyone to find me on my cot rolled in a ball.
To me, they were the worst type of men. This one in particular. Rather than displaying empathy due to his awful experiences as a low-level Water Users, he grabbed tight onto any opportunity to lord over someone he perceived as smaller or weaker. He delighted in reminding me of my place beneath him. Someone that he thought he could push around.
I had given the guards a fair amount of trouble during my stay, not one to take their abuse lying down. I would delight in walloping some of that misogyny and pompous assholery right out of him. (Yes, I know that’s not a word. But it should be.)
“Girl!” the guard barked. I felt the animosity in his tired, cold eyes. “Move away from the bars and place your hands on your head. It’s time to go.”
I stared him down briefly, showing my hatred clear as day as I took a few slow steps backward.
“Back away!” the guard yelled when I didn’t move far or fast enough. “The king may want you all pretty, but there’s not much a healer and a bath can’t fix. Don’t try me.”
