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As much as I’d like to explore more of the treasures here and maybe take some with me, I can’t risk smuggling contraband into the palace. So I climb the spiral steps, leaving Thren’s body to decompose under the Elf-lights, among his forbidden relics.
“Farewell, asshole,” I mutter, while I drag the trapdoor and the table back into place over the steps. Let him rot down there, while I return triumphant with the money, the fennisley, and a historic sword.
This errand was a fucking success. I can’t wait to tell Juliette everything.
I’ve passed through the fabric shop and my hand is on the street door when something occurs to me—a prudent measure that’s out-of-character for someone like me. I like following the bend of the stream, going with the current, sailing wherever the wind goes. Perhaps it’s Juliette’s influence, or my new-found craving for a life beyond the one I’ve led. But this idea won’t leave me alone.
I should lay the spell on the fennisley now. If I return to the palace, I could be interrupted at any moment—but here, I have solitude, space, and plenty of time to devise the right spell. I won’t need the King’s essence for this—only his name and identity, woven into the words. This isn’t a carnal charm—it’s a lethal curse, the stuff of souls and mortality. I will need to compose the right poem to offer the goddess—the most complex chant I’ve ever invented. And she will exact a price, a heavy toll on my life’s energy. I’ll need to rest and eat afterward, if I can manage to function at all after such a casting.
Whatever happens, it’s best that I endure it here, away from the prying eyes at the House of Bounty. Thren probably has living quarters upstairs—I’ll find them, take stock of what food stores he has… and then design the spell that will kill the King.
17
I barely have time to unpin the annoying hat from my hair when two guards burst into my bedroom. “Come with us.”
“What? Why?” Instinctively I back away, my mind racing. Where are they taking me? To the King? He couldn’t possibly want sex again so soon.
The guards hurry me through the halls, down the long passage connecting the House of Bounty to the palace, and along a vaguely familiar route down to the lower levels, beneath the King’s residence. This time, instead of a jail cell, they take me to a corridor lined with storage rooms and shove me into one. It’s hard to tell the room’s dimensions since it’s piled high with straw, but judging from the width and length of the vaulted ceiling, the space is huge.
To the left and right of the doorway are boxes of bobbins, and on the bit of the flagstone floor that’s not covered with straw, there’s a spinning wheel and a wooden bench.
“You will spin all this straw into gold,” announces one of the guards. He points to a bell-cord by the door. “Ring this if you need food, drink, or the privy. You have tonight, tomorrow, and the following night. By dawn on the second day, it must be done.”
“I can’t do this.” I search his eyes, desperate for a sign of understanding, of pity. “I told the King my magic takes time to replenish. I won’t be ready for this task for months.”
The guard exchanges a malevolent smirk with his companion. “His Majesty thought you might make an excuse. He says that if you cannot accomplish this task within three days, your friend Shenya will suffer the removal of her tongue and genitals, and she will serve you for the remainder of your time in the House of Bounty.”
Cold horror clutches my lungs. I can’t breathe—can’t speak.
Shenya, mutilated, silenced, and forced to serve as my maid? It’s unthinkable.
“Shall we fetch the girl for the procedure?” asks the guard. “Or will you accomplish the King’s will?”
“I can’t do it. I told the King as much.” My voice is strident, desperate, angry. “He can’t do that to Shenya. She has a magical gift… she’s one of the potential brides.”
“Her gift is of little use to the King, and he has other concubines,” replies the guard coolly. “Will you obey His Majesty and perform the task he has set for you?”
I grit my teeth, infuriated by his apathy. I want to smack him. “As I’ve said, I can’t perform the magic again so quickly. But for my friend’s sake, I will try. Would you please give the King a message? Ask him to come and speak with me, or grant me an audience so I can explain my abilities and beg for his mercy and patience. Unless he wants me to overtax myself and die trying to save my friend.”
Neither guard replies. They only shove me into the storage room, slam the door with a resounding clang, and lock it up.
No. This can’t be happening. This wasn’t the plan—we were supposed to have time. Time for the King to recover, time for him to try out some of the other girls and their powers. Time for my fake magic to renew itself.
The King—or perhaps Lady Kessalif—didn’t believe me when I said I wouldn’t be able to perform the spell again for a year. I overplayed my hand—I made the span of time too long for believability.
Maybe the King even suspects something amiss with last night’s illusion of debauchery. Maybe giving him four cupcakes was too much. Fuck, I’m an idiot. Both times I overdid the ruse, took it too far, made him suspicious. Unlike Rupert, I’m not a trickster by nature—I’m not used to this sort of thing. And now, because of my inexperience and foolishness, Shenya is in dreadful danger.
I could possibly still salvage this, if Rupert were anywhere around. I know once he discovers where I’ve been taken, he’ll come to save me. He had some way of finding my room that first night—he can find me again.
Until then, all I can do is wait.
First, I pace the floor—but I can only go about four steps in each direction before I scuff into the piles of straw. So I give that up, and instead I unpack a couple of the boxes and line up the bobbins, ready for use. That’ll save some time later.
There’s nothing else to do. And the idleness, more than anything else, sends my brain into a frantic spiral. I’m not used to being trapped like this. I need something to do.
I gather a bunch of the straw and sit down at the spinning wheel, knowing full well that nothing will happen. Even if I could remember the poem Rupert recited, I have no well of magical energy inside me from which to draw.
I slap a handful of straw onto the wheel and hold it there a moment, then press the pedal. The wheel turns, and the pieces of straw tumble to the floor, as expected.
