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When the answer to her question was received, Salas was hauled to his feet and made to walk, the sack dropping away from his feet. He was pulled out into the hall while his jewelry was left in a pile on the cell floor. His body shook violently, though it was not simply the frigid temperature that rattled his nerves. He felt, not for the first time, the slick wet between his inner thighs from his previous encounter with the guard, and cringed. Still, the stirring unrest towards the incident was nothing compared to the unsettling tightness he felt towards whatever lay ahead of him.
He was led outside, into a courtyard he’d never seen before, near the front of the castle, directly in front of the palace gates.
He went in silence. His normally-erratic side was under lock and key, lest he erupt into confused tears and begging.
A group had gathered around a simple stone well, standing at least ten paces away from it, speaking to one another as though they’d been called for some sort of social gathering. The people were not guards, judging by the mix of men and women with a variety of body types that strayed from the bulky forms of the palace soldiers. Civilians, then. Perhaps even courtiers. Salas couldn’t determine class by assessing garments here. From beggars to princesses, it all looked like tailored mounds of wool and fur to him.
The peoples’ attention wavered from one another as the party made their approach. The focus switched to the procession?curious, stern eyes pinning to Salas?as the group he traveled with made their approach.
Salas tripped more than once, his face irrationally burning at his sorry state of appearance. He could only imagine what he looked like to the Diagorians, and did not want to picture the vision of himself. He must look so foreign, he realized, in his tattered Susconian party attire: its purpose to showcase the body bare, whiletheywere wrapped in their woolen bulks, perfectly adapted, of course.
He kept his eyes downcast, not wanting to find himself catching eyes that reflected no sympathy for his current condition.
It was obvious the witch was leading whatever ceremony the Diagorians had planned, as she began speaking to Salas in the language with a booming, sonorous voice meant to carry, as though she were carefully reciting a holy monologue. He could not help but raise his head towards her and her grabbing speech. Though she had expressed nothing but callousness towards him, there was also a gleam of excitement in her eyes, like she was looking forward to whatever was about to happen.
Salas hoped he would not have to respond, as he did not understand any of it, but he was surprised when the witch switched her tongue to Susconian. “What is your name?” she asked him, in the exact same tone she had used before.
Salas blinked, wetting his lips. He couldn’t help the swell of hope that coursed through him at the possibility of being able to argue his case. “Salas,” he breathed, his teeth clicking mortifyingly as he fought for control of his mouth against the cold that clenched his jaw.
“Salas of Suscon. Do you understand that you will receive punishment in retribution for your crimes in Diagor?” A small smile was tugging at her lips, as though dealing what she thought to be one’s just deserts was an act that she took great pleasure in.
Salas was already shaking his head violently. “No, no, no, I committed no crimes. I was attacked! King Jareth?”
He hadn’t realized that he had paced forward until one of the guards yanked him back violently, swatting at his head to ensure his silence.
“You’ve already been found guilty, and for that, you will receive your punishment today and now,” the witch continued, speaking with surety and with a deep sense of calm that diverged so greatly from Salas’ own bubbling emotions. Her calmness hysterically infuriated him.
“I’ve done nothing!” he shouted, and was then unable to help himself from struggling against the guards. It only earned him harsher restraints.
“Gag him,” the witch said simply.
A rag was suddenly stuffed between his teeth, then tied at the back of his head. His lashes were wet with tears of frustration.
The witch continued. “How well versed are you in Diagorian history? Surely you’ve heard your beloved, late emperor boast about how he placed a curse on Diagor.. It turned the citizens to beasts and wassupposedto kill them, within time, yet what the Susconians may not know is that us witches stepped in to aid the falling kingdom. Quite a tricky spell we made, but effective.” She gestured to the well. “This well runs into a reservoir that the whole of the capitol has access to. Us witches spell it and the Diagorians drink from it, and it revitalizes their vitality.” She paused, her eyes fixed harder on Salas, though her small, strange smile was still in place. “What we do, you see, is channel the lifesource from other living things into the water for the energy to be stored there. From plants. Animals. People.” Her smile grew wider.
She said something in Diagorian to the crowd, to which they responded with cheers and vast cries of approval, obviously elated by the witch’s promise.
Salas scanned the crowd wildly with growing dread, unbelieving of what the woman had implied.
“Today, Salas of Suscon,” she said to him, “you will give up your life energy, by way of execution.”
Salas was shaking his head again.
No, no, no not like this. They will find out! They will know!
“No, no, you don’t understand,” Salas shouted around the gag. It wouldn’twork. How could he tell the witch without telling her?
She was awitch, and though, of course, that had always been true, for the first time, Salas realized the full gravity of what that meant. Witches had a way ofseeingthings. They could define the world with their mystic powers. Categorize energy the rest of the world could not see. Would she be able to discover what Salas was, too?
If that were the case, though her spell might not work, he truly would die eventually by Diagorian hands.
Salas was pushed forward to stand before the witch while the crowd encouraged on. Her left hand curled, fingers like winter branches, and wrapped around his throat. The other hovered over the circle of the well.
Then, she began chanting.
It was happening. Salas felt the skin around his neck prickle and then the sensation spread out until it felt as though his entire body was thinly vibrating. He focused on the witch’s face for a moment, her own eyes closed in concentration as she recited her chants. Her right hand was now glowing above the well, her palm like a cool lamp over the dark abyss.
The guards had released Salas, but he knew if he struggled, they would be there again, so he held his arms tightly at his side. For whatever reason, perhaps carelessness or an underestimation of his competence, they hadn’t chained him.
