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He shook his head at her stupid question and cleared his throat from the foul, thick saliva that coated it. “Zalina brought me here.”
“She did.” Her round head bobbled in a yes. She leaned forward, pointing at him with her twiggy finger. “But why are you still here?”
He snarled, his belly, body, and soul too sore to tolerate inanities. “Why areyouhere, Meshougi? What did you do?”
Her eyes widened. He frowned. They widened even more and sparkled withglee.
She really was crazy.
She lifted a single finger and patted her nose on the side before she settled back onto the bed.
Killian no longer looked for a window to tell him the time of day. It was all meaningless. He no longer watched the drips of water. He no longer heard their pattering. There was no escape. There was only dimness. And an odd neighbor.
The pile of blankets shifted, and white eyes peeked from their depths. Meshougi spoke again. “Prince, what do you fear?”
He sat up, delicately setting his back against the wall and glancing at her through their shared wall. Before he restarted his count of the 1,433 stones of his ceiling, he answered, “Nothing.”
“Why?”
He shrugged a bony shoulder. “I feel nothing. Why would I feel fear?”
The mass of blankets shifted. She leaned toward him. He couldn’t even smell her anymore. “Did you feel nothing your whole life?”
“Well, no.” He scratched at his oily head, his fingers tangling in their mats.
“Then whatdidyou fear?”
Killian struggled to think back. To remember through the fog of his mind. “I feared losing a fight.”
“So do mice. What else?”
He frowned. “I feared being a poor king.”
Her hand flitted before her, a twig on a bush, waving in a gust. “Nah. What else?”
“I … what is the purpose of this?” Killian sat up, a spark of anger flared like a dying ember, dull but present in his chest.
“These are comfortable fears, Killian. You are not ready yet.”
Killian scoffed and spat on the ground before he rolled away from her and covered his head.
Flies buzzed around the wounds on his feet.
“Leave those.” Meshougi said as he went to brush off the maggots. “Leave them. They save lives. They may not be pretty, but they clean wounds. They have a purpose. You have to deal with the toxic rot before you can heal, Prince.”
Killian stopped brushing at his legs. What did it matter anyway? His calves were thin, mere bones attached to his paddle of a wounded foot. His feet had become as mildewed as hers.
He was cold, hungry, aching—this was his whole identity. The wheel was his whole world. He was taken there again.
Like she did every time, Zalina asked, “Prince Killian, will you marry me?” But today she said added, “I will spare you the wheel, and we shall feast.”
His eyebrow twitched, but he said nothing. His stomach growled loudly, and she smiled. He felt nothing.
He started from the memory as if it was real. He could still feel the warmth in his hands as he had held hers. He could smell her sunny meadow scent. The glint from her hair still flashed and waved in the wind. As radiant as the sun that heated his skin, Raela had warmed his heart. His heart stumbled at the renewed sense of loss.
Killian sat up and held his head in his hands. Hot tears burned at the corners of his eyes. One slipped down his cheek.
The woman stood right behind him, holding onto the bars. “Who was she?”
