The most difficult time to be hungry is when the pangs first start. When the body realizes it’s missed a meal and signals that it wants food. But after a while it gives up asking; it gives up expecting anything. The pangs will return, of course, and the hunger never goes away. But once a person has reached this stage, he has bigger problems than the next meal.
Hunger was the least of my concerns.
In the first couple of days following my capture, I was left almost entirely alone. My prison was well guarded — I knew that from the conversations that filtered down through the boards over my head. But I remained in the darkness, was given nothing to eat, and had only the muddy water that dripped from the earth above to drink. The few visits I did get were only to be sure I was still there, and to add to my injuries in whatever way entertained the vigils. In all that time, I never fought back, never said a word, never gave a single indication I registered their presence. As far as I was concerned, if they were going to tell everyone I was dead, I might as well behave that way.
On the morning of the third day, their treatment changed. A couple of Vargan’s soldiers came with a bowl of soup they insisted I eat. I gave them a thorough description of where they could shove it and waved it away. The taller of the men threw the bowl at me, as if I cared about that, and they left.
Later that evening, a plate was carried in with a chunk of stale bread and a cup of dirty water. I tossed the bread into the corner, hoping the rats would prefer chewing on it rather than getting any closer to me. I tried to hit someone when I threw the cup, but didn’t manage to throw even as far as the vigil’s feet.
Commander Kippenger was immediately summoned, and yelled a lot about how much trouble he’d be in if I didn’t start eating. Somehow, that single fact made the hunger easier to bear.
The next morning, a woman was sent in with a towel that she used to wash me up. I begged her to wipe whatever was left of Imogen’s blood off my chest and she did. Only then did I feel able to breathe again.
“I helped take care of the girl once they brought her here,” the woman said. “They offered her every possible reward for information about you, but she always refused.”
It hurt to hear about Imogen, yet I realized not hearing about her was worse. I had spent much of the past two days thinking back on things the priests of the churches had taught about an afterlife. If they were right, that all good people became saints in heaven, then surely that was where Imogen now rested. My family would be there as well. Whether it was true or not, I chose to believe that’s where she was, happy and free from any worries or pain. It helped.
After the woman left, a chair was brought into the room. A herald outside announced the presence of King Vargan, though by the prickle of my skin, I’d already sensed him nearby. Moments later he entered my prison.
In his youth, Vargan had been a commanding presence, but time had worn away at him like seawater against a sandcastle. His gray hair was tied back and he had thick round spectacles that enlarged his dark-saddled eyes. A servant accompanying him discreetly mentioned the spectacles and Vargan quickly removed them, as if he hadn’t wanted anyone to see. When he gave them to his servant, he was then handed a cloth, which he pressed to his nose. I found that odd, since it hadn’t even occurred to me how it must smell in here. He stood in the doorway, stretched his back, and then studied me as he walked forward. Eventually he settled into his chair, though he still hadn’t spoken a word, and I had yet to acknowledge him.
“I’m told you won’t eat,” he said finally.
“Avenian food tastes like salted dung,” I muttered.
“I expected some humility. I could let you die in here.”
“I wish you would.”
He shifted his weight and looked me over. “Captivity has been hard on you. You look terrible.”
“So do you. At least I have an excuse.”
He chuckled softly. “The boy king single-handedly invades my country, causes the death of the girl he loves, and now is mine to treat in any manner I see fit. As you were told, we immediately sent word of your death far and wide, along with an offer to your prime regent for peaceful surrender.”
“I’m glad you’re offering,” I said. “He’ll happily accept your surrender.”
He chuckled again. “When we met on the night of your family’s funeral, I said that I liked you, and I do. You’re a spirited young man, greatly in need of discipline, but with many qualities I admire. I wish we could’ve been friends.”
I said nothing. My wishes for him were far less kind.
“Your position in this war isn’t good, Jaron. The best choice for any of your men is to put down their swords. There will be a heavy price for their loyalty, and I hope you won’t require that of them any longer. Do you think I’m not serious? The two archers who came with you are dead. Did you know that? They stayed to help you when they ought to have run.”
I had figured they must be gone, but it was still terrible news. I took note that he didn’t mention Mott. Perhaps there was a chance he had somehow escaped.
Vargan continued, “If it was only my army, you would still be outmatched, both in strength and in numbers, but there is also Gelyn and Mendenwal against you. I heard about your fight with the captain of your guard. Now he’s left and taken the finest of your soldiers from what I’m told. Your remaining armies are scattered, without the strength to defend any single area. And I have you, still in mourning for that girl.”
He referred to Imogen as “that girl,” which was an insult to her. Yet I preferred that to hearing him use her name. He had no right to speak it, not after what he’d done.
Vargan leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “We’ve waited as long as we can to bury her. I wonder if you want to see her body, to see where the arrow struck. You may wish for the chance to mourn properly.”
Still I remained silent. The thought had occurred several times to ask to see her, but ultimately I knew seeing her that way, having that one last memory, would destroy me even faster.
Vargan shrugged indifferently. “We know nothing for her gravestone other than her first name. She died in battle, and deserves more than that.”
Amarinda would want Imogen adopted into her own house. I was sure of that. “She was Imogen of Bultain,” I mumbled. “That was her name.”
He nodded. “And is there any epitaph you want added?”
The words had already formed in my mind, and yet I waited until I was looking directly at him before I said, “Here lies Imogen of Bultain. Whose death prompted a revenge that marked the final days of King Vargan.”
Vargan’s face hardened and he stood. “Consider yourself lucky I don’t bury you beside her. Because of your insolence, she will have no gravestone. There will be no memory of her ever having been here.”
If only memories could be abandoned so easily.
“I took her!” Vargan yelled. “And before this is over, I’ll take everything from you.”
“There’s nothing left,” I mumbled.
“Are you sure of that? You’ll give me whatever I want, or you’ll learn what it means to lose everything. Mott, that servant you care so much about. I will let you watch every minute of his slow execution. Rulon Harlowe — he’s like a father to you, isn’t he? It won’t take much to end his life. And the princess. She’ll be lucky to escape with as little pain as that kitchen noble you loved.”
By then, he had my attention. Coming from anyone else, those might have only been threats designed to frighten me. But Vargan would relish the chance to carry them out. If I didn’t cooperate with him, using one person after another, he would destroy me.
He called for his vigils, then pointed at me and said, “Let the devils humble him. The next time I see this boy, I want him eager to bow at my feet. He will not defy me!”
The vigils bowed to their king and some of them escorted him up the stairs. The others came closer to me, pounding fists into their hands, preparing to carry out Vargan’s orders.