A Red-Rose Chain

The guards didn’t like the fact that we weren’t treating the whole situation as dire and filled with ominous portent: I could tell that from the way they looked at me, stealing glances out of the corners of their eyes as they waited for me to break down and start crying. I smiled when I caught them looking at me, but I didn’t taunt them or laugh in their faces. Under the circumstances, that seemed like the best that I could do.

Of the three of us, Walther came the closest to behaving the way he was expected to behave. He walked silently, watching the faces of the people we passed like he thought he could uncover the secrets to the Kingdom if he just looked deeply enough. He didn’t look like a defeated man, but he definitely looked like a man who’d been hit more times than was fair, and was still trying to recover his footing.

More guards met us at the entrance to the castle, presumably to make sure we didn’t try anything in the presence of the King. I smiled politely as they joined the formation around us, and we walked, en masse, to the receiving room doors.

Marlis was already waiting there, her face composed into a mask of utter disdain. “You are entering the presence of His Highness, King Rhys of Silences,” she said. “Should any of you raise hand or voice against the King, the penalty will be sleep for one hundred years. Should any of you present a clear and present danger to the King, the penalty will be sleep for one hundred years. Should any of you refuse the justice of the Crown, you shall have no recourse. Do you understand?”

I tried to meet her eye, to figure out whether she was back under the King’s control, but I couldn’t manage it. That, more than anything, convinced me that she was still free. She was being too careful to have been anything else.

“We understand,” I said. “We do not accept this arrest, but we understand.”

“Then enter, and plead your case before the King,” said Marlis. The doors swung open, apparently independent of any hand, and the guards moved through, pulling us with them.

As soon as the last guard was past the doorway, the doors slammed shut, rattling their frame with the force of their closure. I didn’t look back to see if Marlis had accompanied us. My attention was fixed on the front of the room, and on the feeling of slow rage blossoming in my chest like a poisonous flower. King Rhys was there, as I had expected, sitting on his throne like he belonged exactly where he was. The false Queen was next to him, a smug smile on her pale face. Neither of them was worthy of my attention, or my outrage.

It was only when I looked at the people standing in front of the dais that my anger found a purpose. May and Quentin were off to the side, their hands bound in front of them with delicate-looking loops of morning glory vine. As I watched, Quentin shifted positions and grimaced, looking pained. Whatever that vine was, it was nothing as innocuous as morning glory. It was hurting them.

“Sir Daye,” said King Rhys, rising. He struck a pose that was worthy of the King he was pretending to be: feet apart, shoulders square, arms crossed over his chest like his disapproval was his most powerful weapon. His guards continued marching us toward the throne, and he watched us come with a disappointed look on his face, clearly heartbroken by my supposed betrayal.

Bastard. “King Rhys,” I replied. I didn’t bow. He had lost the privilege of having me bow to him. “You want to tell me what this is all about? I’m here under the hospitality of your house. Maybe you do things differently in Silences, but in the Mists, we don’t arrest our guests unless they’ve actually done something wrong.”