Someday, I hoped I’d look back on this as a grand adventure. A tale of valor I could use to impress my kids. But right now I was having difficulty putting one foot in front of the other. Twenty hours of sleep deprivation tended to have that effect. Maybe after a good night’s rest I’d be able to wrap my head around everything. Although it was pretty clear the fantasy of living happily ever after with the literal man of my dreams was a bust. At this point, I just hoped our trial wouldn’t end with Kenna and me locked back in the icky dungeon for the rest of our natural lives.
Fergus half-carried me into a room that reminded me of a cross between the dining hall at Hogwarts and the throne room from Sleeping Beauty’s castle. If I’d had the energy, I would’ve gawked over the three-story vaulted ceiling supported by stone columns, and marveled at the scalloped leaded glass windows. But in my diminished state, not even the vivid tapestries, larger than the giant man at my side, stirred more than a passing interest.
At our entrance, excited whispers rushed through the room. Hundreds of staring eyes strained to catch a glimpse as guards herded Kenna and me down the center aisle like circus freaks on display.
We approached a wide marble dais, where an elegant, aging man—who looked every bit a ruler—occupied the throne. My heart galloped ahead of me at the sight of Jamie standing beside his father, his hands clasped behind him, a lock of sandy blond hair across one eye. Duncan stood in a similar pose on the old laird’s other side.
As we drew closer, and I could see the impassive set of Jamie’s features, I reigned in my pulse, burying my emotions deep. If he could remain stoic, then so would I. When we stopped, I lifted my chin, locked my spine, and focused on the king. He looked incredibly regal, from the green and blue brocade robe that covered him from neck to feet to the simple gold crown. Even his thick, white hair, which hung down his back in a plaited braid, lent him an air of noble dignity. But it was his dark eyes that drew me in; they radiated with intelligence and life.
Scrutinizing the stalwart king, I couldn’t help but wonder why Jamie had the duties of acting ruler.
“He totally has that King Lear vibe going for him, dontcha think?” Kenna whispered loudly in my ear.
“Shhh.” I shot her a look of disbelief. Didn’t she realize we were in serious trouble?
As King MacCrae opened his mouth to speak, he began to shake and appeared on the verge of pitching forward. Both princes tensed as if they were milliseconds away from lunging to catch him. As their father recovered, they both stiffened, their expressions identical masks of concern.
During the incident, the king’s face remained passive, but his traitorous body betrayed him. Closer observation revealed red-rimmed eyes, a slight tremor in his knobby hands, and deep fatigue underlying his look of fierce concentration. My question regarding Jamie’s role was answered.
As the royal family recovered, Gideon stepped forward and groveled before the king like the sycophant he was. “Sire, if I may, these two lassies before ye are about the witch’s mischief. I apprehended them spying on the princes at the tournament.”
Fear rippled through the crowd in a jumble of hysterical commotion. I turned to confront my jailer and froze. Gideon looked creepier than I remembered. The skin of his face stretched over his skull and his beady eyes protruded amphibiously from his head, like he’d been the victim of a terrible plastic surgeon. I steadied my breath and managed, “We’re not working for any witch.”
He wet his cracked, nearly nonexistent lips. “Why should we believe you?”