32
The single overhead light is the only one we have and the solitary indication of daytime is a faint glow shimmering through the crack around the door at the top of the stairs. I am so cold that it is almost impossible to move my legs. My arms and shoulders are already stiff from the way the Kingsmen pulled my limbs around and the freezing temperature has only made it worse. I have slept in pitiful fits and starts, jolting awake every few minutes with the drip, drip, drip serving as a constant reminder of where I am.
Nobody comes to see either of us and we spend the day telling each other stories about home. Hart insists he is fine, although his cough is fierce and getting worse. I can see spatters of blood on the floor of his cell through the gloom. Gingerly I walk the few paces from one end of my cell to the other, trying to keep my legs and arms stretched and moving so they do not stiffen up any worse than they already are.
I feel strangely naked without my thinkwatch. It’s not just about knowing the time of day, or knowing if I am supposed to be somewhere; it has become a part of life – the first thing you check each morning and the last thing each evening. Even the relatively new orange face felt somehow right.
Eventually, we hear a clicking sound and the door slides upwards. Light floods the room and three, perhaps four Kingsmen enter the dungeon. The blazing white light from the doorway feels alien to my eyes and I struggle to keep them open as the guards’ boots clunk on the floor before the door to my cell is wrenched open and I feel thick fingers clamping around my shoulders and arms. I tell them I’ll go willingly but it makes no difference as their podgy digits poke painfully into my bruises.
More stomping, rattling and scanner noises as my eyes gradually become used to being out of the gloom. I hear Hart being dragged behind me and know he is in a far worse state than I am. He is groaning and coughing as the Kingsmen berate him for not moving quickly enough. There is a thud of boot on bone but the pair of guards directing me have such a tight grip that it is impossible for me to turn and see what is happening.
We are taken through to the main hall, which already seems full. In the centre is the banqueting table with the boys sitting on either side and the girls on a separate bench at the far end of the hall. The King is in his royal box already eating, the Minister Prime standing rigidly, watching us enter. The lights are bright and it is impossible to see if there are any people peering down from the seats above.
Hart and I are thrown into a corner at the back of the arena area, with two Kingsmen waiting behind us, hands poised by their swords. There are two more guards by the main door, one by the entrance to the kitchen and another standing behind the King. Six in total, I think to myself, knowing I still haven’t seen anything to disprove Imrin’s theory. I look towards the bench along the side where Jela, Pietra, Faith and one or two others are peeking at me. I try to read their faces but it is only Pietra who shows anything approaching determination. The others seem defeated and a couple don’t even acknowledge I am there.
As for the boys, I see Rush chancing quick glances in our direction, but never for longer than a second or two. I don’t blame him. Imrin is sitting at the head of the table, facing the royal box directly. I can see a huge stuffed turkey on the table in front of him and cannot stop my mouth from watering. It is over a day since I last ate and I have no idea how long ago it was that Hart was given food or water.
In the four corners of the room are cameras, each with a flashing red light.
The Minister Prime stretches out his arm for silence, before sitting and allowing the King to take charge. He is certainly in a better state than he was the previous evening; smiling with the determined twinkle in his eyes that I was so used to seeing on the screen at home.
‘My subjects, my Offerings … what a day it has been!’ He spreads his arms wide and beams manically. Belatedly there is a slow ripple of applause as he points towards Hart and me. ‘We have two traitors in our midst. People who think they are superior to you, my subjects.’
He pauses for a response, which he gets with a low booing and stamping of feet, but it feels subdued. The King then points towards the girls. ‘We also have those who did not see fit to report unconstitutional behaviour.’
More booing but it feels quieter still. I wonder what Porter is doing in the seats above me. Is he watching? Is he jeering as well?
‘We will deal with them later – but first we eat! We drink!’
Cheers that feel genuine – but then it does involve food, so it’s perhaps not surprising.
At his cue, the boys around the table in the centre of the room start eating. I see Imrin piling turkey, ham and beef onto his plate, tearing and ripping it from his fork, then picking up extra pieces with his fingers. I don’t take my eyes from him, watching him eat potatoes, carrots, fruit, and many other things. I know my stomach would never have managed half of what he has eaten – but with the food directly in front of us, the pain of hunger is suddenly compounded. Hart shuffles close by and one of the Kingsmen kicks him in the back. I try not to move myself, but my stomach is gurgling in protest at the tantalising smells drifting just a few metres from where we are. They could have left us in the dungeon for longer but this is a far better way of torturing us.
As the meal is coming to an end, the King stands again, peering down at the main table. ‘My champion,’ he says, indicating for Rush to stand. ‘Would you take this to our guests?’ He throws a thick chunk of meat onto the ground. Rush picks it up and brings it towards us. As he gets closer, he meets my eyes but doesn’t have to say a word for me to know he is sorry. He holds the meat towards me but I can see the dark brown skin is covered with dust, sand and grime. It looks disgusting, yet the smell is so overwhelming that I stretch for it without even thinking. My finger has just made contact when a Kingsman steps forward and kicks my arm away. The meat falls to the floor and he stands on it, rotating his foot around a dozen times until it has been mashed firmly into the ground. I can hear the King bellowing with delight and amusement as the Kingsman finally steps back.
The steak is halfway between Hart and me, but it is now in an even worse state, covered with mud and filth, the sand from the floor completely covering it like a yellowy flour. Rush has edged away from us, embarrassed, but Hart and I are watching each other, the thought in both of our minds that we need to eat. He leans forward and picks it up as a low moan of disgust ripples around. He wipes the meat on the remains of his trousers, which are themselves caked in dried blood and grit, before putting it into his mouth and biting.
The King’s laughter echoes around the area, if anything getting louder. I can hear him slapping his knees and turn to see him doubled over with tears streaming down his face as he points towards us and asks if everyone has seen.
I turn back to Hart, who is swallowing awkwardly, each throat movement appearing painful. Given that neither of us has had anything to drink in an entire day, it is no surprise. He hands me the mangled steak, which I take and then flick a few of the larger parts of dirt away.
‘It could do with a bit of salt,’ Hart says.
His timing, combined with our situation, makes me laugh as I take the biggest bite I can manage and then hand the steak back. My amusement seemingly confuses the King to such a degree that his derision stops in an instant. With a click of his stubby fingers, the Kingsman has wrenched the meat from Hart’s hand and thrown it across the arena. I finish chewing and swallow what’s in my mouth, trying to ignore the tiny flecks of sand which now coat my tongue.
‘Maybe a bit of pepper too,’ I add.
‘Enough!’ the King bellows. Any joy has gone from his voice and he sounds close to the edge of insanity once again. The male Offerings are beckoned to the opposite side of the arena to the girls, as kitchen staff clear the tables until the space in the middle is empty. The King watches the whole operation, shaking with a fury I have no doubt is ready to erupt. Our insolence was the final straw.
Good.
‘You,’ he screeches, pointing towards me as I feel one of the Kingsmen hauling me to my feet and shunting me into the central area. I can feel everyone’s eyes upon me. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Silver Blackthorn.’
He stares at me, his greedy piggy eyes twitching, while I can see smears of food in his beard. In his other hand he has a bottle of wine.
‘What’s wrong with your hair?’
At first I’m not sure what he means but then it is obvious. I pull my silver streak forwards and then push it back over my head. ‘Nothing, I was born like this.’
‘Do you know why you’re here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you ready to confess to your crimes?’
‘Yes.’
He seems surprised as he takes a swig from the bottle. ‘Get on with it, then.’
I deliberately look towards the Minister Prime as I reply. ‘I confess that I made a map because I wanted to escape.’
‘Really?’
The King doesn’t seem to know what to make of me but I am still fixed on the Minister Prime. He isn’t moving either but I notice his eyes flicker momentarily to the side.
‘Yes, really. But I changed my mind before I ever got near to escaping because I had a better idea.’
I speak clearly and slowly, the words rehearsed in my head many times over. There is a hum of confusion around the people above me, who I cannot see. Even the King doesn’t appear to know what to say. He stumbles over his words at first, before correcting himself. ‘What idea?’
In a flash, I turn my attention back to the King, making sure he is watching me before I reply. ‘My idea is to take you down.’
His brow shoots downwards, revealing what I would like to say are worry lines, although his expression is more likely one of confusion. Around me, there is uproar. Many of those unseen are jeering and shouting, although I don’t doubt much of it is because they feel they have to, as opposed to them having any great loyalty.
‘But you’re just a girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘But …’
As the King stumbles, the Minister Prime rises theatrically to his feet and calls for a silence he gets. ‘Enough,’ he says sharply. ‘I suggest we skip the planned search for a champion tonight, Your Highness.’
The King stares from me to him and nods gently.
The Minister Prime indicates towards the boys’ bench.
‘You.’
I turn to see Imrin pointing at himself in confusion. The Minister Prime makes some sort of sign at the Kingsmen at the front and one of them strides forward and grabs Imrin by the arm, throwing him towards me until we are just a metre apart.
‘This farce is over.’ The Minister Prime speaks in total contrast to the way he did with Imrin last night. ‘Only a fool would believe she coerced you. Look at her.’ His eyes narrow as he spits out his next words. ‘I’ve always hated little snitches like you.’
He claps his hands and two Kingsmen approach. I look up to see them throwing two wooden bats onto the ground in between us. As I peer closer, I can see nails and pieces of metal sticking out from the meat of the bat.
‘One each,’ the Minister Prime orders. ‘Now.’
With a shrug, I pick up one of the weapons and weigh it in my hands – it is nothing compared to the sword I held before. Imrin is doing the same and, for the first time, our eyes meet. His face is hard to read but when I see him, all I can remember are the moments we spent sitting under that blanket. He seems like a stranger now, weighing the bat in his hand as I clench the other one.
It feels as if everyone around us is holding their breath because it is so quiet. We both know what is coming.
The Minister Prime is staring at me, his eyes asking if I feel quite so clever now but then his thinkwatch buzzes. He lifts his wrist and shakes his head in annoyance before nodding to the two Kingsmen by the door. They both turn to leave as one of the two Kingsmen who were guarding Hart and me crosses to the main door, where he is joined by the one that was close to the kitchen door.
The Minister Prime scowls at us with another shake of his head. ‘Your Highness, I apologise on behalf of these two for any pain they may have caused you with their disrespect.’
I look to the King. He has finished one bottle of wine and is just starting on another.
The Minister Prime turns back towards us. ‘As your punishment, you can do whatever you want to each other. You have ten minutes – if there is no winner I’ll get the Kingsmen to finish you both off. Whoever wins can come back tomorrow.’ His voice is dismissive to the point of boredom, as if I have somehow spoiled his fun.
The Minister Prime claps his hands to signal the countdown has begun. I look at Imrin one final time as a low roar of approval goes up from the seats above us.