You must believe me when I say it—I did not kill the king. It is true that pretty much the entire island thinks I killed the king, but I will say it again—I did not kill the king. If they catch me and throw me into some deep, dark dungeon with rats and bugs and smelly old man feet, I will make everybody in the whole place go crazy by repeatedly screaming the same sentence over and over again until they finally put me out of my misery—I did not kill the king!
Actually, I’d probably never make it to the dungeon. They would likely drag me by my toenails into the public square—the one in front of the castle—and execute me right there on the spot. That’s why I can’t get caught. It is difficult to convince people you are innocent when you are dead.
Unlike most teenagers, I am wanted for murder. Well, technically I’m wanted for regicide—which is a fancy word for killing a king. It’s the worst kind of murder, according to the laws of this island. The reward for my capture is more money than I have ever seen or ever will see. There are a thousand posters (with some drawings that kinda, sorta look like me) advertising that reward. That’s why I have to be careful.
The reason I am wanted for murder is this: the king died at my table. I do not mean that I owned the table, or the house where the table was located. In fact, I do not own anything. Even my clothes are the property of the house I serve—the House of His Lordship Karvil Thrindian. Lord Thrindian is the richest man in my town, and he let me be one of his serving boys after my father and grandfather went to prison. That was nice of him, and life there was pretty good. That is, life there was pretty good until that one time when the king came for a visit and sat at my table and died. That was bad.
The reason the king died was this: he was poisoned. I was not the one who did it, but I was the one accused of it, which, again, is bad. My face and my name are now associated with the king’s murder, making it difficult to get anywhere without being seen. I need to get somewhere without being seen.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The reason I need to get somewhere without being seen is this: I know who killed the king. It was a long process, and I am really quite tired, but I am absolutely certain I know who killed the king. I would tell you, of course, but I really want to take you through the journey of how I figured it out. My father used to say, “the journey is the joy.” It’s a beautiful statement. He’d say it every time he went to steal a horse.
Unlike most teenagers, I have a broken leg. I earned that broken leg by jumping from an incredible height. I jumped from an incredible height because it gave me the best chance at survival, and survival was the only goal. Now that I have patched the leg up in the best possible way considering the limited tools I had to work with, it is time to write. I need to write the whole story from the beginning with no detail left out because there are still things I don’t understand. It may not matter in the end, but perhaps somebody will read this and discover the truth long after I’m gone. Maybe they'll do something about it. Maybe they'll clear my name.
Speaking of my name, it's Sallivan Hatcher. I was, until recently, the assistant to the assistant butler at Fortenbare Manor. It was a good job, considering my background, but Lord Thrindian owed my dad a favor of some sort. I have no idea why. I’ll probably never know why.
Nothing ever happens on the Fortenbare end of the island. It has to be the most boring place in the world. The closest we ever got to the action was when Sir Sygel killed the Beast of Dar Sloot about thirty kurials from town, way up in the mountains. There was a big feast that night, and the assistant butler was laid up in the bed with the pox. Since the butler needed a second hand serving, I got to help out. I poured the wine, and I poured it rather well, I must say. I have remarkably steady hands. I did not spill a single drop.
Since I did not spill a single drop when I served Sir Sygel, and since the assistant butler has had this weird shake ever since he got the pox, I got to pour the king’s wine. The assistant butler was assigned to the kitchen where he could not give me that evil sneer he always sneers at me since the day I took his job. The cook cooked the food, and the butler served it. Everything was going just fine. It did not stay that way.