Wrists bound and hooded in musty burlap, Cylene marched between two enemy soldiers who were escorting her out of the palace and across what she thought was a stone yard—perhaps a sparring yard for the King’s guard. At last, they descended down a spiral stone staircase into what must be the palace cellars.

The heavy oaken door closed with a clamor, and all at once, the darkness, even beneath the burlap, overwhelmed her. She’d never been into the dungeons and with the burlap both suffocating her breath and blinding her eyes, she was all at sea—lost in her sense of space and direction, so she bent her perception to feeling.

The air became heavier, mustier with pockets of wafting squalid odors. Distantly, came the echo of dripping water. Farther down, the space was quiet, but for the sound of her own footfall and the faint scurrying of unseen creatures.

She shivered. With each step, the temperature seemed to drop, penetrating colder and deeper beneath her skin. How long could the dungeons possibly go on?

With each step, it seemed less and still less likely she would ever return to the surface of the earth again. Was this where the royal family were?

Almost certainly the army had taken them here, except for whoever it was that had been slaughtered and burned in the hearth fires within the dining room. The scent of burned flesh lingered in her nostrils and all at once, her stomach heaved and she doubled over, bracing her chest against her knees. The guard on her left clopped her over the ear and she bit back a wince. Keep moving.

* * *

Metal clanged and a hinge whined and the guards pushed her from behind into what she presumed was a cell. Their feet beat out a hasty retreat, but she heard them whisper, “Did you see her face?”

“No. Did you?”

“Just for an instant—”

“Why shouldn’t I get a look—?”

A new, louder voice cut off the speaking guard with an order. “Dismissed!”

“Sir!” Two guards answered in unison.

Cylenes’s throat tightened as the key clanged in the lock, and rough hands pulled her out again.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Come with me!”

This was a new voice, and obviously a superior officer, and something about his manner chilled, and heated at the same time.

He pulled her after him, her gait staggering and stumbling down another set of stairs, and then abruptly up again—not reversing their tracks, but upward over a completely different set of stairs.

The temperature gradually grew warmer as they wound their way upward, until at last, he opened a heavy door and she was sure they were once again above ground, because she shrank back from a sudden exposure to light, wincing even through the burlap hood.

Her guard pulled the hood from her head. She winced in the bright light, eyes dilating as she blinked into bright daylight, shining through a pair of small windows of a small, spare room. The windows were barred, for it was a prison cell, but a much better and brighter cell than anything below ground could be.

A table stood in the center of the room, and sitting at the table, King Olanda peered out from at least two weeks of snow-white facial growth. His green eyes were clear and when these eyes clapped on Cylene’s, she saw him flinch.

Cylene had seen the flinch before. What was new was the wild look in his eyes, the long fingernails and frail, sunken shoulders. Was he in his right mind?

“Gag her,” A man with a high ranking military aspect commanded. He stood behind the prisoner King Olanda and he glared at Cylene as he spoke.

Her skin crawled to meet his hostile glare and she wanted to look away, but bit down hard on the gag which the guard behind her thrust into her mouth, and she met the commanding officer’s evil stare with a steady, open face.

“Now,” the man said. “Look at this woman. Don’t look away!” The officer grabbed the old king’s face by the jowls and forced him to look straight ahead at her. “You know her don’t you.”

The old king grunted his answer.

“Speak!” The commander demanded.

“I—yes.” The king looked as though he would hang his head, but the commander still held him by the jaw.

“Of course you know her. She is your own wife.”

Cylene froze, and a whimper shuddered through her gag as she recognized the madness in the King’s face ignite like a pyre.

“She is the wife who long withheld a son and heir from you, through her own obstinance! She was and is a disgrace, and we may decide to release you to her to do as befits such a woman!”

Cylene’s heart thundered against her ribs. Lies! But the commander knew his fraud! But why! Why would he dangle her like a mouse before a deposed king cobra?

“You are destined for prison no matter what you do—but even prison might be bearable in the company of your queen. You may have her if you release the location of your famous vault. Either way, it is a forfeit to you, but if you tell me and tell me truly, I swear I will turn your queen over to you.”

Cylene gave an involuntary jerk. “NO! It’s a lie!” But the only sound escaping her mouth was an unintelligible moan of protest.

“SHhh!” The guard holding her struck her head with his open palm. “It isn’t going to do you any good Queen Olanda!”