The Queen of Traitors
Page 5
However, he knows me, and he’s been civil enough, which is more than I can say about the rest of my captors.
I begin moving around the room.
Blanket, bed, wall, ceiling, floor. Rings, shirt, pants, shoes. The names of each item come without hesitation, but I have no memories to attach to each of them.
I move onto current events. Here I brush up against a barrier. Part of me wants to say that the world is suffering. Food’s scarce, land’s contaminated, war’s prevalent. I don’t know how much of this is me guessing from the snippets I’ve heard and how much is actual knowledge.
What year is it? I begin to pin dates to historic events. The 1700s, 1800s, and 1900s are all distinct enough from the present that I can write them off as the past. But the 2000s … my knowledge of this century is muddled, and when I think of 2100s and later, I can’t conjure anything. I actually huff out at a laugh. I’ve narrowed the year down—give or take a century or so.
I know what people look like, but I can’t picture up anyone I know besides Lieutenant Begbie and the general. My head begins to pound from the effort.
I don’t have a concussion after all, at least not one responsible for my staggering memory loss. The king did this.
The king, my husband. A man willing to tear apart the world to satisfy his own need for power, a man who forced me into marriage. This is not a man fit to rule over others. This is not a man fit for anything, really, except a swift, bloody death.
It’s not until much, much later that anyone returns. By then I’m dozing on the thin mattress. The door to my cell opens, and Lieutenant Begbie enters, followed by a soldier.
I shiver as I’m roused awake. This type of chill comes from the inside out. I know without looking that my arm wound is worsening.
“’Morning,” he opens.
I swing my feet out of bed and bite back a groan. Movement’s agonizing. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and push the pain back. I can lick my wounds later.
Begbie rounds the interview table in my cell and takes a seat. The table’s bolted to the floor, but the chairs aren’t.
I’ve already considered everything in this room as a potential weapon. The sheets can choke, the chairs can bludgeon, my pillow can smother. Those types of deaths require intimacy and strength, neither of which I have at the moment. Hence, I’ve taken to assessing the soldiers that come into the room.
This time they pulled in a greenie to guard the door. I can see it in his jaw; he’s forcing himself to look stoic. The more experienced soldiers don’t have to force anything. They’ve seen and done it all, and if it hasn’t broken their mind or their will, they become a whole new type of lethal, and sometimes they’ll let you see the emptiness in their eyes.
This soldier’s eyes are not empty, despite all his valiant efforts. I tear my gaze away from him before either he or Begbie notice my interest.
“We’re in negotiations with the king at the moment,” Begbie says.
The king. I don’t want any part of his madness.
I take a seat across from Begbie. “He knows I’m here?”
“The way I see it, I’m the only one who should be asking questions.”
Begbie leans back in his seat and folds his arms, getting real comfortable. “There’s a rumor out there that the king is immortal, that he can’t die. We have a clip of the king getting shot in the heart. Another of a grenade clipping him. Both were killing blows, but that fucker is still alive.”
The general never mentioned this. Despite myself, the hairs on my arms rise. Memory wipe or no, I’m pretty sure immortality is impossible.
“He’s responsible for the deaths of your friends and family, he’s taken over your country, and he wants you back. If the rumors are true, you do realize there’s no killing him, don’t you? You’ll have to live with him, the man responsible for the death of your countrymen, and he’ll want things from you—sex among them.
“You’ll continue to be dubbed a traitor, all while sleeping with your parents’ killer. And, frankly, I don’t see any end in sight for you.”
I’m glaring at Begbie, though my vitriol is not aimed at him. Not really.
I don’t believe him, however. Not entirely. The king may have killed my family, defeated nations, taken my memory and forced my hand in marriage, but I don’t believe he’s figured out the riddle to immortality.
I lean forward. “You’re wrong, Lieutenant. Everything can die.”
Love, hate. Even kings.
BEFORE HE HAS time to respond, a soldier cracks open the door and leans in. “Get the prisoner ready.”
Lieutenant Begbie stands. “Put your hands behind your back,” he orders me.
I could escape now. By the time the lieutenant figured out my motives, it would be too late. I’d steal that gun holstered to his side. I’d gamble the greenie wouldn’t shoot me before I got a chance to fire at him.
I could do it, there’s a confidence to my assessment and I already know I have the muscle memory. Yet every fiber of my being recoils from the thought. Whatever else, I’m not a monster by design.
Just necessity.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Begbie says more forcefully.
I’ve missed my opportunity.
I do so, and he cuffs me rougher than needed. I run my tongue over my teeth, clenching my jaw as my raw wrists and my bullet wound sting. It doesn’t help that the lieutenant jerks me up.
Pain is a warm companion. I must’ve known it quite well before today, whether at the hands of the WUN or the king. Probably both. It seems like they’re two sides of the same coin.
Begbie and the soldier escort me out of the cell, and I get my first good look at the outside of my prison. More cement walls and fluorescent lights. No windows.
“Where are we going?”
No one answers me.
I might be walking to my death. Or to an interrogation chamber, the kind that leaves behind teeth and bloodstains. Now I know why I was so ready to kill, despite my disgust. Being soft doesn’t save you in this place. Power does, fear does, and pain does.
If I have the chance to act again, I won’t hesitate.
THEY MARCH ME down the narrow corridor. We make several turns, and I memorize each one. The drabness of this prison doesn’t exactly change, but the atmosphere does. An increasing number of people wander the halls. When their eyes land on me, I see them react. Sometimes it’s just recognition, other times it’s fear or anger or pity.
I begin moving around the room.
Blanket, bed, wall, ceiling, floor. Rings, shirt, pants, shoes. The names of each item come without hesitation, but I have no memories to attach to each of them.
I move onto current events. Here I brush up against a barrier. Part of me wants to say that the world is suffering. Food’s scarce, land’s contaminated, war’s prevalent. I don’t know how much of this is me guessing from the snippets I’ve heard and how much is actual knowledge.
What year is it? I begin to pin dates to historic events. The 1700s, 1800s, and 1900s are all distinct enough from the present that I can write them off as the past. But the 2000s … my knowledge of this century is muddled, and when I think of 2100s and later, I can’t conjure anything. I actually huff out at a laugh. I’ve narrowed the year down—give or take a century or so.
I know what people look like, but I can’t picture up anyone I know besides Lieutenant Begbie and the general. My head begins to pound from the effort.
I don’t have a concussion after all, at least not one responsible for my staggering memory loss. The king did this.
The king, my husband. A man willing to tear apart the world to satisfy his own need for power, a man who forced me into marriage. This is not a man fit to rule over others. This is not a man fit for anything, really, except a swift, bloody death.
It’s not until much, much later that anyone returns. By then I’m dozing on the thin mattress. The door to my cell opens, and Lieutenant Begbie enters, followed by a soldier.
I shiver as I’m roused awake. This type of chill comes from the inside out. I know without looking that my arm wound is worsening.
“’Morning,” he opens.
I swing my feet out of bed and bite back a groan. Movement’s agonizing. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and push the pain back. I can lick my wounds later.
Begbie rounds the interview table in my cell and takes a seat. The table’s bolted to the floor, but the chairs aren’t.
I’ve already considered everything in this room as a potential weapon. The sheets can choke, the chairs can bludgeon, my pillow can smother. Those types of deaths require intimacy and strength, neither of which I have at the moment. Hence, I’ve taken to assessing the soldiers that come into the room.
This time they pulled in a greenie to guard the door. I can see it in his jaw; he’s forcing himself to look stoic. The more experienced soldiers don’t have to force anything. They’ve seen and done it all, and if it hasn’t broken their mind or their will, they become a whole new type of lethal, and sometimes they’ll let you see the emptiness in their eyes.
This soldier’s eyes are not empty, despite all his valiant efforts. I tear my gaze away from him before either he or Begbie notice my interest.
“We’re in negotiations with the king at the moment,” Begbie says.
The king. I don’t want any part of his madness.
I take a seat across from Begbie. “He knows I’m here?”
“The way I see it, I’m the only one who should be asking questions.”
Begbie leans back in his seat and folds his arms, getting real comfortable. “There’s a rumor out there that the king is immortal, that he can’t die. We have a clip of the king getting shot in the heart. Another of a grenade clipping him. Both were killing blows, but that fucker is still alive.”
The general never mentioned this. Despite myself, the hairs on my arms rise. Memory wipe or no, I’m pretty sure immortality is impossible.
“He’s responsible for the deaths of your friends and family, he’s taken over your country, and he wants you back. If the rumors are true, you do realize there’s no killing him, don’t you? You’ll have to live with him, the man responsible for the death of your countrymen, and he’ll want things from you—sex among them.
“You’ll continue to be dubbed a traitor, all while sleeping with your parents’ killer. And, frankly, I don’t see any end in sight for you.”
I’m glaring at Begbie, though my vitriol is not aimed at him. Not really.
I don’t believe him, however. Not entirely. The king may have killed my family, defeated nations, taken my memory and forced my hand in marriage, but I don’t believe he’s figured out the riddle to immortality.
I lean forward. “You’re wrong, Lieutenant. Everything can die.”
Love, hate. Even kings.
BEFORE HE HAS time to respond, a soldier cracks open the door and leans in. “Get the prisoner ready.”
Lieutenant Begbie stands. “Put your hands behind your back,” he orders me.
I could escape now. By the time the lieutenant figured out my motives, it would be too late. I’d steal that gun holstered to his side. I’d gamble the greenie wouldn’t shoot me before I got a chance to fire at him.
I could do it, there’s a confidence to my assessment and I already know I have the muscle memory. Yet every fiber of my being recoils from the thought. Whatever else, I’m not a monster by design.
Just necessity.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Begbie says more forcefully.
I’ve missed my opportunity.
I do so, and he cuffs me rougher than needed. I run my tongue over my teeth, clenching my jaw as my raw wrists and my bullet wound sting. It doesn’t help that the lieutenant jerks me up.
Pain is a warm companion. I must’ve known it quite well before today, whether at the hands of the WUN or the king. Probably both. It seems like they’re two sides of the same coin.
Begbie and the soldier escort me out of the cell, and I get my first good look at the outside of my prison. More cement walls and fluorescent lights. No windows.
“Where are we going?”
No one answers me.
I might be walking to my death. Or to an interrogation chamber, the kind that leaves behind teeth and bloodstains. Now I know why I was so ready to kill, despite my disgust. Being soft doesn’t save you in this place. Power does, fear does, and pain does.
If I have the chance to act again, I won’t hesitate.
THEY MARCH ME down the narrow corridor. We make several turns, and I memorize each one. The drabness of this prison doesn’t exactly change, but the atmosphere does. An increasing number of people wander the halls. When their eyes land on me, I see them react. Sometimes it’s just recognition, other times it’s fear or anger or pity.
