“Skye,” I say, knotting the count at two apiece for me, Circ, and Skye.
“The decision is yours, Skye,” Wilde says.
She doesn’t flinch, just smiles, not one shred of doubt in her eyes. “Me,” she says.
Chapter Twenny-Three
Morning comes with a quick step and a dive.
There’s plenny of energy buzzing through the dungeon. I even choke down my whole plate of cold gruel, so as to ensure I’m ready for whatever’s coming.
As quick as the morning came, the evening meal’s like a distant mountain, way off on the horizon, days and weeks and months away. We do different things to pass the time: sleep, throw Buff’s rock around (Yah. The question game again.), talk about anything and nothing. Buff even sings a little, in his deep baritone, making us all laugh with his comedic rendition of “The Woman Who Made Me Cry.” He earns a bellow from Big for that one. Out of sheer boredom, I expect, Skye tries to taunt Big into the dungeon, but he just slams the door in all our faces, with a final warning to shut the freezin’ chill up, or something along those lines.
When the door opens again, we’ve all been silent for a while, wishing away the minutes until we can carry out our plan. I look up expectantly, and I’m sure the others do too, but it’s not Big at the door. It’s a small, thin man, and I recognize him right away. The servant who King Goff screamed at on the day Buff and I were captured.
He looks like a mouse, his nose twitching as if smelling his way in, looking for food. “The king requests your audience,” he says to the dungeon.
“I’ll give you somethin’ to say to the king,” Skye murmurs.
“Um, I didn’t mean you, ma’am. I meant them.
His fingers point in two directions, one at me and one at Wes.
“Us?” I say. “Why us?” What could we possibly be to the king that he would request our audience?
“It is not my job—or your job—to ask questions,” the rat says.
“Look, you little weasel,” I say, “we’re not going anywhere until you tell us what this is all about.”
His nose twitches. “I beg to differ,” he says. Heavy feet stomp in unison on the hard stone floor as half a dozen sword-carrying guards march into the dungeon.
~~~
The king is resting his chin lazily on his fist when we enter his throne room. I try to keep my face forward, but I can’t help glancing around me, at the enormity of everything. The shiny, white pillars are even bigger, both in width and height, than I could tell when we passed from the hallway a few days back. The windows are huge too, taking up half the wall space. The other half is filled with gigantic wall hangings, similar to the tapestries we saw in the main hall, depicting similarly bloody scenes of fights between the legendary Stormers and Soakers.
When we reach a spot in front of the king, I’m still looking around, taking it all in. The soldiers leave us and step as one to the side, looking through the windows, like statues, completely disinterested in whatever’s about to happen between us and Goff.
“Who are you?” Goff says, and my gaze drifts to him. His chin’s raised now, his hands clasped easily in his lap.
We say nothing.
“Your resemblance is striking…and yet you each came to be in my dungeons by very different routes. Odd,” he says. “Wouldn’t you say?”
We say nothing.
“Why did you force me to arrest you?” Goff asks, directing his question at me.
I shrug. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
He laughs, but there’s no joy in it. He stands, descends the three steps from his throne, takes another four to stand in front of me. He’s an even bigger man than I thought—like his pillars, thick, strong, and tall. His graying facial hair buzzes as he speaks. “You’ll answer my questions or die,” he says.
I don’t doubt the truth in his words for one second.
“Then you’ll die with him,” Wes growls from beside me, tensing against his chains.
I jerk my head toward him. I’ve never heard him speak like that, so uncontrolled, so temper-driven. It reminds me of myself.
The king sidesteps to face my brother. “Don’t be ridiculous. You dare to snoop where you don’t belong?”
“I was looking for someone,” Wes says.
The king angles his head. “Really? And who might that be?”
“My sister. She was taken a few months back, not long after she turned twelve. You took her.” There’s fire in his words. Fire fueled by the kindling of truth.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Goff says, but he doesn’t even try to hide that he’s lying.