by Linda Kage
I silently named the baby Roark as I shoved dirt over him. It seemed like everyone should at least get a name.
“Rest in peace, Roark,” I whispered, wondering if he was actually the lucky one of the two of us. He wouldn’t have to grow up, just an errand boy in a brothel.
Afterward, I hurried inside to find my mother. She’d been sick and bedridden for almost a week now. But she wasn’t going to have another baby, like Mattie had today. No, her illness caused her to cough up blood.
I knocked softly at her chamber, afraid a loud noise would hurt her sensitive hearing. She didn’t answer, but I opened the door anyway. “Hullo?” My voice was nervous as I approached the bed, afraid she’d passed on too, like little Roark.
But her eyes fluttered open weakly, and she lifted a limp hand toward me, beckoning me forward.
“Farrow,” she croaked from dry, cracked lips. “Come, boy.”
“You called for me, ma’am?” I asked timidly. I referred to every woman here at the brothel as ma’am, but this was the woman who’d actually given birth to me.
“Listen to me now,” she said, taking my hand with a burst of strength I hadn’t guessed she could possess. “The time has come for you to move on and leave this place.”
As I stared at her with no idea how to respond, cold, slippery coils of dread wound drunkenly around my throat, choking me.
“W-we’re getting kicked out?” I guessed.
She shook her head slowly. “No. Only you will go.”
“But…” Growing scared and desperate and lost, I blurted, “I thought I was useful here. I work hard every day. I just helped—”
“You’re a male,” she cut in, her voice growing stronger. Harder. “The madam has been gracious to let you stay this long. But no more. I can no longer earn my own bread, let alone yours. You must go.”
I hiccupped, beginning to breathe erratically. “But I want to stay with you.”
“Well, you can’t,” she snapped, only to be seized by a coughing fit.
I rushed to get her a cloth and cup of water. She dabbed the blood from her lips, then accepted the drink. When she was done, I set the drink aside.
“I’m dying, boy.”
I blinked. “Ma’am?”
Staring at her, I could barely think as pain lacerated my chest.
She couldn’t die. She was all I had.
“I don’t have much time left,” she went on. “So you must go. Find your father. See if he will take you in.”
“My—my father?”
This was the first I’d ever heard of having a father.
My mother nodded. “The king,” she said. “He’s the one who sired you.”
My eyes widened. The king was my father? But that couldn’t be right. How?
“Take this,” she told me, holding up a thick gold band with rubies and emeralds encrusted into it. “It’s his signet ring. He will recognize it and know who you are. And maybe—maybe if the saints preserve, he’ll let you stay at the castle and give you work there.”
Maybe?
My fingers trembled as I slowly took the ring, gaping at its opulence. It was truly the ring of a ruler.
“You are a good boy,” my mother went on, seeming to grow weak again. “But a whore’s son, nonetheless. You’re too kind, too soft for this lot in life. Just a pearl in a pigsty. You will lose your shine under all the muck around you and be crushed under the swine hooves of the wicked if you don’t harden.” Her eyes closed briefly as if she’d already given up on my soul. But then she said, “Maybe he can harden you. So you can survive. Please, just survive, my son.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My eyes began to burn as I stared at her, then down to the ring in my hand.
“I don’t have much,” my mother said, her energy reaching its limit. “But I want you to take this.” She produced a small leather pouch. “Fill it with water, and you will never go thirsty. I can at least give you that.”
Slowly, I took the battered flagon.
“And now, I’ve seen to you all that I can. It’s time for you to see to yourself.”
With that, her face faded, blurring before me and another image grew into focus.
Still in Farrow’s skin and living in his memories, I looked up at a huge stone castle that loomed before me.
A heavy palm brutally cuffed me on the side of the head, making me wince and duck my chin before I peeked up at who’d hit me. The face of an irritated, armed guard scowled back. “I asked you a question, boy. Where did you get this ring?”
All I replied was, “I seek the king.”
He roughly seized my arm. “You seek the king, do you? Just who do you think you are?”
“I-I’m his son,” I stuttered fearfully.
The guard blinked at me for a moment, stunned silent. Then he threw back his head and shouted with laughter.
The scene morphed and suddenly I stood in a tall, long throne room next to the guard.
“The whelp claims he’s your progeny,” he explained to the great, hulking man who sat on the throne with a crown on his head. He wore a leather cape with a fur collar. “And he had this on him.”
When the guard held up my ring, the king’s eyes lit with recognition. He beckoned for it and once it was in his possession, he rolled it around in his palm before slipping it on his pinky. It slid into place perfectly. Wearing it, he curled his fingers into a fist, then opened them again, spreading the digits wide as if testing the fit. Satisfied, he lifted his gaze to me.
“Where did you get this?”
“From my mother,” I said.
He arched an eyebrow. “Gaina, the whore, is your mother?” he guessed. “From House Scott?”
I nodded, hope flaming in my chest.
“Gaina, huh?” With a nostalgic sigh, the king fell back on his throne and smiled longingly. “Yes, I remember Gaina perfectly. One of the best fucks I ever had. Don’t you think, Greggor?”
Snapping his fingers before he received an answer from whomever he was speaking to, however, he added, “Oh, that’s right. She’s one of the few I refused to share with you. Damn, that slut would take it any way I gave it and never complain. It’s too bad my seed took root and she swelled up too big for my taste. I might’ve kept her around longer if she hadn’t gotten—” He paused a moment before squinting at me. “How old did you say you were again?”
I hadn’t said, but I did now. “Eight years, sir.”
The king’s guard instantly smacked me on the back of the head. “Learn your place, bastard whelp. You will address the king as Your Majesty.”
Tears burned my eyes with pain and humiliation. I hadn’t known, I wanted to argue. But I merely gave him a mute nod in understanding.
Meanwhile, the king glowered at his guard. “I don’t recall giving you leave to interrupt my conversation.”
“I-I apologize, Your Majesty. I meant no—”
But the king was already waving at another guard who was positioned against the wall. “You there.” He motioned back to the interrupting knight who’d struck me. “Kill him.”
Without hesitation, the new guard stepped forward, out from the wall, already swinging his battle axe wide. A sharp cry followed and was just as quickly cut short. The sudden silence was followed by a wet thwap as the dead man’s head hit the stone floor and rolled past my feet.
I jerked back, staring at his wide, unseeing eyes and gaping mouth. My breath rushed from my lungs, but I said nothing.
From his padded seat, the king tapped his chin, studying me intently.
“You do bear the Lyker chin and jaw. And your hair color’s right.” Then he paused to look at the corpse slumped at my feet before returning his gaze to my face. “What’s wrong? Haven’t you ever seen a man beheaded before?”
My stomach lurched. Fear coated my veins. I wanted to turn and run. But I remained rooted to the spot, hiding my emotions.
Somehow keeping my eye contact steady with the king, I said, “No, Your Majesty.”
His eyebr
ows lifted as if he were impressed by my reaction. Then he nodded. “You’ve got some mettle in you, don’t you, you little bastard? I like that.” He took a drink from the goblet on his side table, then glanced at his signet ring again. “So what brings you here, mutt of the slut?”
“My mother,” I told him, my heart pounding with fear. “She’s very sick. Dying. I know you once found favor with her, so I came to ask you to bring her here and have her cared for. Maybe cured.”
I knew I was betraying my mother’s order with the request. She’d told me to come here, seeking asylum for myself, not her, but I’d heard that kings and their courts had women and men who bore magic in them. Maybe one of them could save my mother's life.
The king merely laughed, amused. “What’s this you plead? That I bring a sick and dying whore inside my walls to infect my people? Ha! I think not.” His stare moved thoughtfully over me. “You, however,” he purred with a decisive squint. “I think I’ll keep you. You look sturdy and healthy enough, and my heir constantly seeks trouble. He needs a good, solid whipping boy who can take many punishments. You’ll do nicely. Don’t you think he’ll do nicely, Greggor?”
When he glanced toward his left, seeking approval, he scowled at the other man on the dais with him, the one slumped in his own chair paying no attention to us as he was more interested in the naked woman on his lap, bouncing up and down as she gripped his shoulders.
Unlike men getting beheaded right in front of me, seeing open coupling was old news because of where I’d been raised. I’d actually forgotten they were there.
“Greggor!” the king snapped.
“What?” Greggor hissed impatiently, his face finally appearing from around the naked female’s shoulder.
The king repeated his thoughts, and Greggor’s gaze ran over me hastily from head to toe. “I doubt he’ll survive a week,” he reported. “But fine. Whatever you wish. Just let me finish here, will you? You said I could only have her a few minutes before I had to give her back to you, and I’m almost—oh God. Yes. Just like that, pet. Faster now.”
Ignoring them, the king turned back to me and clasped his hands together as if satisfied. “It’s settled, then.” He snapped his fingers at the knight who’d returned to his station against the wall, his axe blade still dripping with fresh blood.
“Take the bastard to the royal stables,” he instructed. “He can earn his keep there until we have use for him here.”
And it turned out, the king had use of Farrow often at the castle. The crown prince, Murdock, was an evil, demented sort who needed punishment regularly. Farrow was lashed on the back for every one of the prince’s misdeeds.
Scenes flashed past me faster, barely giving me time to clearly see them all. Beating after beating. And with each one, the king watched Farrow a little more intently, as if proud of the bastard’s ability to take pain. The boy never dropped a tear, never screamed, never begged for mercy. The king would call him into the great hall whenever important emissaries came to visit to show off just how well his boy could handle torture.
Over the years, the king began to lavish Farrow with favor, sending him to tutors and having him fitted with nice clothes so they could dine together every moon cycle. And so Farrow’s life became torn, a part of him despising his father, repulsed by the soulless, depraved man he was, while the other part desired the king’s respect and attention—and being part of a true family.
Throughout the passing scenes, a little girl popped in and out, usually arguing haughtily with Farrow, making him chuckle over whatever she said. At least a dozen years older than her, he watched her grow from a sprout and into a small girl.
In one scene, she found him hiding behind a pillar. “What’re you doing back here?” she asked baldly, tilting her head in confusion.
“Shh.” He pressed a finger to his lips, shushing her. “Murdock’s killed another peasant at the market today.”
She rolled her eyes before surmising, “So you’re set to get another whipping, aren’t you?”
Farrow wasn’t looking forward to more lashes. His back still hadn’t quite healed from the last round he’d received.
From down the hall, a voice summoned the girl. “Princess Sable? Have you seen the bastard Farrow today? The king requires his presence in the throne room.”
Farrow gulped in dread. Sable would get into trouble if she lied. But she shook her head, easily answering, “No. I haven’t seen him all week.”
More visions of Sable followed. She visited Farrow in the stables a lot. One time, he caught a wild barn cat for her, spent weeks taming it, and then gave it to her for her fifth birthday.
The two liked to bicker. Together, they philosophized life and death and everything in between. I grew to adore Sable and her sassy mouth just as much as Farrow did, so I was as horrified and disheartened as he was the night our three fates were merged and sealed.
But first, I watched Farrow train with his father’s elite army, troop off to war, invade Donnelly and get caught and captured when he sacrificed himself to save a fellow soldier, then meet me for the first time when I saved him. He stumbled home through the Vast Desert with merely his mother’s flask to get him through.
Sable was the only one to welcome him back. His father had him beaten, enraged with Farrow for returning alive while the crown prince Murdock had not.
More years passed. Needing a male heir, the king had his current wife beheaded, since she proved to be barren, and he married a wealthy, young lady who came from a fertile line. So I watched Farrow when she tried to seduce him, and he fought off her advances. Then he fought off assassins when she tried to have him killed for his rejection.
On the night the queen finally gave birth, I was there with Farrow, watching through his eyes as yet another royal child entered the realm.
I stood with Farrow behind the great curtain in the throne room, shock and horror coursing through both of our veins, as we listened to the king of Far Shore plan my kidnapping and ruination.
I remained with Farrow when Sable, barely a teen at this point, was dragged in, and her life was threatened. I felt his fear and conflict, his panic and dread. And I swear they were my own lips that formed the words, “I’ll do it! I’ll kidnap the princess, Nicolette,” when we felt that was the only thing we could say to save Sable’s life.
Then I experienced his broken defeat as he left the city that night, after escaping his two escorts, and rode toward Donnelly alone.
To kidnap me.
25
Farrow
My balls itched.
I couldn’t handle the nagging sensation that irritated the skin just under my scrotum. So I reached down to give them a good scratch, still half-awake but stirring more with the mounting need to relieve the prickling flesh.
Except I never reached the damn spot.
My hand only made it halfway there before cold, metal fingers clamped around my wrist, yanking me up short.
My brow furrowed. “What the…?”
Eyes bursting open, I flew forward, only to get snagged by more chains, these surrounding my waist. They jerked me back against a tree, where I’d been bound.
Blinking down at myself, I discovered that not only were my wrists and waist chained but my ankles were as well, securing me quite successfully to a large, unmovable elm.
“Oh God,” I gasped, fear leaping into my gut. “Nicolette!”
If the two guards from the ferry had found us and taken off with her, leaving me chained here, I’d kill them. Both of them.
The campfire had died down and my pack of possessions remained, sitting not far away, within reaching distance. But Nicolette and her things were—
Oh. There she was.
I didn’t spot her until darting my panicked gaze left, then right.
She sat atop a fallen log with her pack lying on the ground next to her knee. Saying nothing, she simply watched as I strained against my bindings.
I stopped suddenly, relief pouring through me. So glad
that she was safe and unharmed, it took another moment to occur to me that she was doing nothing whatsoever to help set me free.
And just like that, dread and understanding leached my face free of color.
She looked stricken.
“Nicolette?” I whispered.
“I…” Her lips formed more words, but they never came. Her eyes were rimmed with red as if she’d been crying, and her frame was stiff and hunched. Broken. She hugged her middle, but she didn’t seem to be experiencing any severe stomach pains.
More like severe heart pangs.
“Nic,” I said softly, getting her to snap her gaze to me. I shook my head slightly. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Can you stand?” I didn’t see anywhere that she was chained to the log she sat on, but maybe—
When she sliced her head back and forth in a jerky negative motion, her teeth gritting in anguish, I tugged against my restraints—just to get to her and hold her—but the chains held firm.
“Nicolette.” This had to be the worst torture. Not being able to even touch her, to help her.
She whipped up a sudden hand, as if commanding me to silence. I blinked, fell back against the tree and gaped. Her lips trembled with—what was that emotion in her eyes—fury? Fear? Sadness? Regret?
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head as I began to realize the worst.
She knew.
But how?
Her gaze rose to me. Wary. Suspicious. Hurt.
Panic flooded my system.
She couldn’t know. She could never find out the truth. If she knew, she’d leave. And I wouldn’t survive it if she left. I just knew I wouldn’t.
“Nicolette,” I started again, this time, my voice winded and desperate. My eyes pleading for mercy. “Please listen to me.”
She shook her head, winced as she swallowed, then dropped the hand she’d been holding up. “It’s come to my attention,” she started, her voice shaking slightly, “that I never quite explained everything I know about the mark to you, did I?”
Since I figured the question was rhetorical, I didn’t respond.