by Morgan Rice
Panicked shouting came from somewhere high above, followed by the sound of boots running across the deck, more urgent than before, and a moment later, to Royce’s surprise, the hatch was thrown open. It was never thrown open this early in the day.
He sat up, alert.
Something was wrong.
He stared at the open sky, such a luxury these days, and saw it was thick with dark, angry clouds, moving too quickly; he saw rain lashing down, so severe it was sideways. He did not even need to see it—the sound hit him first. He stared at the open hatch but did not see several strong hands opening it, as usual. Instead, it had opened by itself—yanked up by a gust of wind.
Royce watched in amazement as the hundred-pound wooden hatch suddenly lifted, all by itself, and went spinning and flying into the air, as if it were a child’s toy. He gulped. If winds could do that to something so heavy, what could they do to a man?
Indeed, the sound of roaring winds drowned out everything, a sound so intense that it struck terror in him even far below. It sounded as if it were tearing the ship to pieces. As he watched, a plank of wood went flying up into the air, right off the deck itself.
Suddenly, his stomach plummeted, as the ship dropped and there came the crashing of an enormous wave against the hull. He felt as if he had dropped fifty feet. He was amazed the ship did not capsize.
Royce looked at the other boys, their faces finally visible in the sunlight, all of them appearing full of hope to see the sky—yet also full of terror at the storm. Freedom finally sat right before them, a chance to climb up, to go above and get out of this hellhole.
Yet none of them dared move. All sat frozen in terror of the storm.
A heavy rope suddenly flew down into the hatch, landing like a coiled snake with a thud. There appeared the face of a guard, clutching a beam for dear life and scowling down as he leaned over.
“Man the decks!” he cried, struggling to be heard over the wind. “All of you up here now!”
No one moved.
He looked irate.
“Come now, or I will come down there and kill every last one of you myself!”
Still, none moved.
A second later, a spear came flying through the air, and Royce watched in horror as it punctured the chest of a boy right beside him. The boy cried out, pinned to the floor of the hold, instantly dead.
Two guards jumped down, raised their swords, grabbed the closest boys and stabbed them in the chest.
As the boys fell, the guards turned and looked at the rest.
All the other boys jumped into action, rushing for the ropes, climbing up and out of the hold. Royce went with them. Death surely awaited him up there—but at least it would be a cleaner death. Maybe he’d get lucky and a wave would wash him out to sea and he could leave this entire nightmare behind him.
Royce looked up and watched as the first boy climbed up, struggling, weak with malnourishment. He finally reached the deck and as he did, grabbed hold of the railing, pulled himself up, and crawled over the edge. He did so awkwardly, raising his legs in the air, and as he did, Royce watched with horror as the boy lost his grip and flew through the air, lifted by the wind like a plank of wood. He spun again and again, his shrieking drowned out by the wind, until he flew over the rail and into the sea.
Royce’s apprehension deepened. His turn finally came, and he grabbed the rope firmly, his heart pounding in his ears, and climbed up one inch at a time. The noise of the wind grew louder as he reared his head, and he finally grabbed hold of the deck, hands shaking.
The noise was unbearable up here, the visibility almost zero, and as he crawled over the edge, out of the hold for the first time in weeks, he held on for dear life. He lost his grip and slipped, his body sliding across the deck, then grabbed it again. He learned from the others’ mistakes, keeping his body low and crawling along the deck.
Royce grabbed hold of a peg firmly attached to the deck and crawled against the wind, fighting for every foot, until he finally found a spot where he could brace himself. He grabbed hold of two pegs, one in each hand, and braced his feet against two pegs behind him, taking shelter behind a high mast. He felt stable here, even as the boat rocked violently from side to side and rose and plummeted, waves crashing all around him.
“Bring in that sail!” yelled a soldier, shouting over the wind.
Royce looked up at a violently flapping sail high overhead, its weight bending the mast until it nearly broke. He felt a soldier’s spear prod him in the back and knew that if he did not jump into action, he would meet another death.
Royce stood and grabbed the mast, hugging it with all he had. Holding onto it with one hand he then reached out and grabbed the dangling rope, pulling it in. The coarse, wet rope slipped in his hand, yet as he yanked, several other boys joined him, they, too, prodded by the soldiers. Together, they all yanked, and foot by foot they managed to lower the sail. As it came in, the thick mast stopped bending, and the ship righted and rocked less violently.
A fierce gust of wind blew through and Royce held the mast tight. The boy beside him, though, did not react as quickly, and before he could grab hold he lost his balance and went stumbling backwards, landing on his back on the deck. A wave hit, the ship turned sideways, and Royce watched as the boy slid all the way across the deck, a dozen other boys sliding with him, until they all fell overboard, shrieking.
Royce looked out and saw an army of whitecaps dotting the seas, and he knew he would not see them again. His dread deepened. He felt increasingly he would not survive.
“Tie in that canvas!” shouted a soldier.
Royce realized the canvas sail was flapping wildly over his head and he reached up and grabbed it, trying to tie it down. It slipped from his hands, but he finally managed to grab hold of it with his arm and hold it tight. He grabbed the rope that was flailing in the wind and wrapped it around the canvas again and again, tying it to the mast.
The ship suddenly rocked and turned sideways again, and as Royce held on for dear life, he watched as several boys went slipping the other way, heading for the rail. He recognized amongst them the boy with the wavy black hair, who had spared him all those weeks before in that stampede: Mark. There he was, sliding, trying to grab hold of anything he could, but unable to. In moments he would be overboard.
Royce could not let him die.
As risky as it was, Royce let go of the mast with one hand and reached out for him.
“HERE!” he shouted.
Mark looked over, reached out, and as he slid past, he just managed to grab hold of his hand. He held on tight, looking up at Royce with fear and desperation in his eyes, and most of all, gratitude. Royce held on with all his might, not letting him slide back the other way as the ship turned nearly vertical. The other boys, though, shrieking, fell overboard.
Royce held on with shaking hands, feeling as though all his muscles would burst, praying for the ship to right itself. He was barely able to hold the mast with his other hand, his grip slipping. He knew that in but another moment, he too, would go overboard.
“Let me go!” Mark yelled. “You’re not going to make it!”
But Royce shook his head, knowing he had to save him. He owed it to him.
Finally, the ship righted itself, and Royce felt his muscles relax as Mark was able to hurry over and grab the mast beside him. They both stood there, hugging the mast, breathing hard.
“I owe you,” Mark called out.
Royce shook his head.
“We’re even.”
Royce heard a cry behind him, and he turned to see one of the bullies from below raise his dagger and stab an unsuspecting boy in the back; he then grabbed a sack from the dead boy’s waist and stuffed it on his own. Royce shook his head, marveling that these predators would attack even in the midst of such a storm.
Yet a moment later a huge wave doused the ship, and that bully, in turn, went flying overboard into the sea.
The wave doused Royce. For a moment he was completely sub
merged in freezing water, and then the wave left just as quickly, leaving him gasping for air, trying to catch his breath. He blinked and wiped water from his eyes and hair and was relieved to see that Mark was still there, holding on. He felt colder than ever, and as he looked out at the angry sea before them, filled with whitecaps, he knew it would only get worse. He realized then that staying up here, above deck, would mean certain death.
“We’re not going to make it up here!” Royce called out to Mark.
But before he could finish, another wave came crashing down on them; again they held on, yet as the wave disappeared, Royce watched it take several men—including the soldier who had been standing guard over him.
“We have to get down below!” Royce called.
Royce looked out at the remaining soldiers and saw they were preoccupied with staying alive themselves; he doubted they would notice him disappear, or have time to go on a manhunt below.
“Let’s go!” Mark called back.
They both let go of the mast and raced for the open hold below—but as they did, another huge wave came crashing down on them. They fell flat against the wooden deck and went sliding as the boat turned nearly sideways. Royce flailed underwater, aiming for the open hold, trying to steer himself—and a moment later, to his relief, he felt himself falling into it as the wave passed by. He felt a body land beside him, and he knew Mark had made it, too.
Royce landed not on a hard wood floor, as he had expected, but rather in several feet of water. The hold, he realized with dread, was filling up.
Royce stood and saw the water down here was a few feet deep, sloshing around. He saw something float past and felt it bump against his leg, and he looked down and saw it was a dead body, one of the many boys who had died below. He surveyed the hold and saw, to his horror, the water was filled with floating corpses. The chances of survival down here were slim, too, he realized. Yet up above it was impossible.
The waters rose higher and higher, soon up to his waist. Royce knew that when they reached the top, he would be floating back on deck, and his life would be over.
He reached out, grabbed onto a peg on the wall and onto the rope of an old hammock, bracing himself, while Mark did the same. They stood there and waited, watching the waters rise, and as Royce saw death all around him, he wondered just how he would die.
CHAPTER TEN
Genevieve felt the tears slide down her cheeks as her new handmaidens, encircling her, fitted her into her wedding dress. She looked down at it in despair: it might as well have been a funeral gown. With each pull of the cord, tying the corset tighter around her waist, she felt as if another string of her life were being pulled, cutting her off from the future she had imagined with Royce, and sentencing her to a marriage that would be her death.
“Do not cry now, it is unbecoming of a bride,” came a voice.
Genevieve was only dimly aware of the girls attending her, a half dozen of them, all busy preparing as she sat on a bench in the stone chamber in this fort. Some worked on her shoes—tall, leather things that strapped to her knees—while others fixed her hair, trimmed her dress, rubbed oils into her skin, and applied makeup. It was the girl wiping her cheeks with the cool rag, wiping away her tears, that had spoken to her.
Genevieve looked over and saw the girl staring back at her, a few years older, with long, curly black hair, green eyes, and a kind face. She was surprised at her look of compassion, the first she had seen since entering this fort. She covered up Genevieve’s tears with a dab of makeup, treating Genevieve as if she were a doll. For these people, Genevieve knew, it was all about appearances.
“It’s not as bad as you think, you know,” the girl went on. “After all, you’re marrying into nobility; it could be worse.”
Genevieve closed her eyes and shook her head.
“I am not marrying him,” Genevieve insisted, her voice sounding far off to her.
The girl gave her a confused look.
“He may be marrying me,” Genevieve clarified, “and there is nothing I can do about it. Yet I shall not consider myself wed to him.”
The girls all giggled around her.
Genevieve frowned, determined to express her seriousness.
“My heart belongs to another,” she added, to cement her point.
Finally the girls’ expressions turned serious, giving each other worried glances.
The girl attending Genevieve’s makeup turned to the other girls and shooed them off. They all left, concern etched across their faces. Genevieve wondered who they would run and tell. She did not care.
Soon they were alone, just Genevieve and the girl, and the room fell silent. The girl continued to look at Genevieve with wise and understanding eyes.
“My name is Moira,” she said. “I am wife to Ned, the youngest brother of the man you will wed. I guess that shall make us sisters?” She smiled weakly. “I’ve always wanted a sister.”
Genevieve did not know how to reply; Moira seemed kind enough, yet she did not wish anyone in this fort to be her family.
Moira took a deep breath as she came around behind her and began tying up her hair.
“Allow me to give you a word of advice, having lived in this family for too many years,” she added. “They will do whatever they have to, to stay in power. They do not choose brides meaninglessly. And to marry them is like a small death.”
Genevieve turned to her, struck by her honesty, and for the first time, she really listened to her.
“They marry not for love, these people, but for power. They marry to survive. It is all part of a game for them.”
Genevieve frowned.
“I do not wish to understand them,” she replied. “I do not care for any of their games. I wish only for the man I love to be returned to me.”
Moira shot her a look of disapproval.
“But you must understand them,” she countered. “That is your only chance to survive. You must enter their sick, twisted minds, and discover what it is that drives them.”
She sighed, tightening her hair.
“I like you,” she continued. “I’d like to see you survive. So let me give you one word of advice: do not let anyone else hear you profess your love for another. These men, if they hear you, may very well cut out your tongue as soon as marry you.”
Genevieve felt her chest tighten, sensing Moira spoke the truth. This place was even more brutal than she had imagined, and her sense of dread increased.
Moira stepped closer, glanced around, and lowered her voice as if to make sure no one was listening.
“No one within these walls can be trusted,” she continued. “Accept your lot. The best way to defeat them is to embrace them. Embrace your new title, your new power. Become the worm from within. Give them time. Allow them to think you love them. Allow their guard to lower. And then, when they are comfortable, strike.”
Genevieve stared back, shocked she would be so frank. She wondered what Moira had suffered to feel the way she had.
“Remember,” Moira said, “there are many ways to achieve an objective.”
The door suddenly opened, and several more attendants appeared. They stood at attention, clearly awaiting Genevieve’s departure.
“The wedding party awaits,” one announced, grim-faced.
Knowing the time had come, Genevieve looked at Moira, who nodded back knowingly. Together, they walked slowly from the room, Moira holding her train.
Fresh tears came with each step Genevieve took. This was not the way she had ever imagined walking down the aisle.
Genevieve walked the gloomy stone corridors, lit by torches, winding her way, and as she went she looked for open-aired windows, for a way to jump—but she found none. Feeling as if she were marching to her death, she wondered where Royce was at this moment. She wondered if he was dreaming of her, too. She wondered if she would ever lay eyes upon him again.
She found herself led through a vaulted opening and into a huge, vaulted chamber. She was surprised to see hundreds o
f nobles in attendance, seated in pews. At the end of the aisle awaited an altar, framed by stained glass. Beside it stood a priest.
And there, waiting Altfor. Her groom-to-be.
Genevieve took a deep breath and resolved not to go. She would strangle him before she agreed to marry.
Yet right before she crossed the threshold of the door, she felt a strong grip on her arm. She turned and looked over to see Moira shaking her head, as if reading her mind.
“Wed him,” she whispered. “Love him. Or allow him to think that you do. And then when the time is right, we can kill them. We can kill them all.”
Genevieve stood there, trembling, struggling with what to do. This was her last chance to turn and run, to let them imprison or kill her.
“If you love Royce,” Moira added, “climb the path of power. That is the only way to freedom for you both.”
Moira gestured for Genevieve to walk into the room.
Genevieve stood there, her mind reeling, and she sensed Moira was right. She had no other way to help Royce. And for Royce, she would do anything.
Slowly, one step at a time, a pit in her stomach, Genevieve began to walk. She walked down the aisle, the room thick with incense and filtered sunlight, and she looked up at her waiting groom, at her waiting life. And she died inside.
Yet she forced herself to take one step after the next. And as she did, she thought to herself:
Royce. This is for you.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Royce slowly opened his eyes to the gentle sound of sloshing water, and he looked about, disoriented. He was lying face down on the upper deck of the ship, his face in an inch of water, lapping gently against his cheek. Water splashed over his chin, up his cheek, and into his ear, and he wondered briefly if he was dead.