by Krista McGee
I want to defend myself, but each word is painful, and this woman wouldn’t believe me anyway.
“Be still.” The woman has a large pair of scissors in her hand. She places them at my neck and cuts my clothing off me. She digs the sharp ends of the scissors into my skin every time she opens them, but I am too exhausted to cry out. I watch the water flowing into the tub and imagine myself drinking from it.
Soon I am in the tub. The water is cold, but I don’t care. The water turns dark brown as the dirt slides off my skin. I get a mouthful of the running water before the woman turns the faucet off. I swallow it slowly, allowing the cool liquid to soothe my raging throat. I want to scrub every inch of my body with the thickest cloth I can find. But I don’t have use of my arms, so all I can do is rub my legs together and wipe my face against my shoulder.
“All I have is laundry soap.” The woman drops a huge block of soap into the water.
“Can you help me?” I cannot even see the soap in the filthy water.
The woman sighs. “Fine.” She grabs a coarse cloth and scrubs my hair with so much force, I am sure every strand will come out in her hands. She then shoves my head underwater. I am unprepared, and water goes burning into my nose. I come up and cough, and she shoves me down again.
“Enough.” The woman holds up a drying cloth that looks as rough as the walls. I lean forward, positioning myself on my knees and dragging myself up to my feet. She throws the cloth around my shoulders and I step out of the tub, freezing and humiliated.
The guard pokes his head into the room. “You done yet?”
“Almost.” The woman pulls a brown shirt and pants from a pile of clothing on a counter. “How am I supposed to dress her with her arms tied behind her back?”
“Throw the shirt over her.” The guard’s voice sounds like a trombone with a battered horn. “She won’t be needing her arms.”
The woman complies. She is rough, the material is rough, but it’s clean and it smells of soap. So I choose to give thanks for these small mercies. Once I am dressed, the guard grabs my shoulder and once again propels me forward.
“Where . . . ?” I clear my throat and try to bring the words out. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the king. He’s been preparing something special for you.” The guard says these words with a horrible laugh, and my blood freezes.
Death, I can handle. I was prepared before, thanks to John. Death does not frighten me.
Dying, however, is terrifying.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I smell what I am sure is burning flesh. It is a horrible smell. If anything was in my stomach, I am sure I would lose it all. But there is nothing, so I gag and retch, my throat screaming in pain. But I cannot help it.
I close my eyes as we walk into the open. I do not want to see who is burning. It will be one of my friends. Carey, Kristie . . . Berk. I am not courageous enough to watch any of them burn. I do not even have any tears left to spend on them, but my heart breaks with every step.
There are punishments worse than death. The king knows this. He will force me to watch each of my friends die before he kills me. I am sure of this.
I expect to hear the sound of people cheering as I enter—the cheers of those happy to see a condemned person facing her fate. But instead I hear wailing, sobbing, sounds of grief. The heat of a fire warms my face, and I dare to open my eyes. I was right. It is one of my friends being burned. But not the one I expected.
Helen.
This must be their funeral rite. I recall reading about those in history lessons. The ancients had a variety of ways to dispose of the dead. Burning, in the opinion of the State, was the most effective. This was not an incinerator, though. This was a tall pile of wood, with jewels and gold mixed in. Helen lay on top surrounded by flames, dressed like royalty.
I do not want to watch, but I cannot turn away. This is my fault. I did not discharge the weapon, but I am the cause of its discharge. The king wanted to start a war, and he used Helen to do it. Knowing he planned this before I came along does not ease the guilt I feel. What if we had run away earlier? Taken Berk when we infiltrated his cell and just ran? Would she have survived? What if the guard had missed? What if I grabbed him before he could take aim?
None of this seems fair. Helen deserved to live. She deserved to be with Peter and have a life of love and peace.
I cannot breathe, my throat is so tight. It feels like someone has stuffed a stone deep inside it. Stones line my throat, go down into my heart. I know loss. I have experienced it before. But this is so much more. So much worse.
I am falling, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. I feel the guard grab my shoulder, but he cannot catch me. I do not hit the ground. Instead I float up, up. I see Helen from above the flames. So far above, I don’t even feel the heat. She is crying, burning, begging me to save her. But I cannot reach her. I am caught above just like I was caught below.
“Please, Thalli.” Flames hide her face. She is in torment. “Help me. Help me.”
I cannot move. My arms are pinned behind me. My feet are frozen.
Then I am drowning. Water fills my mouth, my nose, my eyes. I want the water to fall onto Helen. I do not need it. She needs it. I try to tell whoever is submerging me to help Helen. But I cannot speak.
“You will wake up.”
I open my eyes to see the face of a guard looming over me, his breath hot and foul in my face.
I passed out. The guard threw water on me to wake me. He pulls me back onto my feet, but I sway, my ears ringing. I cannot stand. My legs will not hold me.
“Leave her on the ground,” another voice shouts. “Do not let her behavior direct attention away from the princess.”
“Of course.” The guard looks above at the fire, leaving me half sitting, half lying on the ground.
I breathe in and out slowly, carefully, trying to bring enough oxygen into my lungs to prevent myself from fainting again. As terrible as this reality is, my dreams while unconscious were even worse.
I look beyond Helen, to the platform where she was killed, and I see the king and Alex. The king is expressionless. Alex is not. His face shows a mixture of grief and anger. His stare is locked on Helen’s burning form. I cannot imagine what he is thinking. He lost his mother, now his sister. His only remaining family is the king, who ordered the murders of those who died.
His gaze finds mine. I want to communicate concern to him, but when he looks at me, I see hatred. Pure, burning hatred, directed right at me. He speaks to his father, points to me. The king nods and whispers something to a guard standing beside him. That guard walks toward us.
I try to catch Alex’s gaze again. Surely he does not believe I killed Helen. Surely he realizes this was the king’s actions, his plan. But as I continue to watch him, I see that his eyes are clouded, blank. His is the look of one who has been drugged.
“The king has ordered that the prisoner be removed,” the king’s guard says.
“Very well.” My guard glances toward the king. “Do I return her to the chamber?”
“No.” The guard glares at me, hatred blazing in his eyes as well. “The trial begins when the funeral ends. Go put her with the others.”
The guard pushes me forward, away from the fire and the platform. We walk toward a rectangular tower that stands out from the main palace. The door opens and my guard stops. “The orders are for her to stay here until the trial.”
“Fine.” A guard inside speaks, but I cannot see him. No lights illuminate this place. My eyes cannot adjust quickly to the changes.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I am pushed into a room that smells like the laundry room. But there is no moisture here. High up, a window allows just a tiny slice of sunlight in. I see shadows at first. Then I hear a door slam.
“Thalli?” Berk. I know his voice, but I still see only shadows. “You’re alive.”
I feel Berk near me. His arms are bound also, but we lean against each other. He has been cleaned, like me
. I smell the laundry soap on his coarse clothes. I want to wrap my arms around him, to touch his face. But I am content to hear his heartbeat. To know he is alive.
“What did they do to you?” Fear invades Berk’s voice.
“I am all right.” I step back, look at Berk until his features become clear. His face isn’t as bruised as the last time I saw him. His scratches are healing. The stubble on his cheeks has grown into the beginnings of a beard. “They left me alone.”
Berk sighs. “Good.”
“Carey and Kristie?” I look around. “Are they—?”
“They were allowed to leave.”
“What?”
“The king released them. He even gave them transport back to New Hope.”
My mind races. Why would he do that? They were next to me. I heard Kristie shouting. I did not hear guards take them away. Perhaps I was sleeping when it happened. “Are you sure?”
“I saw them go. I was held in a room above this one. I watched out the window as they left.”
“They will tell the people what happened,” I say, the pieces coming together. “They will bring others.”
“I know.” Berk closes his eyes. “I tried to call out to them as they left. I wanted to warn them. But they didn’t hear me.”
“They are wise.” I swallow hard. “They know the king. They saw the lengths he will go to, to deceive his people. They will not walk into a trap.”
“I would.” Berk sighs again.
“What?”
“If I knew you were in danger, I would come.” Berk gazes at me, his green eyes full of emotion. “Even knowing I’d be walking to my death.”
And I realize that is exactly what he did. “Let us hope Carey and Kristie aren’t as emotional as we are.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
How dare you allow them to be together!” Alex’s voice pierces the room. I hear a guard being slammed to the ground. “They conspired to murder the princess. Who knows what other atrocities they have planned. They get no mercy. Nothing. Do you understand?”
The guard grunts. “Sorry, Your Majesty. I was not aware.”
“You are fortunate I came,” Alex says. “They would likely have killed you and escaped.”
“Yes, sir.” Fear fills the guard’s voice. “Thank you, sir.”
Alex’s frame fills the doorway. I never noticed how tall he is, how muscular. How frightening.
“Alex.” I want to break through the drugs he is under. I want to find the Alex I know. “Please listen.”
“I have listened enough.” Alex looks at me, his eyes a dark blue, darker than I have ever seen them, the whites of his eyes tinged with red—from tears? From the fire? From the drugs? “I befriended you. I believed you. I cared for you. And you used me.”
“No, Alex.” I take a step toward him. He holds his arm out, palm up.
“No more.” Alex lowers his arm, but the message is clear: Stay back. Keep quiet. “Father is right. About everything. My weakness cost Helen her life. I will not be weak again.”
Berk looks at me. He closes his eyes, lifts his chin. Pray. We cannot save ourselves. We cannot convince Alex of our innocence. We can do nothing. But we are not without hope.
I am reminded of a story John told me once, about three men who were thrown into a fire by a wicked king. These men were righteous, and they were sentenced to death because of that. But the Designer saved them. They did not burn. In fact, when the king looked into the fire, he saw not three men, but four. The Designer was with them.
Thank you. Peace and calm fill me. The Designer has helped people in this position before. He will help us.
Alex leaves and the guard takes Berk, moves him to the room above. I am alone again. But I am not alone. I feel the presence of the Designer. I think of him when the guard comes in with bread and milk. He feeds me, stuffing the food into my mouth, pouring the liquid into my throat. But it is a table prepared for me in the presence of my enemy. I will not fear.
The guard leaves and I lie down. The food—the first I’ve had in so long—makes me tired. I rest, dreaming now. Not of Helen burning and Berk rescuing, but of green pastures and still waters.
“The king is ready for you.” The guard is once again above me. “Come.”
The light is bright and the crowd is angry, but I refuse to allow fear to win. I will walk through the valley of the shadow of death and fear no evil.
I am on the platform. Berk is here too, but we are not allowed to see each other. Two guards stand between us. The king and Alex are in front of us, looking out over the crowd. The remains of the fire that consumed Helen’s body are beside us. The acrid smell of burnt flesh and the sweet smell of smoldering wood fill the air.
Hundreds of people look up at the king. No drugs are necessary to keep them quiet, to keep them subdued. The death of the princess has done that. They do not know—nor will they believe—that the princess was not the king’s daughter, that the king had his own wife murdered, Helen’s father murdered, and Helen herself murdered. If we even attempted to say those truths, the people would surely come up and kill us with their own hands. They blindly follow this king, despite his ruthlessness, his lies. He rules through a lethal combination of fear and pharmaceuticals. Like the Scientists in the State, he seeks to control his people by whatever means are at his disposal. And he justifies it with the belief that given true freedom, the people would destroy themselves.
What kind of world would I like, were I given the choice? How much power would I give people? How much power would I give the rulers? I think of the Designer and I know that no matter what, if his ways are not considered, no State or city or government will be truly successful. Even New Hope struggles to make right decisions, fights against prejudices and fear. Is perfection even possible?
I look up and see three guards standing on the city walls. They are directly above the gate. The guard in the center holds a white flag above his head. What does that mean? I look at the king and see he is watching those guards as well. He stares at the white flag for a long moment. To the people, he likely appears to be deep in thought, gazing out at the horizon, remembering his daughter.
“People of Athens.” The king breaks the silence, his voice quieter than normal. “It is not customary to hold a trial so soon after a royal funeral. But there is nothing customary in any of the events of the last few days.”
The people nod, and some wipe tears from their eyes. Many glance at where Helen had lain, compassion etched on their faces.
“This crime, however, is so heinous, these criminals so dangerous, that I felt we had no choice but to hold this trial now. With you all here, as both jury and eyewitnesses.”
The people clap, a slow, somber clap. The king accepts it, arms stretched out toward the people, a sad smile on his face.
“Today we mourn together the loss of our princess.” The king wipes a tear that does not exist from his face. The citizens see what they want in that gesture—real tears, real compassion. “And we seek to bring justice to those who killed her.”
The clapping is louder this time. The king allows it to continue for a full minute before raising his hands to stop it.
“I have stood here too often lately.” The king shakes his head. “Introducing you to the woman we believed would marry our prince. Bringing that same woman before you as a traitor and spy. Now I stand, a grieving father, once again bringing this woman, Thalli, before you as a murderer.”
The crowd utters a collective hiss, every eye on me, condemning me.
“Because of the heinousness of her crime, we will not allow Thalli to speak in her defense, nor will we allow her accomplice, Berk, to do so. We have seen they speak only lies. We have also seen that as long as they live, our lives are in danger.”
The people nod. The king once again looks out to where the white flag waves in the wind.
“I dictate death by fire.” The king motions toward the edge of the city. “Not here, where our princess was mourned, but on the outski
rts. I recommend Berk burn first while Thalli watches.”
Even though I suspected this, the reality of it hits me with a force that weakens my legs. To watch Berk die—burn to death—is worse than facing my own execution.
I look up and see the white flag replaced with a black one. The king smiles so slightly, I am sure I’m the only one who notices.
“And I recommend we go immediately.” The king’s voice grows in strength. “Any objections?”
The crowd is silent.
Our deaths have been decreed.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
One would think that after several near-death experiences, I would no longer be moved by them.
One would be wrong.
I am walking behind the king, with a guard on each side of me, like I am a dangerous criminal who, even as she walks to her execution, is capable of one more murder. Of course, that is exactly what the king wants the crowd to think.
The reality is, I am so weak I can barely walk, much less think. I am using every ounce of energy in my body to keep going. But I will keep going. I will not die as a weakling. I will walk to my death. I will not be carried or helped in any way. The king may accuse me of the worst, but I know the truth, the Designer knows the truth, and John has told me the truth sets me free. So I will go to my death free.
There is a commotion behind us. A guard rides up on a horse through the crowd, right up to the king. The entire procession pauses as the guard speaks in low tones and the king’s eyes lower as he hears the news. With a nod to the king, the guard returns to his horse, reverses the large animal, and rides back out the way he came. The king says nothing, but with a wave of his hand, commands the crowd to continue the march to the outskirts of town.
I do not know what was said, but it appears the king was expecting it. He did not react with anger, frustration, or impatience.
I wish I could walk with Berk, be near him. But we are separated by a dozen guards. I wonder what he is thinking. Is he wishing we had stayed in the State? Is he wondering if saving me from the annihilation chamber was worth it?