Generosity looked worried. "Shall I stuff him in my pocket for you? Repentance, are you having a joke on me, or are you ill?"
"Tigen, can you take a message to your old-uncle for me?"
He nodded.
"You have to make sure your father and your brothers are not around."
He nodded again.
"You have to be really careful. You have to be alone with the king."
"I'm not very good at memorizing. Can you write it down?"
She pulled aside her hair and bent her head forward so he could see the tiny sun birthmark behind her left ear.
Generosity gasped. "Holy Providence."
Tigen stared, wide-eyed.
"Tell him I showed you this mark," Repentance said. "I need him to come talk to me."
She spent the hours, while she waited, thinking about her own father. The father she grew up with. He must have known that she wasn't his daughter, and yet he never treated her as if she wasn't his own flesh. She remembered him taking her swimming when she was a tiny girl and kissing her tenderly when he put her to bed at night. She remembered his gentle smile. And the way he laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed when he wanted to encourage her.
Tears slipped down her cheeks when she thought about how well he'd loved her and how much she had hurt him.
And the king ... he'd gotten her mother pregnant, and he'd left her down there to have a baby with no one to help her. And he'd left Repentance down there suffering for so long.
He must have forced her mother. She wouldn't have lain with an overlord by choice. No lowborn would do such a despicable thing. It was unthinkable.
And yet ... her mother had named her Repentance Joyous Forgiveness Abounding Atwater, as if she had repented of some sin. As if she had chosen to give herself to the overlord king and was sorry about it.
She tried to imagine her mother and the king together. He was much older, but he was a handsome man. And her mother ... the king had been right when he'd said she was a beautiful woman. Repentance could understand why he would want her. But why had her mother wanted him? He was an overlord king!
Repentance wondered if she had done the right thing, telling Tigen to get his old uncle. The king had never made a move to claim her for a daughter. He'd left her in the swamp all those years.
He didn't have to claim her. She didn't want anything from him. She only wanted to convince him that she hadn't tried to assassinate him. She wouldn't do such a thing.
The key scraped.
The door swung open.
The king walked in slowly.
Repentance jumped up and bowed her head.
Two guards made to follow him.
"Leave us," he said.
The guards glanced at each other like they thought he might be crazy, but they obeyed.
Repentance stared at him in awe. Her father.
The king's look was not friendly. "Tigen told me you wanted to show me your birthmark."
"I don't need to show you. You already know it's there."
He didn't look like a father should look. He didn't look happy.
"When did you discover it?" he asked, sternly.
Why was he glaring at her?
Why did it matter when she discovered the birthmark?
"I've had it all my life," she said, stalling.
"You try my patience, Repentance. Why show me now? What do you think it means?"
A flash of insight came. If she told him she just found out that she was his daughter, he might think she tried to kill him, not knowing ... never suspecting she was trying to kill her own father.
"I know what it means. I've known all along. Ever since you told me my mother was a beautiful woman. I figured it out then."
"What precisely did you figure out?"
Were those tears sparkling in his eyes? Maybe he did love her. "I figured out that you're my father. And however cold you think me, surely you must know I would never kill my own father. Your Highness—Father—I never tried to assassinate you."
He smiled a sad smile. "I could not sentence you these last three days, because I couldn't see that you had any motive to assassinate me. You are impetuous and you often strike out in anger with no apparent logic. But this assassination was planned."
She nodded. "I never planned to kill you. I found the assassin in the—"
"But now you admit you did have motive. You thought you were my daughter. You planned to kill me and ascend to the throne, so you could free your people." He sighed. "We both know you have little love for me. You think I'm a murderer because I won't change the laws. Because I won't free the slaves, you hold me responsible for the death of every runner who ever met up with the swingman. I was heartbroken when Tigen came to me this afternoon. I wanted to believe you hadn't tried to kill me. I'd grown fond of you, young Repentance, your stubborn temper notwithstanding."
She shook her head. "I ... don't ... I wouldn't—"
"But my fondness for you was what blinded me. I don't know you. I don't know anything about your character. If I look with eyes of reason instead of emotion, I see that you have been a liar from the start. And you've hated me from the start. I wish it wasn't this way, but wanting a thing doesn't make it so." He shook his head sadly then turned to leave.
"You will watch your own daughter swing?"
He looked back at her. "You aren't my daughter."
She stared at him, her mouth open but no words making their way out.
"Your father's name was Lord Baldin. He was the son of my sister. A beloved nephew and a trusted friend."
"Baldin?"
"You have his nose."
She touched her nose.
"We went to the Hot Springs for healing. He was out walking in the woods one morning, and he met your mother. They spent two weeks together."
A fist squeezed her heart. "Not you?"
"He loved her. He planned to go back and take her away to Montphilo where there are no slaves and no one cares who an overlord buttons."
She wasn't supposed to be a slave. She was supposed to have grown up free in Montphilo. She was never meant for the fog and the swamp.
"Before he could go back for her, he was killed. By a runaway slave." He shook his head and gave a bitter laugh. "Yes, you were sentenced to a life of slavery, by a runaway slave. As soon as I saw you, I knew. You look very like your mother, but with your father's nose. For your father's sake, I wanted to love you. Baldin would have wanted it. And I did love you some. You made me laugh ... you made me angry ... you made me young."
"I didn't try to kill you," she whispered.
The look in his eyes turned to steel. "You thought I was your father all that time and you never once spoke to me of the matter. Never hugged me. Never gave me any indication that you loved me. Only now, when you fear dying, you show me your birthmark. You've never wanted me for a father. You've only tried to use me to gain what you wanted." He pushed the door open and walked out.
She lay on her lava cloth, clicking gray buttons in her hand and humming one of her mother's favorite tunes until the lump in her throat made humming impossible. Tears overflowed her eyes. What she wouldn't give to hear her mother's assurances that all would be well in the end. A sob tore itself loose from her soul.
Oh, holy Providence, she'd made a mess of things. Trying to be so smart and never quite pulling it off. She was out of ideas. Nothing would come out right now, regardless of her mother's predictions.
After a time, her sobbing subsided. She scrubbed her wet, chapped face with her sleeve and fell asleep.
An old slave woman came and woke her. The next day? Repentance didn't know. She was parched as if she'd not had a drink in a week.
The old slave set a stool down and sat. "Kneel here in front of me, then," she said. "No, no, with your back to me." She shook out a straight razor as she spoke.
"You slit my throat right here?" Her voice came out in a whisper, like sand sifting over rock. "I thought I was for the swingman."
"
And have you ever seed long hair on a body what's on the swing frame?"
"My hair?"
"I'm to take it off."
She twisted so her back was toward the woman.
Shouts floated down the hall.
Running.
The door flew open, flooding the room with light.
"Out, you hag." It was the prince, his blonde hair blown back from running. "And don't you ever even think of touching this girl's hair."
The old woman jumped up, grabbed her stool, and scuttled through the door.
The prince glared at Repentance, his pale blue eyes glittering with hatred. He picked up a strand of her dirty, stringy hair and let it fall again, a sneer of disgust on his face. "You've not been keeping yourself up, my Lady. Such a waste. But we can't let anyone cut your hair. We want you in all your glory when you swing."
"My birthmark! This is all about my birthmark?" She jumped up, intent on scratching his eyes out.
He grabbed her hands and clamped them in his grip. "Of course it's about your birthmark. Once I saw it, I knew either you or he had to die. If he died, there would be no way you could prove you were his daughter and since I very much preferred to have you sleeping nearby in the palace, I went to great trouble to arrange his death and save you. But you wouldn't have it."
"To save me? No one was trying to kill me, but you."
"All you had to do was keep to your own affairs. The entire city was laughing at the king over his pretend concubine. My friends made sure to plant serious doubt in the minds of the most influential people regarding the king's fitness for the throne. A king who is a laughingstock is not an asset to a kingdom. It was the perfect time for me to act. He had lost the respect of the troopers. All you had to do was wait, and the king would have been dead, and you would have had the queen's chamber."
She struggled to free herself.
He pushed her so that she fell back against the wall, burning her forearm. Then he dodged out the door and slammed it.
Repentance sank down on her lavacloth, her knees weak, but she lifted her chin defiantly. She'd messed up his plans at least—the wretched, wicked man. The King lived and the prince would never crawl into Repentance's bed.
There was some comfort to be had in that.
But she was going to swing.
Soon.
The king had ordered it.
The woman had come to cut her hair.
The swingman would come next.
She buried her face in her hands and wept.
To save my honor, careless words were spoken,
They left me empty, lost, and broken.
But truth was proclaimed, and wounds were healed.
Love was poured out, and hearts were sealed.
~Repentance Atwater, The Fawlin Palace Poetry Collection
Chapter 28
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Repentance sat up, tense and ready. She'd been waiting. Her crying was done. She'd walk to the frame with her head up.
The door creaked open.
Generosity came in, followed by Tigen.
Repentance, relieved, let a sob escape.
"I'm sorry I've not been back." Generosity said, reaching down and laying a gentle hand on Repentance's shoulder. "The prince would not allow it. We had to sneak down."
"No, no," Repentance said. "Don't apologize. I'm so happy to see you. I've gotten water and broth and dried bread twice. One of Goodwoman Hardscrabble's girls brought it."
Generosity handed over a bowl of thin soup.
Repentance lifted the bowl in salute. "Providence is in keeping with his own generous nature today, I see."
"He most certainly is," Generosity said, pulling two pork pies from the big pocket of her work smock.
Repentance took them eagerly. "Now that's an answer to prayer."
"And this," Tigen said, reaching under his sweater and producing a flask. "Yak's milk with mountainberry wine and honey."
"You are my hero, Tigen. This will be a day of celebration." She took a swig of the cool liquid. "What day is it, anyway? I can't keep track down here."
"It's Monday." Generosity's breath came out in a puff of fog.
She'd only been in the dungeon six days. Six weeks would have been more believable.
"I delivered your message for you, too, my Lady," Tigen said proudly.
The memory of that botched plan made the pork pie she was eating turn bitter. But he didn't need to know that. She ruffled his hair. "A fine job you did of it, too."
"Did the king come, then?" Generosity asked, her face aghast. "I thought he'd not come yet. When he sentenced you—"
Repentance shot her a look. "He did sentence me, then? I knew he did. They sent a woman to cut my hair."
"Did you show him your birthmark?" Generosity asked.
"It went wrong. He's convinced I tried to kill him."
We'll think of some way to change his mind." Generosity said. "But you need to keep your strength up. Eat the lovely pork pies Providence has provided."
Repentance had to smile. "With a little help from Cook."
"She is convinced you are a foolish girl but no murderer, and she's determined to do for you what she can. She'll send no extras to the man next door, though. She can't forgive him for wanting to kill the king."
Repentance handed the second pork pie back to Generosity. "Take him this one then, when you leave me."
"The assassin?"
"He must be hungry."
Generosity tucked the pie into her pocket and picked up the soup bowl.
"Tell him, I forgive him."
"For what?"
"No one would have believed him if he'd told them I was innocent."
Generosity leaned over and kissed Repentance on the top of her head. "Don't give up. Providence will make it all come out right in the end."
Repentance pulled back and looked at the girl's face. She had never told Generosity that her mother used to kiss the top of her head and say that exact thing. Providence alone had known how she was longing to hear those words.
Generosity came three more times, with the ever-present Tigen tripping along behind. They smuggled in good food for Repentance, which she, in turn, shared with the slave next door.
She wanted to ask Generosity for news of the outside world. Particularly she wanted to know when she was scheduled for execution—every time she heard the key grate in the lock she was sure the swingman was coming for her—but she couldn't bring herself to ask.
Between visits, Repentance sat in her dim cell remembering her life in the swamp. Picturing her mother as a young woman with an overlord lover. How devastated she must have been when he didn't come back for her.
But what would have become of her father if her mother had moved to Montphilo with the overlord?
Life was not neatly laid out the way Repentance wanted it to be. She loved her father. And her mother, too. What if they'd never buttoned? That would have left a hole too big to mend, for there would be no Comfort in the world.
It hurt to think about Comfort, but she couldn't stop herself. Childhood memories flooded in nonstop. She and Comfort picking persimmons. Comfort drawing pictures in the mud with a stick, down by the hot springs. Her mother laughing again after Fullness was born. She remembered her father teaching her to catch fish and her mother teaching her to cook them.
She was sorry she'd hurt them. So sorry she would never see them again.
As the memories washed over her, she laughed and wept and prayed.
Yes, she prayed. She wasn't sure that Providence could hear her, but she hoped he could, because she was going to die and she hadn't made anything but a mess of her life. She saw, in that dark cell, that her life was like a bunch of loose marsh grass, scattered on the ground. All it needed was time and wisdom to weave it into a worthwhile basket. She was going to die before she was formed. She hadn't figured out what to do with the pain she'd suffered. She never understood why one man was born a master and another man was born a slave. She had
learned from her mistakes, but she wouldn't live long enough to put the learning into practice. In the end her life was worth nothing, then. After she died the world would go on as if she'd never lived. Her parents wouldn't even know to mourn. They wouldn't know she was dead.
But maybe she was looking at things the wrong way. Maybe she wasn't a pile of straw. Maybe her life was one strand of straw in a larger work. She would die alone and unjustly accused. A slave. Unloved. But it might be that in her coming to the mountain and befriending Tigen, she was going to effect change that was worth more than her own personal freedom. Her mother might be right. Maybe everything would come out right in the end. Maybe she wouldn't get to see it, because she wasn't part of the end. Maybe she was part of the middle.
The key in the lock jerked her from her thoughts.
She watched the door, sure that this time it would be the swingman. Her heart sped up and drops of sweat sprang forth on her forehead.
The door swished open.
And there, in the light, which flooded the cell, stood Sober Marsh.
She gasped and covered her face with both hands. He was the last person she wanted to see. Or the last person she wanted to see her, tired and filthy as she was.
"Why are you here?" Her voice was muffled.
"I've brought your food." Pulling one of her hands down so she could see him, he made a shushing expression with his lips. "Cook ordered me to bring it and the dungeon master, the nice fellow outside the door here, has been kind enough to allow me to deliver it."
Tigen sashayed in. "No one is outside the door but me. The dungeon master has gone back to his quarters."
Repentance yanked her hand from Sober's grip. "Go away," she moaned.
She would rather die than have Sober see her this way.
And then it hit her.
She was going to die.
And everyone would see her this way—and worse.
When her body hung in the square by the slave market ... she would be naked and missing her fingers and toes. Her eyes would be burned out. And everyone would see. New slaves would be forced to look on her as she swayed in the wind.
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