Twisting Every Way

Chapter 8

The throne room was empty and dark except for a thick candle and the Shadow it cast. He sat at the foot of the dais, an empty bowl and cup discarded nearby. The Kings didn't always remember to feed him.

"You're not supposed to be here," he whispered. Emya could barely hear him despite the utter silence.

"I'm also not supposed to talk to you. But here we are."

He answered with silence. His cheeks were gaunt, and his bright, fevered eyes cast down in defeat. She should have left him. She should have gone home and thought of him no more, but earlier, when she'd listened to his plea and given him water, she'd broken the rules and was now faced with a choice: tell the Kings about his speaking to her, ensuring they would not allow it to happen again, or sate her curiosity and continue their new arrangement in secret, bearing in mind the longer it when on, the worse it would be for them both if the Kings found out.

"Where are the Kings?" she asked. Of all the possible conversations, she picked the one topic that caused him the most pain. Sure enough, he squirmed uncomfortably, as though bitten by ants.

"Gone," he whispered. He hunched over and wrapped his arms around his stomach. "Did you do what they instructed?"

"Yes."

He shuddered. "And?"

Emya huffed and threw her arms up. All these weeks and all he wanted to talk about was the only topic ever discussed between her and the Kings? Though she was the one who'd brought them up.

"Everyone was busy," she said. "They didn't notice me. An improvement I'd say, but I imagine the Kings won't be satisfied with that."

"No," he agreed.

"What about you? Have you done whatever they need you for?"

"I don't do anything for them." He shuffled his feet under himself, leaned forward, and stood up, grimacing.

"Then why are you here?" she asked.

He hobbled toward his corner, ignoring the question.

"If I told you to run away, would you?" he asked, lowing himself onto the ground in the corner behind the thrones where the light of the fire was obscured. The darkness absorbed him into a denser, darker, shape in the void,

"No," she said. "Why should I?"

She'd thought about running away almost every day before the Kings arrived, but never could she muster the resolve to make the attempt. There were perils out there—wild animals, exposure, the elements—that only the security of a community could keep at bay. The Shadow had no idea. Even in his weakened state, he had the powerful Kings to protect him.

"Did anyone talk to you today?" he asked, disappointment in his tone.

"I told you everyone ignored me," she said and paused. Kamala talked to her, and not with scorn. "Kamala talked to me, but she was distracted by the festival."

"Don't you think it is odd that a whole village would decide not to talk to you?"

"No."

She hated how pathetic it sounded, but it was true.

"Have they really treated you that badly?" He sounded genuinely sympathetic but in comparison to what he'd gone through, it seemed petty. He had to be pointing that out, making fun of her stupid little problems.

"Yes, they have," she spat, venom in each word. He didn't know anything. She'd endured worse treatment every day since her parents died. Then the Kings took her in. Turning her back on him, she marched toward the door. the Shadow watched her go in silence.

She stomped into her house slamming the door hard behind her. The latch smashed into the frame and the door flew back open. Emya sighed heavily and examined it. Finding it wasn't broken, she closed the door carefully and latched it tight.

Leaning against the door, she sighed wearily. She longed for the comfort of her parents and the safety of their home more fervently than she had since their death. She'd always imagined living out her life there, taking care of them in their old age, and then enjoying a peaceful, isolated life when they were gone. Now she had her own house and independence from the villagers, but it wasn't peaceful.

She kicked off her shoes and crawled into bed. Things would have been different if they'd died when she was older. When she didn't need anyone to care for her. The village wouldn't have hated her so if they had seen her grow up a gentle, quiet member of the community. She would have never learned magic. Never hurt anyone. The Kings said her magic would kill her, but...

She drifted into a restless sleep, her dreams, usually fuzzy and unmemorable, were vivid that night, almost lifelike. In the hazy dreamscape of her village, she walked through the festival. It was an overcast and drizzly morning. The villagers chatted, bought and sold and traded with excitement and vigor. Yet something was wrong. A sense of dread filled Emya as she hurried through the crowds, trying to get away from some unknown danger. As she scurried along, she tried to warn people of the danger, but the villagers carried on, ignoring her.

It was gaining on her.

It would catch her any moment. She found the councilors chatting in the market square. Running past them, she slid under a cart. It was there in the square. The councilors didn't notice and suddenly they were gone. She scrambled out from under the cart and ran into the village. Suddenly she was at the well. The young man, the Shadow, leaned against the well. He turned and held out his hand.

"Run away," he said. She took his hand and abruptly was falling down the dark, endless well. She landed in the middle of the festival. It was night. Orange lights illuminated the sinister market. A sense of dread filled her, but also a sense of belonging. The villagers were dressed in terrifying costumes of black, shiny cloth and lace with swirling, unsettling, unreal patterns. As she followed the Shadow through the horrifying spectacle, she saw men fighting and stealing. Women wielded long, bloody knives. She sensed none of them would hurt her. She was safe from them. The Shadow led her to the edge of the village where she stopped.

"We must go," he urged.

She didn't want to go, she was safe in this chaotic, lawless village. Turning to look at the villagers, she noticed something new. Bright, shining, gold light covered their mouths and chained their hands and feet together. They glared at her with smoldering rage. The chains were there because of her, their looks said as much. She didn't put them there, but it was her fault. Suddenly the chains disappeared. A bone-chilling, inhuman shriek arose as the villagers charged towards her.