The Shadow Throne (The Ascendance Trilogy #3)

The Shadow Throne (The Ascendance Trilogy #3) Page 15

After the woman left, a chair was brought into the room. A herald outside announced the presence of King Vargan, though by the prickle of my skin, I’d already sensed him nearby. Moments later he entered my prison.

In his youth, Vargan had been a commanding presence, but time had worn away at him like seawater against a sandcastle. His gray hair was tied back and he had thick round spectacles that enlarged his dark-saddled eyes. A servant accompanying him discreetly mentioned the spectacles and Vargan quickly removed them, as if he hadn’t wanted anyone to see. When he gave them to his servant, he was then handed a cloth, which he pressed to his nose. I found that odd, since it hadn’t even occurred to me how it must smell in here. He stood in the doorway, stretched his back, and then studied me as he walked forward. Eventually he settled into his chair, though he still hadn’t spoken a word, and I had yet to acknowledge him.

“I’m told you won’t eat,” he said finally.

“Avenian food tastes like salted dung,” I muttered.

“I expected some humility. I could let you die in here.”

“I wish you would.”

He shifted his weight and looked me over. “Captivity has been hard on you. You look terrible.”

“So do you. At least I have an excuse.”

He chuckled softly. “The boy king single-handedly invades my country, causes the death of the girl he loves, and now is mine to treat in any manner I see fit. As you were told, we immediately sent word of your death far and wide, along with an offer to your prime regent for peaceful surrender.”

“I’m glad you’re offering,” I said. “He’ll happily accept your surrender.”

He chuckled again. “When we met on the night of your family’s funeral, I said that I liked you, and I do. You’re a spirited young man, greatly in need of discipline, but with many qualities I admire. I wish we could’ve been friends.”

I said nothing. My wishes for him were far less kind.

“Your position in this war isn’t good, Jaron. The best choice for any of your men is to put down their swords. There will be a heavy price for their loyalty, and I hope you won’t require that of them any longer. Do you think I’m not serious? The two archers who came with you are dead. Did you know that? They stayed to help you when they ought to have run.”

I had figured they must be gone, but it was still terrible news. I took note that he didn’t mention Mott. Perhaps there was a chance he had somehow escaped.

Vargan continued, “If it was only my army, you would still be outmatched, both in strength and in numbers, but there is also Gelyn and Mendenwal against you. I heard about your fight with the captain of your guard. Now he’s left and taken the finest of your soldiers from what I’m told. Your remaining armies are scattered, without the strength to defend any single area. And I have you, still in mourning for that girl.”

He referred to Imogen as “that girl,” which was an insult to her. Yet I preferred that to hearing him use her name. He had no right to speak it, not after what he’d done.

Vargan leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “We’ve waited as long as we can to bury her. I wonder if you want to see her body, to see where the arrow struck. You may wish for the chance to mourn properly.”

Still I remained silent. The thought had occurred several times to ask to see her, but ultimately I knew seeing her that way, having that one last memory, would destroy me even faster.

Vargan shrugged indifferently. “We know nothing for her gravestone other than her first name. She died in battle, and deserves more than that.”

Amarinda would want Imogen adopted into her own house. I was sure of that. “She was Imogen of Bultain,” I mumbled. “That was her name.”

He nodded. “And is there any epitaph you want added?”

The words had already formed in my mind, and yet I waited until I was looking directly at him before I said, “Here lies Imogen of Bultain. Whose death prompted a revenge that marked the final days of King Vargan.”

Vargan’s face hardened and he stood. “Consider yourself lucky I don’t bury you beside her. Because of your insolence, she will have no gravestone. There will be no memory of her ever having been here.”

If only memories could be abandoned so easily.

“I took her!” Vargan yelled. “And before this is over, I’ll take everything from you.”

“There’s nothing left,” I mumbled.

“Are you sure of that? You’ll give me whatever I want, or you’ll learn what it means to lose everything. Mott, that servant you care so much about. I will let you watch every minute of his slow execution. Rulon Harlowe — he’s like a father to you, isn’t he? It won’t take much to end his life. And the princess. She’ll be lucky to escape with as little pain as that kitchen noble you loved.”

By then, he had my attention. Coming from anyone else, those might have only been threats designed to frighten me. But Vargan would relish the chance to carry them out. If I didn’t cooperate with him, using one person after another, he would destroy me.

He called for his vigils, then pointed at me and said, “Let the devils humble him. The next time I see this boy, I want him eager to bow at my feet. He will not defy me!”

The vigils bowed to their king and some of them escorted him up the stairs. The others came closer to me, pounding fists into their hands, preparing to carry out Vargan’s orders.

My world had blurred between dreams and reality. Imogen still lived in one world, and nothing but pain existed in the other. Because of that, I spent the greater part of each day clinging to every possible memory of her. That alone kept me alive.

One memory returned to me over and over, a moment I both cherished and hated. When I had untied Imogen from the post, her fingers had combed through my hair. Despite any indifference she had ever shown me, every word she had uttered to make me believe there was nothing but friendship between us, her touch had changed all of that. And if I could have cut off the memory there and thought nothing further, I would have done it. But it was always followed, always, by the image of her twisted expression when the arrow pierced her chest, and the crumpled collapse of her body before it vanished over the hill. That memory had been burned into my mind, and was worse than anything Commander Kippenger or his henchmen could do to me.

Imogen’s last words begged me to choose to live. Why couldn’t she have done the same?

Vargan had left his soldiers with the invitation to torture me at will, and I had expected it would take on the worst form they could design. At first they were cruel to me, every bone in my body knew that. But I was becoming weak from lack of food and no more responsive than a rag doll. They began interrogating me for information, and repaid my silence with total humiliation.

Kippenger even devised a game meant to entertain the simple minds of his men. He placed a single garlin on a flat, embedded rock at the top of my prison walls and ordered me to retrieve it.

I glanced up at the coin, then turned away. The distance wasn’t far — maybe double my height — but it seemed like more. Reaching the garlin while in these chains would be difficult, if not impossible, and I certainly couldn’t see the point of trying.

But Kippenger wanted to play. “Reach the coin, boy,” he said, “and I’ll let you buy your freedom with it.”