The Crowned Captive

It was very quickly apparent to Morana that her rooms in the dungeon were an anomaly. Nausea clawed at her, bile rising in her throat, as they walked through the rows of cells on their departure from the dungeons. The stink of dampness and urine was horrendous as they made their way through, and she was certain that at least one of the shapes in dark rags and straw beds was dead. The trays of food that were untouched held gruel and stale bread, and nothing else but a jug of water. Knowing that, by right, she should be in such a cell, Morana turned away.

As they left the dungeon and climbed the flight of stairs that exited within what she assumed was the guardhouse, she faltered. Outside the window was the largest structure she had ever seen, rising high enough to nearly scratch the clouds. Vines and trees seemed to make its walls, wrapping around whatever the structure beneath was and growing around it. What she quickly realised was the castle looked like it was made of the land itself, a perfectly placed mess of living wood and soil with a hundred windows peaking from the gaps. Rowan allowed her to marvel for a second before urging her across the field and into its depths.

Inside the castle was nothing like the outside, with ivory walls gilded with what she immediately knew was solid gold. Each section had a picture, not painted but carved into the creamy material so that the shadows added value. Morana catalogued each one she could silently, allowing Rowan to lead her along. She knew she should have counted the golden pillars, the turns, and the burgundy doors set into the hall so that she could escape, but she did nothing of the sort. She was still too shell-shocked at the majesty one single portion of the castle could muster.

Whilst it seemed like forever, Morana wasn’t at all ready when they stopped in front of a set of wide gold and red double doors. Guards stood in front of them, and Rowan merely watched them as they opened the door, and she was ushered from the bright hall to the dimness of the room.

The man she assumed was King Victor Gosselin, King of the Fae, was nothing like she imagined. Where human kings were fat and ugly men with more money than sense, usually with some form of pretty woman beside them, this man was tall and muscular with calculating eyes. She watched him through her eyelashes as Rowan shoved her down into a bow, and she remembered the manners royalty demanded. The man simply cocked his head like a crow, watching her intently.

“Your Majesty, I present your prisoner, as requested,” Rowan said, still bent low beside her.

“Thank you, Lord Greenfeld. Rise, and bring her forth. She and I have much to discuss.”

The king’s voice was not one of comfort. His voice was ice and war and death. It sent spears of fear running up her spine. Morana swallowed as she was led forward, heeding the threat in his tone. Rowan held his head high beside her, sharing a look with the king. Finally, like a spark flying in the dark, she realised that he was not just some hired hand. He was the king’s loyal underling. There had never been a chance he would have let her free.

The king had turned her attention to her now, and she fought not to cower beneath his heavy gaze. His eyes were as ominous as his voice, speaking of ancient magic beyond the realms of any she had seen. She wished she could turn away from them.

“Understand this is not a trial, girl, but your answers could easily lead to your death. All questions are to be answered truthfully and completely. Any omissions will be met with pain, and any malicious intent will be met with immediate death. Do not speak out of turn. Is this understood? The king spoke and his voice filled the room, deep and hypnotising. She could not stop her body from responding.

“I understand, your Majesty,” she replied.

“Speak the name of your father,” the King commanded. Morana frowned, fear already rising up within her when she knew she was already being asked the impossible.

“I never knew my father, your Majesty, nor was told his name,” she replied, hoping the response was good enough. The king’s face gave no indication.

“And why then do you think you are a halfling?”

“My mother was human, and I have elven qualities. If she was not where they originated from, then surely it had to be my father.”

There was a very long pause as the king looked from her to Rowan, seeming to share something in that gaze. She could feel bile climbing in her throat as the silence seemed to smother her. She could not tell if her answer was satisfactory or not, and all of her thoughts centred on what would happen if it was not.

“Who was your mother?”

The break in the silence was not a pleasant one. Terror now climbed up her throat as she wondered how much she would get away with saying. She did not want to hide her past if it meant her death, but she could not… Some memories she could not dredge up.

“She was a human, but a witch. We lived in the forest close to Faeswood. When I was very young, she was killed. I never knew her name.”

The King inspected her a moment longer, and she stood tall with her eyes downcast, refusing to squirm under his gaze. Relaxing back on his throne, the king flicked his hand, and one of the guards at the back of the room left out a side door. Morana watched as he went, then returned to her previous stance.

She was fighting the urge to shift on her feet when the door to the left opened once more, and a woman of deep skin and white hair carried in a wicked-looking dagger. Behind her, two guards shared the load of the long wooden table, its surface covered in grooves and dips, insignias dispersed along its length. Morana watched curiously as the guards placed the table in front of her and backed away, leaving the enchanting woman staring down at her with colourless eyes.

“If I was to command you to take that dagger and plunge it into your own heart, would you?” The king said, the hypnotising quality returning to his voice. For a moment she nearly agreed, nearly said yes. Then her senses returned to her.

“No, I would not, your Majesty,” she finally replied, looking to the ground. Beside her, she heard Rowan quietly snort in amusement.

“Take the dagger and bleed into the well ” the king commanded, “and be grateful I ask no more of you.”

Morana snapped her face up to him, then quickly averted her eyes once more, remembering herself. She looked at the wicked blade held in front of her, the silver glint seeming to thirst for her blood, and swallowed. Rowan gave her a curious look as she stood forward, accepting the blade from the ethereal woman, and looked down at the table. In its centre, sat a deep well, with all of the little grooves branching off it and leading to the many insignias. She saw six, evenly spaced around the board and larger and coloured, and around them dozens of others. Some had been burnt from the table, she noted.

Morana took a deep breath, steeled herself against the pain, and let the blade run across the flesh of her palm. The blade was greedy indeed, biting deeply, drawing more blood than she intended, and she hissed in response to it. Rowan was beside her in an instant, holding her hand over the central well until it was filled, then healing the laceration.

The ethereal woman grinned then, placing her hands at the edge of the table and closing her eyes. Morana watched with fascination as her blood climbed the walls of the well, choosing its two paths, and flowing down the grooves. It twisted and turned, working its way to each end, and she blinked as it suddenly veered and stopped. Peering closer, she saw an insignia light up as if catching fire at the right end of the table - the dragon. Rowan’s head snapped upward to the king, then landed on Morana, eyes wide with shock. Morana ignored him, looking instead at the other pool of blood. The ebony-skinned woman smiled, her teeth perfect and white as she turned, the final insignia lighting up behind her. The phoenix blazed. Rowan watched incredulously, and Morana knew something shocking had happened, but remained quiet. She still watched the table, watching the blood split from the course of the Phoenix, and fall on another insignia. One of the larger insignias, a skull ringed in thorns, blazed with dark shadows for a second, before fizzling out.

“I can confirm it is the dragon and the phoenix, your Majesty. Gosselin and Alichade are her families,” the woman spoke as she bowed, her smile never faltering.

The king was silent for a long second, and Morana swallowed. She remembered the surname of the king and knew she shared it somehow. Fear crept up her spine as she waited for his response.

“Begone, Ilda. Speak nothing of what you have seen,” the King commanded, and Ilda bowed deeply once more.

“My silence is part of my service, your Majesty, and the events of today will not be spoken by me under the penalty of death. The Sorceress commands it.”

The woman turned and left after that, fixing Morana with a curious look, and she was alone with the King and his minions once more. Rowan’s hand found her back, and she waited for her command.

“Both of you, too. Rowan, remember your commands from last night. I will call on you when you are required.”

The King did not wait for a response as he stood and stalked out, and Rowan pushed Morana into another bow. Once the door closed behind him, Morana let out a breath she did not know she had been holding, and her knees threatened to collapse. Rowan held her steady, and then began leading her away.

“Rowan, who-” She began, her confusion paramount as they began the winding journey back to her cell.

“No, no questions. I would not have the answer, nor the authority to reply,” Rowan snapped, and Morana shut her mouth. Tears threatened to well in her eyes, but she ignored them as she was escorted back through the castle, through the dank depths of the dungeon, and to her too-comfy cell.

Rowan whispered something under his breath to Cordan once he had safely returned her to her manacles, too soft for Morana to hear. And then he disappeared, and she was alone again, still not knowing who she truly was