THOUGH MAARIT HAD undergone only one training session, she could feel the effects of exercise pulsing through her body. With each movement, her muscles ached and her limbs were stiff as though she had been dipped in stone and then hung in the sun to dry.

Just when the last bit of lingering evening light was obliterated by the coming dusk, Maarit found herself wandering about the castle. It was partly out of sheer boredom, and partly due to the fact that she had gotten herself lost while looking for the library. She attempted to use familiar paintings—as Alexander had suggested—to guide the way; however, the castle was enormous and the artwork so abundant that she didn't come across a single piece she recognized.

       She settled for permitting herself to be set adrift, like an unanchored ship, into the unknown depths that were enclosed within the walls. And, much like what lay between the uncharted liquid folds of an ocean's onyx waves, there was an undeniable charm in the castle's tenebrosity.

       There were nearly always guards lurking nearby, pacing up and down the corridors while conversing with one another. Their conversation would cease when she came into view, and it was not uncommon for their eyes to brim with suspicion as they gazed at her. Sometimes, she wondered what they thought she was to the king; it was more than likely that the other men in the castle—out of touch with reality as they were—assumed she was Theodoracius's mistress.

       As if I would ever be anyone's mistress, she thought to herself bitterly.

They probably hadn't a single clue she was a soothsayer—or a prisoner for that matter, since she was no longer treated as one and had the freedom to do as she pleased.

       Treading down the carpeted floor, she dragged her hand across the wall, feeling the texture of the ornamental outlines of the mouldings beneath the pads of her fingers. As she absently continued gliding her palms along the wall, the texture changed to something smooth and cold—and it was then that she realized it was a window. The night was cool and caused an outline of condensation to form on the glass pane, tracing the profile of her hand.

       Peering into it, she was instantly aware of just how breathtaking the view of the sky was. The sight of the stars—beautiful in both the simplicity of their design and the complexity of their composition—kissing the firmament made her heart and her mind sigh in unison. She was lost in an opulent prison, wandering aimlessly within a cage of gilded gold and something distinctly malevolent, held captive by a thoroughly confusing king who made her further question his nefariousness with each passing day, surrounded by men who thought of her as nothing more than the king's whore (a paper doll to be toyed with until she ripped; and to then be replaced easily, for she was disposable and never really of any value to them).

Yet, somehow, when Maarit stopped to take a deep inhale, and the musky scents of dusty carpets and old wooden floorboards met her nostrils, she managed to experience a sense of deeper serenity than she had in quite a long time.

       She passed the ballroom and a few sets of stairs, not having a clue as to where she was headed.

It was not long until she came to a narrow corridor that poured into a much wider hall. Its cylindrical walls enclosed numerous marble columns and statues. One of the statues was of a naked woman with wings sprouting from her back, curling in on themselves as if to serve as a protective shield. The marble the sculpture was made from was the colour of bone, veined with black. With a curious purse of her lips, Maarit realized it gave the impression that the woman was a fallen angel, her bare shoulder blades kissed by Lucifer.

       But what caught her eye was not only the statue carved from veined marble—it was the glimpse of a guards that stood there, blocking the way. Maarit's eyebrows pulled together tightly at the very centre of her brow, forming a frown that left its mark on every inch of her visage.

When he heard her coming, the guardsman stared her down, his eyes narrowing. The witch cast him a strange glance, then looked past him to see if he appeared to be visibly guarding anything important. Frown deepening, she wondered what would happen, and if she would be stopped, if she attempted to pass him.

       So she did.

       And nearly wound up with a sword through her head.

       He had moved fast—so fast that she even found herself admiring the move for a very brief moment, hoping that she'd have the capability to do such a thing with enough training. The sword gleamed at her chest, blocking her entrance.

       "The king forbade anyone to enter this hall," the guard said in a gruff tone, not yet sheathing his sword.

       Maarit's nostrils flared. She attempted to peer past him in order to see what it was that Theodoracius needed to have guarded so fiercely. There was a single door with a rather large latch that prevented anyone from entering without a key. But Maarit knew it wasn't his bedroom, his throne room or his study, all of which she had passed when Alexander was showing her around the castle. This was something different—something she had never seen before.

She sidestepped the sword and started to bolt past the guard—but he moved to block her way again, this time holding the sword to her throat. She knocked the blade with her shoulder and strode deeper into the hall. He made a move to grab her, but she dodged his hand and sneered at him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she spat. "Don't touch me. Surely you heard what happened to the last guard who decided to lay a finger on me. I'll tell you: the king had his head severed and on a pike. But I'm quite certain you knew that, for the king also threatened his guards with it the following morning."

She pursed her lips and saw the guard's throat bob as he swallowed down his nerves. The fact that she was now able to threaten the guardsmen and hold a looming threat over their heads gave her immense satisfaction.

"Now," she drawled on, tapping her chin with a dainty index finger, "if you truly think I ought not to enter, your best bet would not be to restrain me physically." She lowered her voice and leaned in closer, closing her hand loosely around the blade of the sword. "Unless, of course, you have a wish for a brutal death."

This time, when she moved past him, he didn't stop her. Instead, he muttered, "The king can deal with you," and then bounded down the corridors and out of sight.

       Letting out a breathy sigh of relief, Maarit's gaze went straight to the padlocked door. She likely had only a few minutes before Theodoracius arrived to stop her, but her curiosity was piqued.

       What could the king possibly be hiding behind that door?

       With a frown, she noticed that this area of the castle smelled slightly different from the hall she had been in before. It did not smell of old wood and dust. Instead, there was something faintly sweet, or sour, or perhaps both, lingering in the carpets. She approached the door carefully before a roiling wave of nausea came over her.

       The smell was beginning to intensify to an unpleasant fetor. It was very much like the smell of the dungeons, as though something inside was rotting. This door must have been another entrance to the dungeons—one that she hadn't known about before.

Yet this realization did not quench her curiosity as she was drawn closer and closer to the door. She reached out and caressed the lock in her hands, feeling the cold rusted metal beneath her skin, running her fingers over the hole where a key would fit. If only she could use something—

"MAARIT!"

It was him.

She knew it was him, despite the fact that his voice sounded different from usual. There was an undercurrent of desperation in his tone. He was at her side in an instant, trying to pry her hands off of the lock.

"Maarit," he said, trying to catch her eye, "what are you doing? You are not supposed to be here, this area of the castle is forbidden—"

"What is behind this door?" she demanded fervently, turning her head to look him dead in the face.

He exhaled deeply. "Nothing," he said, shaking his crowned head. "Nothing." However, he had no other excuse.

She shook her fist at him. "Don't lie to me!" she yelled, her face looming towards his. "Tell me what is behind this door, or leave me to assume the absolute worst. Do you have any idea what it smells like? It smells just like that dungeon you locked me in for days. That dungeon I nearly died in!" She watched him flinch, but her words did not waver. "You claimed you were sorry and I thought you meant it. I thought you truly were different and not just the horrid person everyone has always made you out to be—and I—and I—I don't even know what to expect from you! I just want the truth."

       Even once she had finished speaking, the power in her words seemed to echo across the walls. She hoped that she had gotten through to him. His eyes bore into hers with a nearly unbearable intensity. He blinked quickly, but didn't look away for a long time. Neither did she. She could not find the strength to look away, so she held her breath.

       "All right," he whispered. She noticed the way his voice trembled and almost broke. "I can show you. But you mustn't be disgusted with me, or—I mean, it isn't—"

       Unable to find the right words, he shook his head and reached into his pocket. From it, he retrieved two keys. He inspected each one, then slid one of them back into his pocket and closed his fingers around the other. He gripped the lock and placed the key inside. His hands were shaking so badly that, out of impatience, Maarit almost reached out to steady them.

       "This will not be pleasant," Theodoracius managed to utter, "but you should know. I want you to know."

       The lock clicked open and the king removed it before swinging the door open.

Immediately, the fetor increased tenfold and flooded the hall. Maarit instinctively placed one hand in front of her mouth and nose, her eyes watering. With her other hand, she swiped at her eyes to clear them and peered at what was behind the door. It appeared to be some kind of cellar.

       But the floor of the cellar was laden with dust and rot and—bones. There were bodies everywhere. Most of them had decomposed to the point of becoming indistinguishable, but Maarit saw that a few were women. Panic seized at her throat, yet she couldn't bring herself to look away—until her eyes fell on a set of bones much too small to belong to an adult and much too humanoid to belong to an animal.

       It was so suffocatingly silent that Maarit could hear the screams of the dead piercing through the miasmatic, deathlike atmosphere.

She turned to Theodoracius. "What did you do?" she shrieked, nearing hysteria. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

For a moment, he confusion pulled at his eyebrows. Then, seeming to realize what she was implying, fear flooded his face. "No—no, Maarit, this wasn't me—it wasn't—"

"I can't do this," she said, her teeth clattering together. "I can't—you're a monster, more than I ever imagined—I can't be here, I can't stay, let me go—"

She tried to turn away, to leave, to disappear into the castle once more and never have to return. Theodoracius, however, refused to let her. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, gentle but desperate all at once. "Maarit—look at me. Look at me. Please look at me."

       She should have pushed him away, but at the feel of his hands on her skin made her unable to move. She was a statue of ice, frozen in place. Though her body was shaking, his was as well. She knew it was wrong, but she wanted to hear what he had to say.

       She wanted him to tell her that he hadn't killed women, and even children, and kept their rotting bodies in a cellar. The evidence was in front of her; still, she did not want to believe it.

       He kicked the door closed with his foot while his gaze remained trained on her. Her pulse quickened as he pulled her closer to him. She felt his chest shudder against hers.

No, she thought to herself. Don't look at him. Don't pity him. He is not the victim. He is a horrible person. A murderer.

Don't believe his lies.

He cupped her cheek and guided her head so that she was forced to look directly at him. There was nothing violent in his action, nor in his eyes. The orbs of brown were glossy with forlorn anguish. He almost looked as though he would dissolve into sobs.

       His pain was so raw and palpable that Maarit's desire to believe him strengthened.

       "No. Please listen to me," Theodoracius begged, his voice thick with emotion. His regality was gone and he made no attempt to retrieve it. "This was not my doing."

       "Empty words," she muttered bitterly.

       "No. It wasn't. I promise."

"Whose doing is it?" Maarit whispered, her voice barely making a dent in the ghost of the scream-filled silence. The tears that had been waiting to fall burned the back of her eyes. There was a pounding in her head and a rushing in her ears, probably caused by the rate at which her heart was pumping blood through her veins.

       "My father," he said at last, his voice quavering. "It was my father."

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

Comment your thoughts on this. More revelations are to come next chapter, which will be very intense!