Darkness filled the room, clinging to the furniture and the walls, denying any light to penetrate, except for one pinpoint seeping its way through the keyhole of the solid oak door. Princess Katherine Helberg of Nadoria braced herself for a moment, taking a deep breath and slowly sinking into reality. It was thunder that had awoken her; it must have been, not the bone-rattling vibration of cannon fire, as she had experienced in her dream.
For a brief moment, she contemplated rising and attempting to verify that the source of her momentary panic was indeed the weather. But doing so would mean wandering into the hallway by herself, and that was not something she was willing to do without the promise of daylight. As she lay in the darkness, listening to the soft rise and fall of her lady-in-waiting’s breathing next to her, she was once again reminded of how much she hated her present situation, how desperately she wanted to return home, leaving this miserable, windowless, prison of a room and its surrounding layers far behind.
Gathering the edge of the blanket in her hand and giving a small tug to cause Joan du Bois to release a bit, she rolled over, unsure whether the extreme darkness was because her eyes had actually fallen shut again or if it was just the horrid room she now dwelt in. As dark and damp as it was at night, without a window, even the sunniest of days had little effect on changing the ambience. She heard another rumble and determined it was certainly thunder that had woken her, nothing to worry about, and contemplated going back to sleep.
It was a risky proposition, especially now that the nightmares had already begun, but then, so was staying awake. In the pitch black, it was more difficult for the shadows to form into shape-shifters. Perhaps the only positive to living in such an environment was that the ghoulish faces and bone-white fingers that had reached from behind the curtains in her own room back home each night were not able to penetrate this thick veil of blackness.
She missed Nadoria desperately and was willing to do anything to return, but she was thankful that she was no longer haunted each night while she was drifting off to sleep. No, here at Castle Blackthorn it was only when she was dreaming that she was haunted by the distant sound of cannon fire growing closer, the ghastly demonic face that stared at her through the eyes of death, and the inhuman shriek that infiltrated nearly every dream she had dreamt since she was four years old.
Sprays of ice-cold water flittered through the window, splashing over the haggard face of Matthew Caine, King of Zurconia, reaching into his deep sleep and pulling him back to where he lay in tattered bed sheets, unable to flee the attacking weather any more than he was able to escape the tower room he had called home for these last six months.
There were no curtains, no barrier at all to keep the precipitation out, nor did the thick granite walls of the precipice he teetered on keep him dry. They weren’t even windows, just arrow slits that had been chipped away at over the years by countless prisoners held here. He was certainly not the first, as one could tell by the odor left behind on his makeshift bed, and he had no reason to believe he would be the last. In fact, he was quite certain that he would be vacating the room relatively soon since his life had been threatened so many times recently.
In some respects, Matthew was very much ready to move on from this exhausting existence. He never would have imagined how much energy it took to do absolutely nothing. Though he despised his captor and would never show any sign of weakness when the malevolent King Philip of Clovington paid him a visit, his spirit had been broken even before he had been locked away in this tower. He hadn’t been himself since the night he was stolen from his home as his wife lay dying. Matthew hadn’t even been given the opportunity to tell her goodbye.
Another flash of lightning lit up the tiny room, illuminating the out-of-place bookshelf that took up almost as much space as his bed, and left him blinking and rubbing his eyes. He had been dreaming of her again, his sweet Margaret, and awoke to find himself still in purgatory with frigid pellets of water slowly soaking his sheets, his tattered clothing, his skin, his spirit. At the moment, he was even more angry to have been ripped from her arms than usual.
Sitting in the dark, Matthew’s mind began to wander back to when they had first met. Margaret was not yet queen when the pair agreed to marry. Her father, Stephen, who hailed from the kingdom Matthew was currently being held in, had lingered on his deathbed for weeks after their nuptials. The king had been carried out for the ceremony and then returned to the gold-leafed mahogany bed where he would later take his last breath.
Thunder shook the room as he remembered the first time he’d seen Margaret Diamonte, at a ball held in her honor. Matthew had never thought he would have the opportunity to marry for love. Being nobility almost certainly negated the possibility of marrying for anything other than what was best for the kingdom. Yet, the moment he first saw Margaret, he was instantly taken with her. She had been beautiful, though not in a traditional way. Her curly brown hair had a tendency to come undone around the crown of her head, forming a halo. The sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheekbones was particularly endearing to him. She laughed so softly that he wasn’t quite sure, at first, if she found his attempts at wit humorous, though he quickly learned that her soft tittering was simply part of her gentle nature.
It became clear very early on that Margaret’s personality was inherited from her mother, Queen Beatrice Jules of Zurconia, not Stephen Diamonte of Clovington. Beatrice was a princess, daughter of the King of Zurconian, but in her kingdom, a woman wasn’t allowed to be sole ruler of the land. So Beatrice had essentially abdicated the throne to her husband upon her arranged marriage to Stephen, who had only been a viscount, not even a duke. Exactly how that had come to pass, Matthew didn’t understand, but it had been a mistake.
When Stephen had become king, his older brother Ellias had been bitter and jealous of Stephen’s ability to scheme his way into power, even if it wasn’t in their homeland of Clovington. However, the jealousy had only lasted for a short time before an unusual and suspicious amount of deaths amongst the royal family of Clovington occurred. That and a fortunately timed wedding to a member of Clovington’s royal family had suddenly left Ellias as King of Clovington.
That, too, was short-lived as Ellias quickly met his own untimely (and equally suspicious) death, which handed the thrown over to his young son, Philip. Not quite of age at twelve, prior to his coronation, Philip’s Uncle Edward, Ellias’s younger brother, had served as ruler in his stead until Philip assumed the throne three years later at fifteen.
Matthew hadn’t known Edward at the time. But he knew him now. There was no doubt Edward was still every bit as power-hungry as his brothers, Stephen and Ellias, had been. This was evidenced by the influence he poured over Philip, and Matthew imagined that had been the case since Philip began his reign. Edward had sworn to avenge the honor of his oldest brother Ellias, which he felt had been robbed from him by the usurping nature of Stephen’s rise to power. It didn’t matter to Edward that he’d be taking the throne from his own niece, as Margaret and Philip were cousins.
Clovington had launched attack after attack on neighboring Zurconia, a kingdom that had always enjoyed a peaceful existence, and thus, had very little in the way of defenses. The citizens of Zurconia had done their best to defend their homes, but Clovington had advanced, bit by bit. Matthew had come into the situation too late to do much of anything, though he’d tried his best to build up the army. It made little difference as the kingdom began to slip out of his fingers. Then, one night in the bitterly cold winter just six months ago, only a few months into Matthew and Margaret’s reign, Castle Ringley had been breached. That was the same night his wife had been brutally murdered in front of Matthew’s eyes, and he had been carried away to this prison with little hope of rescue and an ever increasing wish for the relief of death.
Death was what had been promised to him--but not yet. There was one more little piece left in Clovington’s insidious plan. Philip had one more victim to draw out, one additional act of regicide to commit. And that was the only thing keeping Matthew alive. Preventing that act had become his sole purpose for continuing to breathe.
The lightning flashed again as the king adjusted on his cot, running his hands through his damp hair, wishing he was anywhere else in the world. If only there was someone on the other side of that locked door who could help him escape. Then, he could save his own life—and his brother’s.