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“They have certainly mangled you,” the physician spoke as he changed the bandage on her leg.
Skylar winced under his touch, still confused as to why he visited. She understood that the prison physician looked after the prison keepers but never the prisoners.
She still felt groggy from being woken up. As she sat on the straw pile with the physician leaning down on one knee to examine her leg, she couldn’t help but study him, the first friendly face she had seen in what seemed like a long time. She was taken aback by the well-kept chestnut hair and beard while his white shirt and brown pants stood out warmly against the candlelight. He wore gold spectacles to help his eyes see better, and there was a confident gentleness in his touch as he worked. Skylar was drawn to it, relishing in his good nature and human empathy.
“You’re lucky this wound isn’t very deep,” the physician commented as he tied the last of the bandages on, the thymelock salve filling the air with its sweet, aromatic healing. “In fact, you’re lucky the cut on your ribcage was shallow. They’re both healing quite well.” He eyed the keeper before mumbling, “Given the circumstances.”
“My shoulder still hurts,” she passively admitted.
“And it will,” he said with a chuckle, glancing at the bandage he replaced first. “The rest of these are minor scratches compared to that one. The entire blade went through your shoulder. It’s going to take a little more time for the thymelock to heal it. It’s healing well so far, which is what matters at this point.”
“What about my face?” she asked, referring to her eye and the half of her bottom lip, which were still swollen. “And the rest of me?” she added, holding out her wrists which were cut and bruised from the handcuffs, her fingers equally battered.
“I’m so sorry, but I was only allowed to bring enough medicine for the serious injuries.” His eyes looked at her in pity, but he said reassuringly, “Besides, there really isn’t anything I can give you. Your body will have to heal on its own.”
Skylar nodded in understanding. “Thank you, doctor,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome, Your Highness,” he whispered back, winking at her before gathering his medical bag and candle, getting to his feet, and walking through the gate. Once he was through, the keeper shut the bars behind him, and both figures disappeared into the darkness.
As carefully as she could, Skylar lifted herself from the straw and made her way to the iron bars. Grabbing them, she peered out from between them. Nothing was there except the torchlight and the darkness. She still couldn’t fathom how barbaric the atmosphere was— electricity never reaching there, and the simple comforts of an extra blanket never considered. The only thing that was updated were the pipes running along the sides of the ceilings and draping down parts of the wall, the steam hissing out in white puffs of smoke to cut the chill in half.
Resting her head against the iron despite the cold, Skylar remembered back when she asked her father about the old fortress that lay just beyond the shore, the structure rising out of the sea like a jagged rock. He once described the prison, the idea to separate the criminals from the free, a place of purgatory for the criminally insane and mentally wicked. Life was not preserved here, she learned, which was why physicians didn’t treat injured inmates. No comfort was allowed, no recreation given, and the prisoners didn’t leave their cells unless they were called upon to speak or had died. There were only two kinds of punishment here: complete isolation and execution. Any physical contact was through torturous means. It was how the warden collected information he needed.
That is why so many scream, she thought while staring out into the dark.
She had never thought too much of the overall structure before, only that it was a haunted form surrounded by beautiful water. But upon being in the cell and seeing the prison for what it was, Skylar was a little amazed. The prison’s foundation was built on a mound under the water which was stacked with wood from the nearby forest. Over time, the piles of wood petrified, making them stone-like and secure. Once the pile reached the water’s surface, the high stone walls were built, securing the labyrinth of prison cells that rose with it, towering over the sea it sprung up from. The location was so isolated that the only transportation to and from the prison was by boat.
The prison. It was never called anything but that.
All this came to her like an instructor teaching a pupil, and Skylar didn’t question its origin, since she knew that knowing her surroundings was beneficial, a valuable lesson Harlin taught her. Her gaze continued to play in the dark until the light from the torch seemed almost blinding. The cold was beginning to bother her, but she stayed in hopes a phantom would lure her away. She noticed how the floor faded into a flickering gold hue the closer it reached the torch, a reminder of the floor of the Great Hall. Her mind caught hold of the image until finally all that was left was the white floor with its golden iridescent tint. There were the high arches and silk banners overhead, and then her father, who sat upon the throne at the other end with Cross Lutherus speaking to him.
Two pairs of footsteps approached: the Princess Royal and her knight. She was summoned to speak to her father, and in tow, Sir Harlin Brien followed behind.
When Skylar approached, Cross Lutherus slightly turned to survey her before standing off to the side, keeping his posture upright as he remained the half way point between father and daughter. Skylar paid no mind to him as she curtsied out of respect for His Majesty, though still groggy from the attempt at sleeping she had been disturbed from.
The morning air already foretold another hot summer day, but while standing on the cool floor facing the remainder of her family, she felt chilled. “Skylar, we need to discuss an urgent matter,” her father started, tapping his fingers on the ornamental chair as the sun peeked through the window, illuminating the floor between them. He gazed at her unusual attire, the black crushed velvet outlining her body, the long see-through lace robe she wore over it, flowing down to the train of her dress. With her single braid still lying across her shoulder, Skylar knew he recognized the one earring she wore by the way his eyes fell on it. The long strand of pure shiny metal was a sliver broken off Brayden’s sword when it was crafted. It was molded, much like his sword, into a fashion statement with the etched designs of scrolls that matched the decoration of his hilt.
“Yes, Father,” she responded obediently, closing her eyes briefly to adjust to the bright light of the early morning.
“As Princess Royal, you are heir to the throne,” he spoke, redirecting his gaze to meet hers. “And with that, you must partake in matters that never once concerned you.”
Skylar kept silent.
“You are to attend meetings in order to polish your knowledge of the workings of this realm and in so doing will learn to grip the reins of our kingdom with a firm yet gentle touch.” His eyes, which stayed on her, began to glitter in their sorrow, bringing tears to her own eyes. She could tell by how each word passed through him that he never wanted this burden to be placed on her. There were politics involved he never wanted her to confront.
His voice began to falter as he tried to keep his gaze away from the empty chair beside him. “Do you understand what is to be your duty?” the king asked after a brief pause to catch his breath.
“Yes, Father,” she replied softly.
“In your best interest,” Cross Lutherus broke in, his voice a tad too cheerful, “I will send for a duchess who is a friend of the family. She knows of manners that you can brush up on.”
“Of what manners do you speak?” Skylar questioned, laying a suspicious glance on him.
“It’s not what you think,” her father reassured her. “Just one meeting with her, Skylar. That’s all that is asked of you.”
For the first time, Skylar felt detached from the world. Her gaze jumped between her father and his advisor, not knowing which one to throw her protest on.
“What is it?” the king asked, knowing what her look meant.
“Forgive me, Father, but Brayden hasn’t been buried for even a week. I couldn’t give a damn about how polished my manners are in these circumstances.”
Her father’s wet eyes met hers, and they shared the same thought as he quietly stood up and slowly left the Great Hall in defeat.
All was still as the king disappeared, but once the doors had closed, the advisor’s teeth showed. “How dare you remind your father of such things,” he growled.
“How dare you to push him into this idea,” she fought. “Let him grieve. He only had one son.”
“You must learn to be queen,” Cross Lutherus spoke, each step drawing him closer to her, each step somehow remaining in the shadows and out from underneath the hot sunlight. “Otherwise, if you don’t learn to be queen, then we won’t have a queen. We’ll have an unmarried twenty-three-year-old whose only consideration is how she feels about one out of a million events that take place every day in this world.”
“Leave my age out of it,” she warned.
“The truth shows,” he continued on. “An undesirable princess is a dangerous one, for alliances do not come freely. Brayden started a very dangerous game when he broke off his betrothal and refused to marry—”
“Tread lightly when you speak of my brother.”
The advisor drew closer, and she could smell his foul breath from where he was. “I’ll tread on his grave if it keeps this kingdom intact,” he slowly replied, enunciating every word. “Heed my warning, Your Highness. You will rule, and by God, I will make sure you won’t ruin it.”
“It was my brother who was meant to rule,” she reminded him. “Brayden was meant to be king, with or without your pompous advice.”
“That boy is no longer here.”
“That boy was our heir.”
“He was a title!” the advisor snapped.
Skylar glared angrily at him until suddenly his vision flickered past her. The pupils in his eyes dilated, and without warning he turned on his heels and marched out of the Great Hall. Seeing him gone, Skylar closed her eyes to block out what he had said, and that’s when she could sense Harlin right behind her, the one whose presence interrupted the argument. She could feel him standing closer to her than before...
Bang!
The sudden outburst caused Skylar to jump back out of reflex, her eye opening to find a keeper standing on the other side of the prison bars. He used the brass knuckle around his glove to bang against the iron, rattling her out of her thoughts. Skylar’s heart pounded in her chest from the scare. She stared at the keeper, who already pushed the gate open to drop the plate of food on the ground in front of the entrance, picking up the old dish as he went. There was no interaction as he closed the gate, locked it, and retreated back into the darkness from where he came.
With a rapid heart and heavy breaths, Skylar limped back to the straw pile and sat carefully down, her eyes never meeting the food or the realization of how much time passed. Her face throbbed from her reaction to the keeper, the sudden movement pulling against the bruised area and making it hurt worse. Resting her head back against the wall, she forced her mind to stop thinking of the pain and, for emotion’s sake, what the advisor told her that day. Even then, part of her still believed that Brayden Mandolyn would always be the Prince Royal. He always should have been king.
“Brayden,” she breathed, squeezing her eye shut, wishing she could see his face again.
Only one memory greeted her, and it wasn’t her brother. It was in the afternoon on the first winter’s day. The pond had just frozen over, the snow powdered over the grass. Skylar wrapped her fur tightly around her as she tried to clear her head after attending yet another meeting her father had made her sit through.
“What’s ailing you?” Harlin questioned, keeping his voice low as he strolled along next to her.
“I can’t be queen,” she stated, the dismay setting in.
“And what gives you that idea?”
Skylar slowed to a stop, facing him when he copied her movements. “My brother was heir to the throne, not me.” She caught sight of the trees rustling behind him, the peaks of Cristos Abbey towering in the distance. She watched her own breath escape as she sighed, a white cloud fading into the air. “This situation was never supposed to happen.”
“But it did,” Harlin told her. “You have the potential. The only person standing in your way is you.”
Skylar savored his words while she opened her eye and peered back out through the prison bars. As always, there was nothing about the outside of her cell that was different than the inside. Stone walls and iron bars with steam hissing out small billows of smoke. A scream started somewhere in the space of the prison, someone’s inner demons devouring their soul.
Listening, she stared into nothingness until there was a ripple in the floor, a vibration that fleeted back into the stillness that was disturbed. Nothing followed afterwards, and so Skylar sat back in the darkness and lamented on the hundreds of horrendous outcries that rose out of fear.
