“He’s coming,” Leon tells me. “ETA one minute.”
“Come on, let’s get her up.”
Kat flops beside Seth. We all help to ease her into a standing position, one of Kat’s arms over Seth’s shoulder, another over Leon’s.
There is a knock on the door. I go across to it. “Password?” I say.
We all have codenames for radio transmissions; Kat’s is the most recent addition.
“Princess,” Rafe’s gruff voice answers.
I shift away the table and open the door to him.
15. KAT
I SIT ON A GILT THRONE, my long, loose hair decorated in tiny rows of braids at the crown of my head. The crown of my head... I laugh, for there is an actual crown there — a bejeweled, dazzling thing that glitters when it catches the sunlight streaming from the tall stained-glass windows. I barely recognize myself: I’m wearing a pale blue dress longer than my body, made from the richest of silks. Ivory jewelry decorates my fingers and wrists, and my feet are enclosed in shimmering silver shoes.
There is an audience watching me: an audience mostly of men, but of a few beautiful women, too.
Directly in front of me, there is a group of four men kneeling before me. They are dressed in gleaming armor, each decorated with a thick, jewel-toned banner. Only their heads are free from the metal casing, their wild, tousled hair spilling across their armor. I glow for them, knowing them intimately from their telltale postures.
“Rise, Sirs,” I tell them in a confident voice I don’t recognize as my own.
They obey my order, bearing upright and rising to their full, towering heights.
I have to control my breath. Like this, they are beautiful: their faces serious and intent, wielding a maturity beyond their relative youth, with a deference in manner that renders me strangely emotional.
I am not completely satisfied, however: there is something amiss.
“Where is Sir Tyndall?”
There is fire behind their eyes.
“He has betrayed the Queendom, Your Majesty,” Sir Idris tells me, his tone aggrieved.
I nod, thinking this over. “I believed this would be so.”
In a grave voice, Sir Fawkes asks, “Would you like us to hunt him down?”
“No.” I look them each in turn, my heart swelling. These men — my men — are mine, and nothing can take away from that. “He will come round. He is still young yet.”
“I am not young!” The hard voice rings from the rafters of this ancient hall. I glance up to see Sir Tyndall.
Unlike my knights, he wears a tight-fitting costume of leather and a forest-green shirt. His pants are pure calfskin, and there is a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. A bow points straight at me, its nocked arrow stretching toward the back of his head.
To me, he looks stunning. My heart constricts in yearning, wishing this were not so.
My knights look outraged by this display, unsheathing their swords in a flash of silver.
“Lower your weapons,” I instruct in a clear voice that carries to the back of the hall. “There will be no bloodshed here today.”
With reluctance, my knights stash their weapons to their scabbards, though they keep their sights on Sir Tyndall, whose bow is still held aloft in his hands.
And then it all happens so quickly. Sir Tyndall smiles and leaps from the rafters to the ground. Seemingly in mid-air, he launches the arrow and I watch as it soars straight toward me. Before I have time to react, there is a sickening clang: slowly, I look up to see the sharp head of the arrow buried deep in the head of my throne.
Sir Tyndall lands as lightly as a cat onto the hard stone floor, and he grins at his handiwork from between his curtain of dark blond hair. There are shrieks from the audience — my citizens — as they realize what has just happened.
My knights set upon him instantly. Even members of the audience are preparing themselves for battle.
But Sir Tyndall seems to be made of magical properties: he weaves in between each of them, as easily as though they are invisible. The others don’t even notice he’s no longer where they think he is.
When he reaches my throne, he smirks widely into my face, his hands planted on my armrests. His handsome face is twisted and proud.
“I’m not young,” he whispers into my ear. “I’m the one who got away.”
MY EYES FLUTTER AWAKE and I moan softly to myself. Where am I? What happened?
And what the fuck was that dream?
I dreamt of... of... I close my eyes, trying to remember, but it’s as though my memories are being filtered through quicksand. I don’t know why, but I have the strangest idea that I dreamed I was in some fantasy drama or Game of Stones.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” It’s Tarek. He sits beside me on my bed.
I smile brightly at him. “Good morning, Sir Idris.”
What the heck? It just slipped from my mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Oh man, did I bump my head hard or something?
He gives me an odd look but laughs. Relief is heavy on his face, as though I could be talking fluently in cat language and he wouldn’t care, so long as I’m awake.
“Where am I?” I say. My voice is croaky. How long have I been here? It sounds as though I haven’t spoken in months.
Tarek quickly pours me a glass of water. With grateful hands, I accept and drink deep. The coolness is refreshing. I feel parched, like a plant desperate for rain.
“Look around you, Princess,” he whispers. I glow at this nickname. Princess. Where did they get this from, and why does it make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside?
But then Tarek moves to the side so I can better take in my surroundings. My eyes adjust to the bright sunlight streaming through vast windows, the white curtains fluttering softly in the breeze. Everything is so... white. Minimalist. There are many sprightly, vibrant-green plants and fluffy white rugs. The bed I’m on seems to be double the size of the one I was in last. It’s white, too, covered in dozens of plush white cushions and pillows. From what I can see, there are a series of doors — and those, too, are painted white.
Dread creeps into my mind.
“Am I in Heaven?” I whisper.
Tarek’s mouth twitches. “No. Just Suite 808.” He glances up at the ceiling, at the sterile spotlights. “Apparently it’s Scandinavian-inspired.”
I’m so confused. It’s like Tarek’s just saying words at me.
“The band has the whole of the upper floor to ourselves,” he continues happily. “We’ve each got a room through those doors.” And he points to the doors I’d noticed. He strokes my head, and I relax into his touch. “We chill out here, though. We’ve taken turns to look in on you.”
“Even Adam?” The words fall from my mouth before I can stop them.
I don’t know what propelled me to say it, but Tarek looks at me evenly. “Yes. Even Adam.”
I try not to flush from my blatant insinuation of distrust. I don’t want to think about Adam being here with me while I was asleep. Him watching me in bed...
Tarek feels my forehead with his large, comforting palm. “You’ve been asleep for a whole day. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I say, though my head seems heavier than when I was last acquainted with it. “What happened?”