Only the Worthy (10 page)

“We have to get
down below!” Royce called.

Royce looked out
at the remaining soldiers and saw they were preoccupied with staying alive
themselves; he doubted they would notice him disappear, or have time to go on a
manhunt below.

“Let’s go!” Mark
called back.

They both let go
of the mast and raced for the open hold below—but as they did, another huge
wave came crashing down on them. They fell flat against the wooden deck and
went sliding as the boat turned nearly sideways. Royce flailed underwater,
aiming for the open hold, trying to steer himself—and a moment later, to his
relief, he felt himself falling into it as the wave passed by. He felt a body
land beside him, and he knew Mark had made it, too.

Royce landed not
on a hard wood floor, as he had expected, but rather in several feet of water.
The hold, he realized with dread, was filling up.

Royce stood and
saw the water down here was a few feet deep, sloshing around. He saw something
float past and felt it bump against his leg, and he looked down and saw it was
a dead body, one of the many boys who had died below. He surveyed the hold and
saw, to his horror, the water was filled with floating corpses. The chances of
survival down here were slim, too, he realized. Yet up above it was impossible.

The waters rose
higher and higher, soon up to his waist. Royce knew that when they reached the
top, he would be floating back on deck, and his life would be over.

He reached out,
grabbed onto a peg on the wall and onto the rope of an old hammock, bracing
himself, while Mark did the same. They stood there and waited, watching the
waters rise, and as Royce saw death all around him, he wondered just how he
would die.

Genevieve felt
the tears slide down her cheeks as her new handmaidens, encircling her, fitted
her into her wedding dress. She looked down at it in despair: it might as well
have been a funeral gown. With each pull of the cord, tying the corset tighter
around her waist, she felt as if another string of her life were being pulled,
cutting her off from the future she had imagined with Royce, and sentencing her
to a marriage that would be her death.

“Do not cry now,
it is unbecoming of a bride,” came a voice.

Genevieve was
only dimly aware of the girls attending her, a half dozen of them, all busy
preparing as she sat on a bench in the stone chamber in this fort. Some worked
on her shoes—tall, leather things that strapped to her knees—while others fixed
her hair, trimmed her dress, rubbed oils into her skin, and applied makeup. It
was the girl wiping her cheeks with the cool rag, wiping away her tears, that
had spoken to her.

Genevieve looked
over and saw the girl staring back at her, a few years older, with long, curly
black hair, green eyes, and a kind face. She was surprised at her look of
compassion, the first she had seen since entering this fort. She covered up Genevieve’s
tears with a dab of makeup, treating Genevieve as if she were a doll. For these
people, Genevieve knew, it was all about appearances.

“It’s not as bad
as you think, you know,” the girl went on. “After all, you’re marrying into
nobility; it could be worse.”

Genevieve closed
her eyes and shook her head.

“I am
not
marrying him,” Genevieve insisted, her voice sounding far off to her.

The girl gave
her a confused look.

“He may be
marrying me,” Genevieve clarified, “and there is nothing I can do about it. Yet
I shall not consider myself wed to him.”

The girls all
giggled around her.

Genevieve
frowned, determined to express her seriousness.

“My heart
belongs to another,” she added, to cement her point.

Finally the
girls’ expressions turned serious, giving each other worried glances.

The girl
attending Genevieve’s makeup turned to the other girls and shooed them off.
They all left, concern etched across their faces. Genevieve wondered who they
would run and tell. She did not care.

Soon they were
alone, just Genevieve and the girl, and the room fell silent. The girl
continued to look at Genevieve with wise and understanding eyes.

“My name is
Moira,” she said. “I am wife to Ned, the youngest brother of the man you will
wed. I guess that shall make us sisters?” She smiled weakly. “I’ve always
wanted a sister.”

Genevieve did
not know how to reply; Moira seemed kind enough, yet she did not wish anyone in
this fort to be her family.

Moira took a
deep breath as she came around behind her and began tying up her hair.

“Allow me to
give you a word of advice, having lived in this family for too many years,” she
added. “They will do whatever they have to, to stay in power. They do not
choose brides meaninglessly. And to marry them is like a small death.”

Genevieve turned
to her, struck by her honesty, and for the first time, she really listened to
her.

“They marry not
for love, these people, but for power. They marry to survive. It is all part of
a game for them.”

Genevieve
frowned.

“I do not wish
to understand them,” she replied. “I do not care for any of their games. I wish
only for the man I love to be returned to me.”

Moira shot her a
look of disapproval.

“But you
must
understand them,” she countered. “That is your only chance to survive. You must
enter their sick, twisted minds, and discover what it is that drives them.”

She sighed,
tightening her hair.

“I like you,”
she continued. “I’d like to see you survive. So let me give you one word of
advice: do not let anyone else hear you profess your love for another. These
men, if they hear you, may very well cut out your tongue as soon as marry you.”

Genevieve felt
her chest tighten, sensing Moira spoke the truth. This place was even more
brutal than she had imagined, and her sense of dread increased.

Moira stepped
closer, glanced around, and lowered her voice as if to make sure no one was
listening.

“
No one
within these walls can be trusted,” she continued. “Accept your lot. The best
way to defeat them is to embrace them. Embrace your new title, your new power.
Become the worm from within. Give them time. Allow them to think you love them.
Allow their guard to lower. And then, when they are comfortable, strike.”

Genevieve stared
back, shocked she would be so frank. She wondered what Moira had suffered to
feel the way she had.

“Remember,”
Moira said, “there are many ways to achieve an objective.”

The door
suddenly opened, and several more attendants appeared. They stood at attention,
clearly awaiting Genevieve’s departure.

“The wedding
party awaits,” one announced, grim-faced.

Knowing the time
had come, Genevieve looked at Moira, who nodded back knowingly. Together, they
walked slowly from the room, Moira holding her train.

Fresh tears came
with each step Genevieve took. This was not the way she had ever imagined
walking down the aisle.

Genevieve walked
the gloomy stone corridors, lit by torches, winding her way, and as she went
she looked for open-aired windows, for a way to jump—but she found none.
Feeling as if she were marching to her death, she wondered where Royce was at
this moment. She wondered if he was dreaming of her, too. She wondered if she
would ever lay eyes upon him again.

She found herself
led through a vaulted opening and into a huge, vaulted chamber. She was
surprised to see hundreds of nobles in attendance, seated in pews. At the end
of the aisle awaited an altar, framed by stained glass. Beside it stood a
priest.

And there,
waiting Altfor. Her groom-to-be.

Genevieve took a
deep breath and resolved not to go. She would strangle him before she agreed to
marry.

Yet right before
she crossed the threshold of the door, she felt a strong grip on her arm. She
turned and looked over to see Moira shaking her head, as if reading her mind.

“Wed him,” she
whispered. “Love him. Or allow him to think that you do. And then when the time
is right, we can kill them. We can kill them all.”

Genevieve stood
there, trembling, struggling with what to do. This was her last chance to turn
and run, to let them imprison or kill her.

“If you love
Royce,” Moira added, “climb the path of power. That is the only way to freedom
for you both.”

Moira gestured
for Genevieve to walk into the room.

Genevieve stood
there, her mind reeling, and she sensed Moira was right. She had no other way
to help Royce. And for Royce, she would do anything.

Slowly, one step
at a time, a pit in her stomach, Genevieve began to walk. She walked down the
aisle, the room thick with incense and filtered sunlight, and she looked up at
her waiting groom, at her waiting life. And she died inside.

Yet she forced
herself to take one step after the next. And as she did, she thought to
herself:

Royce. This is
for you.

Royce slowly
opened his eyes to the gentle sound of sloshing water, and he looked about,
disoriented. He was lying face down on the upper deck of the ship, his face in
an inch of water, lapping gently against his cheek. Water splashed over his
chin, up his cheek, and into his ear, and he wondered briefly if he was dead.

Royce lifted his
head slowly, half of it dripping, the other half dry and sunburned, and blinked
several times as he wiped salt-encrusted water from his eyelids. His head was
splitting, his throat parched, and his body felt like one big bruise.

He slowly rose
to his hands and knees, breathing hard, wondering what had happened, and
wondering how he had survived the storm.

The silence was
most unnerving of all. During these past moons the ship had been clamorous,
filled with the sounds of boys groaning, shrieking, fighting, dying. It had
been filled with the ubiquitous sounds of soldiers relentlessly ordering,
whipping, beating, killing. It had been filled with ever-present sounds of
agony and misery and death.

Yet now it was
silent, still. Royce looked out and saw the sun breaking over the sky, a dull
red, and it felt as if he were the last man alive in the world. How had he
survived? How had the ship survived?

He looked around
and saw it was badly listing, limping along in the open waters, which were now
calm as a lake. Royce felt something bump against his knee, looked down—and
wished he hadn’t. There was a corpse, a boy who looked to be his age, lifeless,
eyes open to the sky as he floated across the deck, bumping against him.

Royce turned and
scanned the deck and, in the breaking dawn, saw dozens more bodies floating,
some face up, some face down, all sloshing on the ship. He felt a wave of
revulsion. It was a floating graveyard.

Royce shook his
head, trying to push the image from his mind. The storm had taken nearly all of
them. He closed his eyes and tried not to hear the screams, tried not to think
of all the faces, of all the boys who had died, now somewhere overboard,
carried off in the wind and waves.

And yet he
supposed he should be grateful. If things had stayed as they were, if he had
stayed down below, he would surely have died eventually, of plague or the
dagger, if not starvation. This storm at least had allowed him to get out from
below; indeed, he turned and looked over at the hatch below, saw its edges been
shattered, and was shocked to see it was now entirely filled with water.
Floating up from out of it were several dead bodies, sloshing across deck.

Slowly, there
emerged sounds of life, a distant splashing, and Royce turned to see one boy
rising to his hands and knees from the deck as the sun rose in the sky. Then
came another.

And another.

One by one,
signs of life began to return.

Soldiers began
to rise, too, one at a time, and soon dozens of members of the ship came back
to life. As the sky lightened, Royce realized with a combination of relief and
dread that he was not the only one. Somehow, despite it all, others had
survived.

As the new day
broke Royce looked out and was amazed at how calm the sky was, how calm the
waters were, as if a storm had never happened. The water was shockingly still,
no sound audible save for the slightest lapping against the hold. It was like
sailing on a lake.

As Royce looked
he was startled to see something else: there, on the horizon, was a landmass.
He spotted craggy black cliffs rising up from the sea, as if a sulfur monster
had emerged and hardened. It looked to be a bleak, unforgiving place, yet
still, Royce’s heart quickened: it was land, at least. The first land he had
seen in weeks.

And clearly,
their destination.

“Slaves, get
back to work!” called out a rough voice.

Royce sensed a
commotion behind him, and found himself pushed, stumbling forward. He couldn’t
believe it: already the soldiers were rounding up the boys, ordering them
around as if nothing had changed, despite the carnage around them. Royce
wondered how many of them had survived, if the boys now outnumbered the guards
and could stage a revolt. Yet as he looked around Royce saw a surprising number
of guards had lived, more and more of them seeming to rise from the dead. And
this ship was in too bad a shape to take anywhere.

Royce soon found
himself herded with a group of several dozen boys, a dozen soldiers behind
them, being shoved toward the bow. The soldiers wanted to make them work the
sails, to steer the ship; yet the sails were tattered and the wheel had blown
off. So instead, they shoved and pushed Royce and the others toward several
shattered benches affixed to the edge of the deck.

“Oars!” they
commanded.

Royce found
himself shoved roughly onto the remains of a bench, a huge oar placed into his
hand. He looked over the ship and saw the oar descended thirty feet into the
water, and he followed as the others reached forward with their oars, then
pulled back, tugging at the water. Royce felt his arms, weak from hunger,
shake.

Slowly, the ship
began to move. It had been drifting, directionless, yet now it moved straight
ahead, toward the distant isle. Royce heard the crack of a whip, saw one of the
boys nearby lashed, and as he heard him cry out in pain, Royce rowed harder.
The guards were merciless, even in a state like this.

There came a
commotion, and Royce glanced over to see a boy shoved onto the bench behind
him—and his heart lifted to see it was Mark. He had made it.

Mark looked back
at Royce, equal surprise and gratitude in his eyes.

“You should have
let me die,” Mark said with a grin, as a soldier roughly handed him an oar.
“You saved my life at the expense of your own, and don’t think I shall ever
forget that. You shall have me at your back, always—assuming we survive.”

Mark reached out
and Royce clasped his forearm. It felt good to have a friend, to have someone
he could trust here.

“And I can say
the same of you,” Royce replied.

Royce looked out
to the sea as they rowed, their ship gaining momentum.

“Where are they
taking us?” Royce asked.

“The Black Isle,”
Mark replied. “From what I hear, it will make our ship ride seem like a
fairytale.”

Royce felt his
apprehension deepen.

“I think the
point of this journey is to kill most of us,” Mark continued. “And for whoever
survives, they will let the isle kill the rest.”

Royce wondered
as he watched the isle near. It was the most inhospitable place he had ever
seen. He saw no signs of life on it, and it certainly seemed like a place to go
to die.

Royce went back
to rowing, his body shaking from the effort, and as he fell back into the
monotony of it, he looked over and noticed the scars across Mark’s back from
where he been flogged. He wondered if his back bore the same scars. He arched
it, and it still felt raw from where the nobles had beaten him. He noticed a
small sun insignia tattooed into the back of Mark’s left shoulder, and it made
him wonder who he was, and where he was from.

Royce was about
to ask him about it, when suddenly three boys sat down on the bench beside him,
sliding over and squeezing in beside him—tToo close. They were broader and
larger than him, and he could feel their hot, sweaty bodies beside him.

Royce looked
over, surprised, as one removed a dagger and held it up against his throat, the
blade hurting. The boy looked furtively around to make sure the guards weren’t
watching. Royce could barely breathe. He wished he had reacted sooner, but it
had all happened too fast.

He smiled, a
cruel smile, showing yellow teeth. His head was shaved bald, and he had several
chins, being overweight. Yet he was also muscular.

“Do you remember
me?” he asked. “The name is Rubin. I want to be sure it is one you never
forget. These two boys are my friends, Seth and Sylvan. Twins. But you’d never
guess by looking at them.”

Royce glanced
over and saw the two other boys, neither smiling, and neither resembling the
other. They both bore dark features, yet one, Seth, was thin, with a lean, angry
look, while the other, Sylvan, was muscular, with a broad face and nose, and a
neck as large as Royce had ever seen.

Rubin smiled,
prodding the knife to Royce’s throat.

“Now that we’ll
all be best friends,” he continued, “you can start by handing me that chain of
yours.”

Royce looked
down, and was surprised to see that his golden necklace—the only thing he had
ever owned—was now openly on display, gleaming in the light. Stupid of him. He
had kept it safely hidden all this time, under his shirt; but in the storm his
tunic had become frayed.

“Hand it over!” Rubin
hissed. “Or the fish will have more food.”

Royce wanted to
fight back, but the boys were much larger than he was, and had slid all the way
over, squeezing him against the hull and leaving him no room to maneuver. He
felt the point of the dagger pushed up against his throat, and he did not doubt
for a moment that they would kill him.

The thought of
handing over the necklace left him with a profound sense of tragedy. The
necklace was all he’d ever owned and it had remained a constant in his life. It
had been given to him by his mother, and she had told him to hold it dear—and
that one day he would learn the source of it. It was the one thing that had
given him hope and mystery throughout his childhood.

As the dagger
was pushed deeper into Royce’s throat, Royce sensed motion from the corner of
his eye, and suddenly there came a cracking sound, as Mark spun around and
kicked Rubin in his face. Rubin fell backwards and dropped the knife.

Royce wasted no
time. He lunged forward and tackled Seth and Sylvan at once, driving them
backwards, tackling them down to the ground and jumping on top of them.

“Fight!” came a
chorus of shouts as Royce wrestled with them. Suddenly they were surrounded by
boys.

Royce wasted no
time. He punched Seth, then wheeled and elbowed Sylvan. Yet as he hit one, the
other pounced on top of him, making it impossible for him to gain momentum.
Finally, Sylvan rolled on top and grabbed for Royce’s face, digging his fingers
into his cheeks and trying to gouge out his eyes.

Royce knew that
if he did not act fast, he would succeed. He had no other choice: he threw both
of his arms in between the boy’s wrists, broke his grip, and raised his
forehead as his head came down.

There came a
crack, and Royce saw had had broken Sylvan’s broad nose. Sylvan cried out,
clutching it, and rolled off.

No sooner had he
done so when Seth jumped atop him.

Royce felt
several guards grabbing him, pulling him to his feet, while they pulled Seth
off. He was thrown roughly across the deck, back to his seat at the bench,
while beside him Mark—who had beaten Rubin back as well—was thrown, too. The
two landed beside each other, as the guards drew their swords.

“Back to the
oars!” they commanded. “Fight again and you’ll all be thrown overboard. We need
to lighten this ship anyway!”

“Save your
fighting,” the other guard added with an evil grin. “Where you’re going, you’ll
need it.”

Royce and Mark
went back to rowing, and Royce looked over and grinned at Mark.

“It is I who owe
you now,” Royce said to him.

Mark grinned
back.

“No you don’t.
That was fun,” he replied.

Royce and Mark
looked at the looming island together. Having Mark beside him, Royce felt a
little less alone in this ship full of thieves, bullies, and criminals. He knew
he was sailing to his death, but it felt better not doing it alone.

“That isle will
kill us both, you know,” Mark said.

Royce nodded. He
knew it to be true.

“But if we have
each other’s back,” Mark said, “we may live long enough, just long enough, to
return back to the mainland, and see the people we love.”

Mark held out
his forearm, and Royce clasped it.

“You die, I
die,” Mark said.

Royce nodded. He
liked the sound of that.

“You die,” he
replied, “I die.”