Tainted

Prologue - Cedar

He's shorter in real life, Cedar thinks, staring into the face of the king. At least, he looks shorter. The gold, jewel-encrusted crown adds a few inches, but without it, the king might be Cedar's height, and no one had ever called Cedar "tall."

"Why are you here?" The king's voice is deep and resonant, ringing with authority. Cedar has to stop himself from taking a protective step back. The voice alone seems to add more height to the king than the crown ever could.

Because I drew the short stick, Cedar wants to say, but the king's harsh, cold eyes make Cedar think he might not have a sense of humor.

The king strokes his beard. It's thick and unwashed, but the sweet smell of lilith's oil coats the well-groomed hairs, disguising the underlying musk. The king has the same goatee as Cedar's commander.

"That's all you have to do," Cedar's commander had said. "Say your piece, relay the message, and then get out." The commander had said the last in a way that made Cedar want to change into a clean tunic, if only so his mother could bury him in something nice. Just in case.

"Uh," Cedar starts, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

The king pins Cedar to the back stone wall with his blue eyes. A torch sputters, casting the king's face in shadow. Cedar swallows. He looks over the king's cloak-clad shoulder, focusing his shaking gaze on the tapestry hanging against the far rock wall. Thick, red thread is interwoven with blues and greens, creating an image of the king's father riding victoriously into battle.

"There's a revolt in Pruden, Your Majesty," Cedar whispers. His voice is barely louder than the crackling flames. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the king's hand still against his beard.

"Why?" the king asks.

Cedar takes a deep breath, feeling unsettlingly like it might be his last. "The citizens of Pruden are revolting against your new tax laws, Your Majesty," Cedar says, his mouth dry.

A silence coats the room. Behind the carved oak door, Cedar can hear voices; guards moving about their day. It was mid-afternoon when Cedar was let into the king's inner chamber. It might not yet be dusk. There's a chance Cedar could see daylight again.

The king slams his fist down on the wooden table.

Cedar yelps, snapping to attention. Blood pools around the meat of the king's palm, but he keeps his fist pressed to the lacquered wooden table before him.

Cedar takes a stuttering step forward, but the king slams his other fist down on the table. An etched glass falls against the rug, spilling thick red liquid against the blue and bronze pattern.

Only Cedar's panicked breaths can be heard in the stillness that follows. He watches the wine soak into the fibers of the rug, trying not to look at the king. The overturned glass reflects the light of the fireplace.

"Open the door," the king says quietly.

Cedar doesn't need to be told twice. Without wasting a moment, he grasps the bronze handle and yanks the heavy wooden door inward. A prison guard slips inside the room before the door's even begun to groan against its hinges.

"Your Majesty?" the guard says. She clips her heels together, a red feather pluming from a silver brooch at her left shoulder. She's dressed all in clean black, and she gives Cedar a scathing once-over before returning her gaze to the king.

The king straightens, slowly. The gold necklaces at his chest glimmer against his white fur-lined cloak. He steps around the edge of the table. He picks up his booted foot and steps down on the fallen glass.

Cedar winces at the sound of it crunching into the rug.

"This soldier," the king begins, making the title sound like a slur, "has brought treasonous information to my attention."

Cedar's blood turns to ice. "Your Majesty, no," he starts, but the prison guard bangs her poleaxe against the stone floor and Cedar stops speaking, instantly.

The king pulls a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket, and wipes the base of his fist.

Cedar pants, his stomach dripping through the floor, as he watching the handkerchief slowly turn red with the king's blood.

"I wish to see the Warden," the king says. He doesn't look up from his handkerchief.

The prison guard stands at attention, waiting for further instruction. Cedar looks to her, his eyes pleading, but she doesn't tear her gaze from the king.

The king finishes wiping his hands. He drops the handkerchief on the rug at his feet. It's stained crimson. "And I would prefer this...soldier's information to stay within these walls." The king raises his chin to address the prison guard. "Do you understand?"

A smile spreads across the prison guard's lips. She nods.

"No!" Cedar screams. He reaches for the king, but the guard holds him back, her fingernails digging into the sleeve of his tunic.

"And have someone clean that up," the king says, jerking his head in the direction of the shattered wine glass.

"Please! Your Majesty! I'm just the messenger!" Cedar cries. Tears stream down his cheeks. He struggles against the prison guard, but she won't let him go.

"I'm just the messenger!" Cedar moans, but the door is already closing, the king's red velvet cloak disappearing around the solid wood.

"Goddess please protect me," Cedar says, tasting salt on his lips.

The prison guard shoves Cedar up against the stone wall. It's cold, damp, and unforgiving.

"The Goddess has no power here," the prison guard says. Her voice is harsh and grating, and Cedar knows it is the last thing he will ever hear.

The prison guard smiles, her teeth imperfectly white. "Long live the Great Sovereign King."

Cedar drew the short stick, and now he's dead.