“God,” he corrects me. But he peers at me in careful study. “You appear unwell.”
“I appreciate your bluntness,” I respond dryly. When he continues his examination, I rub at my stinging eyes, and slump forward, allowing the mask to slide free. “I slept poorly.” Tangled sheets and sweat-drenched skin mark my nights. I dream of wine, always wine. Despite the struggle, my commitment to sobriety remains resolute.
It has been twelve days since I last drank. It is not easy. It is the furthest thing from easy. But this is the mountain I must climb.
“Does Alba know of this?” Boreas asks. If I am not mistaken, his voice has softened in understanding.
“She is aware.” A small sigh. “She has provided a tonic to help me sleep. It helps some.” When I remember to take it. I offer him a strained smile. “Worry not, husband. This, too, shall pass.”
The arm of the chair digs into my side. I shift to a more comfortable position, only to realize one does not exist. The seat of the throne—a smaller version of Boreas’—feels as if it has been fashioned from knives. “How can you stand sitting in this thing?”
“If you’re uncomfortable, feel free to leave.”
“Give me your cloak.”
His attention darts to the awaiting specters, who quickly look elsewhere. “Why?”
“Just give it to me.” I wiggle my fingers expectantly. It’s not as though the cold affects him anyway. The only time I’m truly warm in this place is in my bedroom with the fire roaring.
With a few choice mutterings, he slides his arms from the sleeves, revealing a slate tunic edged in white, and hands me the balled-up cloak. I stuff the heavy fabric against my back, protection from the sharp edge of the chair arm. Much better.
Seeing that he continues to glower at me, I gesture to his subjects. “Please continue.”
“You will not interrupt?”
Since our amicable conversation a few days ago, we’ve settled into a tentative truce with each other. He has even begun to acknowledge me in the halls, and not even under threat.
In truth, I’m curious about the inner workings of his reign over the Deadlands. To these souls, he is a king. And I question how this king rules. “You have my word,” I sniff.
He returns to his task. “State your name.”
A rumpled man glances up from where he kneels at the front of the line. “Adamo of Rockthorn, my lord.”
“Adamo of Rockthorn.” The king’s eyes lose focus, and I startle as the air between him and the specter wavers. Eventually, the rippling air clears, as do Boreas’ eyes. The man cowers beneath that icy glare.
“Adamo of Rockthorn,” he intones. “Husband, brother, father. You are survived by your wife and three children, your mother, and your sister. You made your livelihood as a wool merchant. When you were five, you pushed your sister into a frozen pond, nearly drowning her. When you were nine, you beat a village cur that dared beg for scraps, and killed it.”
My gasp is near inaudible, but Boreas glances at me from the corner of his eye. In the back of the line, the souls huddle together, as if terrified of inviting the king’s attention.
“Please, my lord.” The tip of the man’s nose brushes the frayed rug on which he kneels. “I understand I have made poor choices in life, but I was only a child—”
“When you were sixteen,” Boreas continues, “you lured a girl from your village into the local barn and raped her. Again, at age seventeen, though a different victim. Do you have the means to defend yourself against these actions?”
“It was a difficult time,” he says in a breathless rush, “m-my lord. My father had recently passed on. I was angry, confused. I needed to feel in control.”
“So you assaulted those women?” There is a pause. “Look at me.”
The man lifts his head. Tears glimmer on his washed-out cheeks. I am remembering the story of Orla’s past, and revulsion rises so thickly it blocks my airway. I realize I have misjudged Boreas in more waysthan one. I assumed he did not bother to judge the dead fairly, did not pick through the details of their pasts. Whatever punishment this man receives, it will be just.
“Does your wife know how depraved your thoughts are? How, despite your marital vows, you lured not one, but two women into the woods, and raped them?”
“No, my lord,” he gasps, trembling so hard he topples onto his side. “She is blinded by her love for me.”
“You have erred,” says the North Wind. “You have erred badly, and for a long time.”
“Please, my lord. My children. I love my children.”
“Love for a child is not enough. Do you understand that your actions have lasting consequences? You have inflicted wounds on these women that will outlive your death.” The chill in his tone crystallizes, and I swear I feel it scrape against my skin. “You are hereby sentenced to the Chasm for the raping of five women over the course of your lifetime, including your wife. On each new moon henceforth, you will be castrated, your appendage regrown until the next lunar cycle. May your suffering be eternal.”
