“Just listen to my instructions very carefully,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “You only have to do one thing.”
“What’s that?” I rasp.
“Die.”
Part Four
The Prince Is Dead
Chapter Forty-Three
Aren
“Die? But I’m already dead if you’re here. You can’t be real. I’m still dreaming,” he murmurs.
“I’m real,” I say, gripping his fingers until he winces. “Listen, this is going to kick you in the ass,” I tell him, nodding at the poisoned biscuit in his hand. “I’ve put something in it that’ll make it feel like you’re dead…and look like it, too.”
He glances skeptically at the biscuit, and I don’t blame him. I also have my doubts. The plan is straightforward, but sometimes simple things are the hardest to execute.
I just have to hope I put in the correct dose. “This is our only option,” I say. “If there were any other way…”
He nods. “I trust you.” And then, without hesitation, he crams the whole thing in his mouth.
In a short while, when the guards wake, they’ll find his lifeless body.
…
During Namreth’s noon meal, my heart pounds so loudly I’m afraid others can hear it. My hands shake. I try to compose myself as best I can. At breakfast, the king devoured my biscuits, but now, he hardly eats. I know he’s lost his appetite because he’s just come from the morgue where he stood over Dietan’s lifeless body, inspecting it before Arnfried sealed it up in a rough cloth sack with a needle and thread. Just like all the other bodies that come through, which he told me are numerous. Another bagged body of similar size and shape will be burned in its place in the morning.
I couldn’t take the chance that Namreth might suspect the Rings were on his person as the king would surely order him dissected. So I gave Arnfried another herb that, when he applied it to Dietan’s eyes and tongue, would make his body look diseased. It did the trick. Namreth hastily left the morgue as soon as he confirmed that Dietan was truly dead.
Namreth’s face gives nothing away, but the way he picks at the biscuits sets me on edge. The seconds feel like hours.Does he suspect anything amiss? Can he guess the part I played?Maybe he’s just angry about being deprived of his plaything.
Then, abruptly, he slams his fork down. He stands and strides out of the chamber. “Get back to work,” he snaps, dismissing the servants.
As I make my way back to the kitchen, I envision the hidden chamber off the morgue where Arnfried hid Dietan’s body. He rests there cold, alone, and unguarded. Dietan sleeps, mere inches from death, his heart beating so slowly that it can’t be felt. His breaths are so minute that they can’t be heard.
Harvest Mother, what if he’s actually dead? What if the dose was too strong? What if he’s dead and I find him pale and lifeless when I tear open the sack?
The terrible image runs through my head for hours as we go through the motions of our jobs, pretending it’s just another monotonous day of servitude. This could easily be the day I’ve led all of us to our deaths, including Dietan. So far, the plan has gone perfectly, but the most dangerous part is still ahead.
…
When the moon is at its zenith and the castle is quiet, I sneak through the hidden door behind the oven to meet the others. Bing and Rosamond are handing out clothes Rosamond stole from her laundry shift. An assortment of muted, everyday garments, most taken from the numerous dead. They look nothing like the work uniforms the castle servants are forced to wear. They will blend in with the garb of the commoners outside the castle. They’ll do well for what I’ve planned.
We dress in silence. We are all acutely aware of the risk. If any of us makes one mistake, we all die. As I look into the faces of these brave people I now consider friends, I wish we could turn back, achieve our ends some other, safer way. I wish I hadn’t thrust them into danger.
Too late for that now. It’s time to take our lives back. Time to get the hell out of this terrible place and take Dietan with me.
I cast aside my recognizable kitchen frock and apron and slip on a drab beige blouse and loose brown skirt that hangs well above the tops of my boots. It’ll be easier to move and run. I tuck my hair under a cap that street vendors wear. Then I stuff clothes for Dietan into an empty flour sack as Bing goes over the plan one more time, mostly for my sake. They’d been plotting this escape for months before I arrived. Dietan and I are merely interlopers. Bing carefully lays out the details as he distributes hand-drawn maps to the group.
“Aren, Nelson will be waiting for you at the wall with the carriage. All you’ve got to do is get the prince there. You’ll take some back streets to be certain that no one follows. Then you’ll transfer to another conveyance, just in case someone notices the carriage leaving the castle grounds. You’ll all meet up at the designated safehouse, then leave with the group. Once you make it outside the city gates, it’s a day’s walk southeast to the nearest village. Maybe two, depending on your pace. Stay off the trail and head directly east, toward the sun. Don’t stop until you can’t see the palace behind you. If something happens and you can’t make it out of the city, look for the House of Healing. They are friends of the cause.”
“Hold on. You’re not coming with us?” I ask.
Everyone stares at him grimly, but Bing just smiles, eyes glassy. “I’ll stay behind. Do whatever I can to make sure all of you get out safely.”
“Bing, you can’t—”
