“Wonderful,” Bernd said, looking down at the wet stones of the corridor.
“Woman!” Kellin said. “You, Erin! Is it Erin?”
“Yes, Lord High,” Eris said. No way was she going to correct him.
“Is it wonderful that Cla has joined us?”
“Yes, Lord High.”
“How wonderful?”
“Very wonderful, Lord High.”
“Is it your cunt that stinks or your asshole, Erin?”
Eris’s face was a blank, but her eyes were on fire. She lowered them, which was wise. “Probably both, Lord High.”
“Yes, I think both. You, now—Iota. Step to me.”
Eye stepped forward, almost to the protective blaze of blue surrounding Kellin.
“Are you happy to have a cellmate?”
“Yes, Lord High.”
“Is it won… won…？” Kellin flapped one white hand, and I realized he was happy. No, not just happy, over the moon. Or, considering where we were, moons. And why not? He had been set a gathering task, and it was now complete. I also realized how much I hated him. I also hated the Flight Killer, sight unseen.
“Wonderful.”
Kellin slowly reached toward Iota, who tried to stand his ground but flinched back when the hand was less than an inch from his face. I heard the air crackle and saw Eye’s hair stir in response to whatever force was keeping Kellin alive.
“Wonderful what, Iota?”
“Wonderful, Lord High.”
Kellin had had his fun. He strode through us impatiently. We tried to get away, but some weren’t fast enough and got walloped by his aura. They went to their knees, some silent, some whimpering in pain. I pushed Jaya out of his way, but my arm entered the blue envelope around him and scalding pain ran up to my shoulder, locking all of the muscles. It was two long minutes before they loosened.
They should let the gray slaves go free and run their old generator on that power, I thought.
At the door, Kellin spun to face us, finishing with a stamp of his foot like a Prussian drill instructor. “Listen to me, dear friends. Barring a few exiles who don’t matter and a few fugitive whole people who may have scarpered in the early days of Flight Killer’s reign, you are the last of the royal blood, the watered-down spawn of rakes, rascals, and rapists. You will serve at Flight Killer’s pleasure, and you will serve soon. Playtime is over. The next time you step on the Field of Elden, formerly the Field of the Monarchs, it will be for the first round of the Fair One.”
“What about him, Lord High?” I asked, pointing at Cla with the arm that still worked. “Doesn’t he get a chance to practice?”
Kellin gazed at me with a thin smile. Behind his eyes I could see the empty sockets of his skull. “You will be his practice, kiddie. He survived Lake Remla, and he’ll survive you. Look at the size of him! Nah, nah, when it’s the second round, you’ll not be taking part, my insolent friend, and I for one will be glad to be rid of you.”
With those comforting words, he left.
4
It was steak for dinner that night. It almost always was after “playtime.” Pursey rolled his cart up the corridor, tossing the half-cooked meat into our cells—sixteen cells, each now occupied by two prisoners. Pursey once more raised his malformed hand to his brow as he tossed me mine. It was a quick and furtive gesture, but there was no mistaking it. Cla caught his chunk on the fly and sat in the corner, holding the half-raw meat in his hands and snaffling it down in big tearing bites. What big teeth you have, Cla, I thought.
Hamey ate a few token bites of his, then tried to give it to me. I wouldn’t take it. “You can manage more than that.”
“For what reason?” he asked. “Why eat, suffer the cramps, then die anyway?”
I fell back on my father’s acquired wisdom. “One day at a time.” As if there were days in Maleen, but he ate a few more bites to please me. I was the promised prince, after all, the fabled PP. Although the only magic in me had to do with mysterious changes in hair and eye color, and that was magic I had no control over and no use for.
Eye asked Cla about his near drowning. Cla did not reply. Fremmy and Stooks wanted to know where he’d come from and where he had been going—was there a safe haven somewhere? Cla did not reply. Gully wanted to know how long he’d been on the dodge. Cla did not reply. He ate his meat and wiped greasy fingers on his striped shirt.
“Don’t talk much without the Lord High in front of you, do you?” Double asked. He was standing at the bars of the cell he shared with Bernd, a few down from mine. He was holding his last bit of steak—which, I knew, he would save for later if he woke up in the night. The routines of prison are sad but simple.