But I wasn’t allowed to do that, either. I was, after all, the promised prince. Or so they thought. Hair and eye color aside. I thought maybe I was just a seventeen-year-old kid who happened to be in good shape, had gotten lucky drawing an opponent without much side-vision, and had been able to harness his worst impulses long enough to survive. Besides, did I want to be the prince in this dark fairy tale? I did not. What I wanted was to get my dog and go home. And home never seemed so distant.
We made our slow way back to our cells in Deep Maleen: Murf with his shoulder wound, Jaya and Eris, Ammit, Iota, Doc Freed, Bult, Bendo, Mesel, Cammit, Double, Stooks with his badly slashed face, Quilly, Ocka, unconscious Gully… and me. Sixteen. Except neither Doc Freed nor Gully would be able to fight the next round. Not that they would be excepted; I knew better. They would be placed against opponents who’d slaughter them quicky-quick for the pleasure of Elden, Petra, and Flight Killer’s smattering of subjects. Those who drew Freed and Gully in the next round would, in effect, be given a bye. Nor were Murf and Stooks likely to survive to what would be called, in March Madness, the Elite Eight.
The door at the end of the cellblock was opened. Eye and Ammit carried Gully through. Quilly and Freed came next, Quilly basically holding the doc up so he wouldn’t have to try walking on his bad leg. Not that Freed was up to much walking; he was in and out of consciousness, chin bouncing on his chest. As we entered Maleen, he said something so terrible, so lost, that I will never forget it: “I want my mama.”
The gas-jet inside the door had fallen out of its hole again and dangled on its metal hose. It had gone out. One of our guards slammed it back into the hole where it belonged and looked at it for a moment, as if daring it to fall out. It didn’t.
“Special dinners tonight, kiddies!” one of the others proclaimed. “Big food and dessert to follow!”
We entered our cells. Eye, Stooks, and I were now enjoying—if that is the word—singles. Quilly carried Freed into his cell, laid him gently on his pallet, then went into the one he shared with Cammit. We waited for the night soldiers to exit with their arms outstretched, causing the cell doors to slam, but they just left, locking the door to the outer world behind them: one bolt, two bolt, three bolt, four. Apparently as well as “big food,” we were to be allowed to mingle, at least for a little while.
Eris was in Gully’s cell, examining his head wound, which was （no need to go into details） horrific. His breath came in irregular rasps. Eris looked up at me with tired eyes. “He’ll not last the night, Charlie.” Then she laughed bitterly. “But then, none of us will, for it’s always night here!”
I patted her shoulder and walked back to Iota’s cell, which he had elected not to leave. He sat against the wall, wrists on his knees, hands dangling. I sat down beside him.
“What the devil do you want?” he asked. “I’d just as soon be alone. If it please you, that is, your royal fucking majesty.”
Speaking low, I said, “If there was a way out of here—a way to escape—would you try it with me?”
He raised his head slowly. He looked at me. And began to smile. “You just show me the way, my love. Only show me.”
“What about the others? Those who are able?”
The smile widened. “Does royal blood make you stupid, Princey? What do you think?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE A Banquet. I Receive a Visitor. Inspiration Doesn’t Knock. “Who Wants to Live Forever?”
1
It wasn’t just chunks of half-raw meat for the survivors that night; it was a regular banquet. Pursey and two other grayfolk, a man and a woman dressed in stained white tunics, rolled in not one cart but three. They were flanked fore and aft by night soldiers, limber sticks at the ready. The first cart contained a huge pot that made me think of the wicked witch’s kitchen in “Hansel and Gretel.” Stacked around it were bowls. In the second was a tall ceramic cannister and small cups. In the third were half a dozen pies with golden brown crusts. The mingled smells were heavenly. We were killers now, killers who had murdered our fellows, but we were also hungry, and if not for the pair of watching Skeletors, I think we would have charged those carts. As it was, we retreated to the open doors of our cells and watched. Double kept wiping his mouth with his arm.
We were each given a bowl and a wooden spoon. Pursey dipped stew to the rim of each bowl from the pot. It was thick and creamy （real cream, I think）， loaded with big chunks of chicken, plus peas, carrots, and corn. I had wondered before where the food was coming from, but right then I only wanted to eat.