The Queen of Traitors (The Fallen World Book 2) Page 2

  It’s an unlikely combination.

  Who am I to be so young and so experienced in the darker deeds of men?

  I hold my hand up again, letting the rings catch the light.

  And what kind of man would marry a woman like me?

  Time ticks by slowly in this place. No one’s come for me again, but they will.

  I lean my head back against the cool cement wall and close my eyes.

  I’m at the back of the room. Cornered. Enemy soldiers creep closer to me. Between us, bloody men and women lay unmoving.

  This is the first memory I have, and it’s a struggle to hold onto it. I try to focus on the wounds of the fallen, but my mind won’t give up those details.

  The hiss of scraping metal snaps my eyes open. A tray slides through the slot at the bottom of my cell’s door. Those crafty soldiers use the end of a broom to push it through; by now they’ve figured out that I’ll take out a finger or two if given the chance.

  I’m not a very nice person. I wonder if that’s the result of nature or nurture.

  My stomach cramps painfully as I stare at the food, and only then do I realize just how hungry I am. Adrenaline and pain had distracted me up until now.

  I get up and grab the tray. The sight of the food tempers my appetite somewhat. If I were less hungry, perhaps I’d simply skip the meal. Instead I pick up the plastic utensil and try what can only be described as gruel.

  It’s over salted, and the more I eat, the queasier I get.

  I set the food aside and steady my breathing. I’m all right, just a little too battle worn. It doesn’t help that my arm wound pounds like it has its own pulse.

  The memory of those dead bodies flash through my mind again, only now, when I don’t bid it, do I see their injuries in all their gruesome detail.

  I barely reach the toilet in time.

  My entire body shakes as I vomit, and all the awful food I just forced down leaves my system. I feel weak, so weak, as I hunch over the toilet bowl. My stomach didn’t just purge itself of food. There’s blood in the mix as well.

  From my injuries?

  Behind me, the door creaks open. I don’t bother glancing back. I’m too tired to defend myself, and I’ve already accepted the fact that torture will come. If it’s right now, then there’s not much I can do about it.

  Instead, a chair scrapes back. Someone’s taken to watching me.

  “You’re sick.”

  I recognize the voice. It belongs to the general, the man who knows me.

  I’m not surprised he’s come back, but I am surprised at the shift in his temperament. His voice even has a modicum of control to it.

  Experience that I can’t remember tells me not to trust his calmness. There’s always a calm before a storm.

  I reach a hand up to flush the toilet, then drag myself to the wall, leaning my back against it. I’m sweating, either from sickness, like the general mentioned, or my injuries.

  “I hadn’t realized …” the general starts, taking me in. “When you were sick before, we assumed you and my son …” He lets the sentence trail off. His Adam’s apple bobs.

  I try to process all that he is and isn’t saying. Apparently this nausea is more than just fatigue, and the general’s known me long enough to have some insight into this. More surprising, this man who opposes the king is father to a man I was once close to.

  “Will?” I ask, remembering the name he threw out at me yesterday. There’s something downright spooky about learning of a relationship and having no recollection of it.

  The general bows his head and nods.

  I’m afraid to ask what happened to Will. Afraid of what else this man knows about us.

  “You really don’t remember who you are?” he asks.

  I stare at the rings on my left hand. “No.”

  I am a woman unmade. Something of skin and meat and bone and consciousness, but not a person, not in the truest sense. I have no opinions, no past, no identity. It’s been stripped from me. And even here I can feel the wrongness of it.

  “That bastard,” the general whispers.

  I glance up at him. All the earlier heat in his expression is gone. Now he just looks old and defeated.

  He studies me, something like pity softening those hard features. “Our sources believed he’d been working on a memory suppressant. Never thought he’d turn it on you.”

  A memory suppressant. So that’s why I lack an identity. Someone deliberately erased my memory—the king, if the general is to be believed.

  He could be lying. About everything. For all I know this entire situation was concocted for some purpose I’m unaware of.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I’m the former general of the Western United Nations—the WUN.” He says this as though it should ring a bell. It doesn’t.

  “Who am I?” I ask.

  “You were our former emissary.”

  Past tense.

  “But I am no longer?” The cell is proof of that. Still, I want to know what changed between then and now.

  The general rubs his face.

  “No, Serenity,” he sighs out. “No.”

  White whiskers grow along his cheeks and jaw. He doesn’t strike me as a man who forgets to shave. Everything about him screams defeat, despite the fact that once he’s done here, he’ll be the one walking out that door a free man.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  I don’t think he’s going to answer me. I’m stepping out of line, the prisoner asking questions of her captor. But then he does speak. “The WUN surrendered to the Eastern Empire and you were part of the collateral.”

  I furrow my brows. What he says makes no sense.

  “It’s my fault,” he admits, leaning forward in his seat. He threads his hands together and rests them between his legs. “I made the call to give you to King Lazuli.”

  Lazuli, like the stone on my finger. My stomach drops.

  “‘Give’?” He makes it sound as though I was nothing more than a commodity. Little more than what I am now—a means to an end for these people.

  “It was the only way,” the general says. He’s pleading with me, and I can tell this long ago decision cost him. “The king was prepared to rip apart the WUN. You were the only bargaining chip we had, and God, he wanted you so badly. He was willing to give us everything we wanted.”

  Bile rises up in my throat again, and I swallow it back down.

  “Why did he want me?”

  He bows his head, staring at his clasped hands. “You left … quite the impression when you and your father negotiated the terms of our nation’s surrender.”

  “So you gave me to him … in return for peace?” I say, making sense of his words.

  He rubs his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

  Outrage flares up in me. I may not recall this decision, but I had to live through it at some point. This general offered me to our enemy. Never mind that it saved countless other lives. This was the same man I must’ve worked with—whose son I had some sort of relationship with—and yet he threw me to the wolves.

  I stare at my ring as an even more terrifying idea takes form. “I don’t work for the king, do I?”

  The general sighs and meets my eyes. “No, Serenity, you don’t work for the king. You’re married to him.”

  Chapter 3

  Serenity

  Given to the king like a war prize.

  “Do I love him?”

  The general squints at me. “He killed your parents, razed your hometown, and if that sickness is what I suspect it is,” he nods to the toilet, “then you have him to thank for it as well. No, I don’t think you love him, but I do believe he’s poisoned your mind.”

  I frown. This story is getting more and more t
wisted and harder for me to believe. This king sounds like the devil. Yet here I am, prisoner to the very people whose side I once fought on. I have to be missing something. No matter how heartless I might be, one doesn’t go from hate to love or swap loyalties without a good cause.

  “Why would I marry him?”

  “You were forced to.”

  To be married to my parents’ killer … a shudder works its way through me. I may be heartless, but even I don’t deserve that kind of fate.

  “Who are these people?” I glance at the one-way mirror.

  “They’re the last soldiers willing to fight the king. The world is now controlled entirely by him. The Resistance and other grassroots organizations are the only ones that stand in his way. Us and you.”

  Someone knocks on the door, and the general stands.

  He hesitates, then says, “Perhaps it would do to take you outside and show what your husband has done to our world.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I’ve never heard of a prisoner getting that type of privilege.” Not that I’ve heard much of anything since my memory was wiped. It’s a mystery how I know what a typical prisoner’s experience should be, and the source of the knowledge left no maker’s mark.

  “You’re not a typical prisoner,” the general says. “For better or worse, you’re the queen of this entire rock.”

  He pauses at the door. “No one here is going to torture you. Not if I can help it. But the reality of your situation is that your life is no longer in your control.”

  “Was it ever?” I ask, searching his eyes.

  I genuinely want to know. Did I choose to do wrong by these people, or was I forced into it? The distinction matters.

  The general hesitates. “No,” he finally says, “it wasn’t.”

  I find I miss the general once he leaves. I don’t want to miss him. I have no illusions that he likes me, and by the end of our discussion, I’m not so sure I like him all that much either.

  However, he knows me, and he’s been civil enough, which is more than I can say about the rest of my captors.

  I begin moving around the room.

  Blanket, bed, wall, ceiling, floor. Rings, shirt, pants, shoes. The names of each item come without hesitation, but I have no memories to attach to each of them.

  I move onto current events. Here I brush up against a barrier. Part of me wants to say that the world is suffering. Food’s scarce, land’s contaminated, war’s prevalent. I don’t know how much of this is me guessing from the snippets I’ve heard and how much is actual knowledge.

  What year is it? I begin to pin dates to historic events. The 1700s, 1800s, and 1900s are all distinct enough from the present that I can write them off as the past. But the 2000s … my knowledge of this century is muddled, and when I think of 2100s and later, I can’t conjure anything. I actually huff out at a laugh. I’ve narrowed the year down—give or take a century or so.

  I know what people look like, but I can’t picture up anyone I know besides Lieutenant Begbie and the general. My head begins to pound from the effort.

  I don’t have a concussion after all, at least not one responsible for my staggering memory loss. The king did this.

  The king, my husband. A man willing to tear apart the world to satisfy his own need for power, a man who forced me into marriage. This is not a man fit to rule over others. This is not a man fit for anything, really, except a swift, bloody death.

  It’s not until much, much later that anyone returns. By then I’m dozing on the thin mattress. The door to my cell opens, and Lieutenant Begbie enters, followed by a soldier.

  I shiver as I’m roused awake. This type of chill comes from the inside out. I know without looking that my arm wound is worsening.

  “’Morning,” he opens.

  I swing my feet out of bed and bite back a groan. Movement’s agonizing. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and push the pain back. I can lick my wounds later.

  Begbie rounds the interview table in my cell and takes a seat. The table’s bolted to the floor, but the chairs aren’t.

  I’ve already considered everything in this room as a potential weapon. The sheets can choke, the chairs can bludgeon, my pillow can smother. Those types of deaths require intimacy and strength, neither of which I have at the moment. Hence, I’ve taken to assessing the soldiers that come into the room.

  This time they pulled in a greenie to guard the door. I can see it in his jaw; he’s forcing himself to look stoic. The more experienced soldiers don’t have to force anything. They’ve seen and done it all, and if it hasn’t broken their mind or their will, they become a whole new type of lethal, and sometimes they’ll let you see the emptiness in their eyes.

  This soldier’s eyes are not empty, despite all his valiant efforts. I tear my gaze away from him before either he or Begbie notice my interest.

  “We’re in negotiations with the king at the moment,” Begbie says.

  The king. I don’t want any part of his madness.

  I take a seat across from Begbie. “He knows I’m here?”

  “The way I see it, I’m the only one who should be asking questions.”

  Begbie leans back in his seat and folds his arms, getting real comfortable. “There’s a rumor out there that the king is immortal, that he can’t die. We have a clip of the king getting shot in the heart. Another of a grenade clipping him. Both were killing blows, but that fucker is still alive.”

  The general never mentioned this. Despite myself, the hairs on my arms rise. Memory wipe or no, I’m pretty sure immortality is impossible.

  “He’s responsible for the deaths of your friends and family, he’s taken over your country, and he wants you back. If the rumors are true, you do realize there’s no killing him, don’t you? You’ll have to live with him, the man responsible for the death of your countrymen, and he’ll want things from you—sex among them.

  “You’ll continue to be dubbed a traitor, all while sleeping with your parents’ killer. And, frankly, I don’t see any end in sight for you.”

  I’m glaring at Begbie, though my vitriol is not aimed at him. Not really.

  I don’t believe him, however. Not entirely. The king may have killed my family, defeated nations, taken my memory and forced my hand in marriage, but I don’t believe he’s figured out the riddle to immortality.

  I lean forward. “You’re wrong, Lieutenant. Everything can die.”

  Love, hate. Even kings.

  Before he has time to respond, a soldier cracks open the door and leans in. “Get the prisoner ready.”

  Lieutenant Begbie stands. “Put your hands behind your back,” he orders me.

  I could escape now. By the time the lieutenant figured out my motives, it would be too late. I’d steal that gun holstered to his side. I’d gamble the greenie wouldn’t shoot me before I got a chance to fire at him.

  I could do it, there’s a confidence to my assessment and I already know I have the muscle memory. Yet every fiber of my being recoils from the thought. Whatever else, I’m not a monster by design.

  Just necessity.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” Begbie says more forcefully.

  I’ve missed my opportunity.

  I do so, and he cuffs me rougher than needed. I run my tongue over my teeth, clenching my jaw as my raw wrists and my bullet wound sting. It doesn’t help that the lieutenant jerks me up.

  Pain is a warm companion. I must’ve known it quite well before today, whether at the hands of the WUN or the king. Probably both. It seems like they’re two sides of the same coin.

  Begbie and the soldier escort me out of the cell, and I get my first good look at the outside of my prison. More cement walls and fluorescent lights. No windows.

  “Where are we going?”

  No one answers m
e.

  I might be walking to my death. Or to an interrogation chamber, the kind that leaves behind teeth and bloodstains. Now I know why I was so ready to kill, despite my disgust. Being soft doesn’t save you in this place. Power does, fear does, and pain does.

  If I have the chance to act again, I won’t hesitate.

  They march me down the narrow corridor. We make several turns, and I memorize each one. The drabness of this prison doesn’t exactly change, but the atmosphere does. An increasing number of people wander the halls. When their eyes land on me, I see them react. Sometimes it’s just recognition, other times it’s fear or anger or pity.

  They know of me.

  What had I been expecting? I am the king’s wife. Likely a public figure.

  We stop in front of a door, and on the other side I can hear murmurs.

  An execution, then. Torture doesn’t require so many people, I think.

  Only, when they open the door, my presumptions melt away. In front of me rests a camera and a chair, the latter currently occupied by a soldier.

  But that is not what captures my attention.

  At the back of the room is a large screen. My breath catches when my eyes land on it, and suddenly my pulse is in my ears.

  The soldier sitting in front of the camera turns, then stands when he sees us. My guards march me forward and force me into the relinquished seat.

  The entire time I stare at the man whose face takes up the screen.

  I expected an abomination.

  Not this.

  Evil is supposed to be ugly, but he isn’t ugly. In fact, this man—my husband, if my assumption’s correct—is more than just a little pleasing to stare at.

  Unlined, olive skin, dark hair brushed back from his face, a strong, straight nose, eyes that draw you in, and a mouth that promises secrets and slow seduction. Was that why I married him? God, I hope not. I don’t want to know who I was if that were the reason.