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Rats

Anya

I stared at Idris, waiting for him to tell the Lord that I knew nothing, that I was innocent, that I was no more threatening than a field mouse captured in Waldron and set loose in this chamber.

His jaw—dusted with a faint stubble this late in the day—feathered. A crease formed between his brows. He looked as if he were fighting an inner battle—not just weighing options like potential threats but sizing up a real limitation.

His Oath.

I looked to Hammond and Oderin in the audience. They were both stiff, the slightest grimaces pulling on their set mouths as they watched the scene unfold.

Idris wasn’t looking at me; he was still facing the Lord. His blue-green eyes were unwavering, resolute. A tenseness passed over his lips, the faintest flash of a pained frown. Then his expression fell in what I could only interpret as defeat.

“I will not ask again,” the Lord said in a low, scolding register.

No matter how much he cared for me, Idris couldn’t lie. He couldn’t forsake his Oath.

But I was not bound by such limitations.

“I saw a rabid bear,” I blurted, remembering what Idris had insisted after my rescue. “It came from the woods, mouth frothing, and destroyed the wagons—clearly hunger-crazed.” I swallowed, hoping my palpable fear for the Lord’s wrath translated into a convincing show of fear for the memory of the attack. “I cowered under some wreckage and kept my eyes shut. I didn’t open them until Idris found me.”

“I did not ask you,” the Lord said impatiently, scowling at Idris. “I asked one of my loyal knights. Whom I will remind now that it is not just his duty but his brother’s that will be impacted if he does not speak .”

What the fuck did that mean?

A chair groaned, drawing attention to Hammond rising from his seat. “My Lord,” he said, confusion furrowing his features. “Please excuse my ignorance, but what does a bear attacking the caravan have to do with the vision in Remy Merchold’s Mirror of Death? It seems to me that—”

“I have been clear!” Lord Haron screeched, starling everyone in the chamber. “About whose opinion I have sought! And it is not yours, Mirror Knight!”

Hammond sank into his seat once again, his cheeks bright pink.

Was Hammond—a respected Knight of the Order of the Mirrors—truly not privy to that which we spoke? Fates , no wonder Idris was always so tongue-tied. The monsters truly were a hard-kept secret.

No wonder the Lord seemed to want to use my Mirror Crime to condemn me—to silence me. I shook my head disbelievingly; the back of my nose stung. This clearly wasn’t going to end well.

“I did find her cowering, eyes shut,” Idris said.

The Lord pursed his lips with thinly veiled fury over Idris’s vague statements. He waited, obviously intent on not asking again.

Silence filled the hall. Oderin and Hammond sat uselessly. A squire near the Lord shifted uncomfortably on her feet. The Royal Guards framing the Lord were motionless, save for their eyes, which danced from me to Idris to the Lord and back. The Lord himself was still scowling, those thin lips of his pale from being screwed up so tightly.

Finally, Idris regarded me. His eyes were impossibly soft— pitying —as they roved over my face. Our gazes waged a silent war. Of pleading. Of powerlessness. Of regret.

When he broke our stare and faced the Lord of Fenrir once more, I knew that Idris was about to betray me.

“She knows of that which I cannot speak,” Idris ground out.

Even though I saw it coming, I gaped at him, open-mouthed. Hot tears streaked down my cheeks, my body giving into fear even as my mind hung on Idris’s words, not believing that he’d really said them aloud.

The Lord clapped his hands. “Well, that settles it! Take her away.”

Panic seized me just before the guards did. “Wait!” I shouted, desperate now. “Wait, I’m innocent! Tell them, Idris!”

But Idris had stepped back. Surely his Oath did not prevent him from arguing, for fighting for me? Yet he was allowing this to happen.

I bucked against my captors’ holds, their fingers pinching my arms, bruising my skin as they held me firm. “I know nothing! I know nothing!”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lord Haron said innocently. “You are being sentenced for the murder of Remy Merchold. By the law of Fenrir Territory, what you know has nothing to do with—”

“But my Fate isn’t yet fixed!” I argued. “It can still change!”

Idris didn’t even flinch at my desperation; ice filled my veins at the sight of his blank expression. He’d shown up in my Mirror of Death, and yet by some cruel double standard, he was untouchable by the very thing that would ruin my life.

“This isn’t fair!” I shouted as the guards dragged me toward the door. I wrenched one arm free and pointed at Idris. “My Fate could be warped, same as his! I’m—”

The Lord laughed. The sound was so cruelly amused that I broke off.

“No, no, go on,” the Lord prompted. “Please, by all means, give us all further proof that you know far more than you ought. Dig a deeper hole for the knight, too.”

My vision blurred with tears. I heard the squeal of chairs across marble, of Oderin and Hammond speaking over each other, imploring the Lord to reconsider. But I was focused on Idris’s form; he looked like an immobile black smudge to my eyes. No better than a statue. “Idris…” I cried pitifully.

He didn’t move or speak.

I kicked my feet and flailed my arms. I screamed at the top of my lungs, my vocal cords burning with strain. Finally, a guard smothered my mouth with a rough palm, his hand tasting of sweat and metal, but I continued to shriek into it until I grew hoarse. My heels dragged on the marble as I was yanked through patches of dull, multicolored light coming in from the stained-glass windows. The last thing I saw as I was carried away was Idris, still in the chamber, standing with his back to me.

Hours later, I sat on the floor of an empty stone cell far underground. No light permeated the darkness, save for the single lantern hanging at the top of the stairs, a flame that caused a faint silvering of the edges of my iron bars. The dungeon reeked of urine. I heard the scuttling of rodents, the trickle of moisture, and the faint echoes of other prisoners in the deeper depths of the underground tunnels.

My throat was still raw from all the screaming, my ears still rang from the sound of my own terror, and the skin underneath my eyes stung with the dried salt of my tears. I felt hollow, alone.

How could the trial have gone so wrong? I’d had references. I’d had a knight on my side. I’d done nothing wrong ! And yet, just by witnessing a monster, I was doomed? What of the people of Brine who’d fought a similar foe? Would the Lord send out a regiment to collect them, too? Was the secret of the monsters’ existence really worth such trouble to contain? Was it not better to alert the vulnerable towns of Fenrir of the imposing threat, rather than keep them in the dark?

And Remy .

Fates , did I hate him in this moment. His cowardice. His selfishness. Of all the people who could’ve absolved me from this mess, it would’ve been him. He could’ve easily written me a character reference—and he hadn’t. Because, deep down, he’d thought me capable of killing him; he’d thought himself worthy of such vile jealousy, that I’d rather see him dead than be with anyone else. It was laughable how highly he thought of himself; it was shameful how oblivious I’d been to his low opinion of me.

Even so, I didn’t know why I’d used the word “was” with regard to Remy in front of the Lord. A slip of the tongue, perhaps, as his role in my life was now firmly in the past. But then I’d blabbered about his presence the night of the attack. I’d been shocked to hear that he hadn’t returned home—seeing as he’d run off into the woods—but perhaps in the chaos the monster had found him, after all. Or perhaps he ran out on his wife and daughter, too, escaping Fenrir altogether to start anew in a different territory.

No matter what had happened to Remy, I hadn’t murdered him. But now, it seemed too late to convince the Lord of that fact. Short of locating Remy—which would be nearly impossible if he’d fled and truly impossible if he was dead—there was nothing I could do. Nothing I could’ve done.

Which brought my thoughts back to Idris.

He’d simply…stood there. Watching. Frozen as they took me away. His face had been void of emotion, and it was his lack of expression that hurt the most, a blade of betrayal shoved into my side. Even Hammond and Oderin had eventually risen from their seats, arguing with the Lord—but it was Idris’s name I’d called, and it was Idris who had turned away, not answering.

Just the thought of him now was a twist to the phantom blade; the pain of it was so visceral that I gasped. The pitiful sound repeated as it echoed off the walls of my cell.

Logically, I knew he was bound by Oath not to lie to the Lord. All knights were. But could he not have spoken about my character? Could he not have insisted that, though I knew too much of the monsters, I could be trusted not to mention them? Could Idris not have done more to curb my sentencing?

In truth, I had no idea. Because I didn’t really know him, did I? Not when his Oath withheld so much of him from me.

And what did a sentence even mean? The Lord had not been specific about my outcome. Would it be dungeon or death? Or could it be…an Oath of my own?

I considered what I’d read in the book on Oderin’s desk. Had Idris’s Oath been a criminal sentence? Was that why he wouldn’t— couldn’t —forsake his Oath to save my Fate? Because he didn’t have a choice? The thought comforted me over the alternative: that he’d actively chosen his Oath over me, betraying me in the process.

The problem was: I couldn’t tell which possibility was reality. This was damning in and of itself. Proof that the connection we’d forged had been built on an uneven foundation, destined to crumble. I couldn’t trust him as I’d thought. As I’d hoped .

The Mirror of Death had been right, after all. Not in method, but in action. Idris would be the death of me—by trial rather than by drowning, but still. Rather than making excuses for him and giving him the benefit of the doubt, I should’ve listened to that voice in my head: the one that’d told me I was a fool for falling for him.

Because now…now I was here.

Would I ever see Waldron-on-Wend again? Would I ever see another sunrise over Stone Hill? Would I ever sink my fingers into Wicker’s soft fur again? Hear Hattie’s laugh again? Serve another customer in the Possum, or plan another festival, or celebrate another Astrophel? Was this truly my legacy—my Fate? To be carted off to the capital, never to return home?

I’d thought myself fully out of tears hours ago, yet new ones began to fall, searing my cheeks. A soft wail slipped through my lips, and I hugged my knees closer, bowing my head, holding myself in the loneliest embrace.

If I could pick up a weapon and fight my current reality—fight it to the death—I would. But I was unarmed.

Another while later, the low register of men’s voices permeated the door at the top of the stairs. I lifted my head from my knees, a pitiful part of me hoping it was Idris coming to explain, to set me free.

The conversation grew louder as the door was unlocked, light spilling down the dusty steps and into the long hall of cells. I used my magic to pluck out the tonal differences of the voices, to identify the speakers. There were two I recognized from being deposited here: the dungeon guards.

And then there was Hammond.

“Thank you,” I heard him say, his pitch hitting the walls of the dungeon such that I could picture him already turning from the guards, approaching the stairs.

I crawled over to the iron bars at the front of my cell in time to see him lift the lantern off its hook. Then he and the light were descending, warming me with their presence.

“Anya?” he called—too loudly.

A terrifying cacophony of shouts erupted up from the dungeon’s depths. I was located on what seemed to be the first level, a holding cell not far from the base of the stairs; I was alone in this block. Past my cell and into the darkness, another, narrower set of stairs descended. It was from there that the grotesque sounds rose, like a cruel and tortured beast lurking. Their cries made me shiver.

“Anya?” Hammond repeated, quieter as he reached the landing.

“Over here,” I rasped.

He blinked and lifted the lantern a little higher, its brightness making me squint. When he spotted me, he rushed over to my barred door, his forehead furrowed with a mix of horror and sympathy.

He lowered to his knees and extended a hand inside.

I took it, relishing the simple kindness of his touch.

“I came to make sure you were all right,” Hammond said.

“How can I be all right?” I croaked. “Look where I am.”

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” Hammond said. “After you were taken away, Oderin and I tried to appeal, but…” He shook his head.

“What of Idris?” I asked, unable to help myself.

“We were asked to leave, but it sounded like he got a good dressing down from the Lord.”

“That’s all?”

Hammond frowned. “Knighthood is a serious business, Anya. There are tenets we can’t challenge.”

“He betrayed me.”

“I don’t know which Order he serves,” Hammond said delicately, clearly circumventing his own limitations. “But if it’s the one I’m guessing…then his betrayal isn’t as straightforward as you might think.”

“Best case scenario, I waste away in this dungeon until rats consume me,” I said sharply. “Fates forbid I die by the hands of them.” I pointed toward the second stairway, leading to the lower levels. “And you tell me his betrayal isn’t straightforward ? Complicated or not, it does not matter to me when my life is over.”

“You do not yet know your sentence,” Hammond said. “That’s the other reason I’m here. I came to…well, I came to offer you some advice.”

I huffed a dejected laugh. “Unless it gets me out of here, I don’t see how—”

“That’s just it,” he insisted, gripping my hand tighter. “It might.”