More footsteps interrupted my contemplation. I put on my stormiest expression and stance for my visitor, in hopes it would convey my mood. It turned out to be another knight, probably of the ones who accompanied me in the morning, and he didn’t so much as glance at me. Soundlessly, he gestured at me to follow, and I gladly left that dust-hole of a room. With new annoyance, I discovered this knight was also handsome and quite young. Darsan was not lying when he said the Prince favored the young and beautiful: I now suspected he’d picked his knights aesthetically. That was a new pathetic low.

  Handsome the Second led me through another maze of now candle-lit corridors, where I saw more overturned paintings and shattered windows. Mist drowsily pervaded and ensconced into the hallways and rooms, its ghost-white tentacles like that of a sluggish, lonesome creature. Candle-lit was an overstatement: the candles were scarce, and half of their flames flickered weakly. Barely any light lifted the heavy dusk. There was not enough of it to discard the creeping chill in those corridors.

  When we reached our destination—a high-ceiling dining room with a large, overlong table—I was surprised to find the iron-rimmed chairs on both sides of the table were filled with knights. My companion ushered me to the chair on the low end and headed for his place, taking the empty spot on my left. None of them ate. They sat in perfect silence, leaning back in their chairs with their eyes closed and… waiting.

  I nodded to myself. At last, I found a tribe as mad as I. It felt like home already. Unfortunately, there were no women here. The thought ran fleetingly through my mind as I skimmed over the dozen formally dressed knights, and then over the lavishly set table and the empty ornate chair across from me. There weren’t any female servants, no maids, and no princesses. It shouldn’t have shocked me as much. No self-respecting woman would tolerate dwelling in such a den of darkness, even if some of its inhabitants were pleasing to the eye.

  At least candlelight flickered somewhat more abundantly at the well-endowed royal table. The iron chandelier above me was only half-lit, the poor light outlining the arched, gothic stained glass of the windows with contours of endless shadows. Here it was colder, with no curtains or rugs to absorb the cool from the stone. There was something inconsolable about the space, painfully bare and stark.

  Suddenly, the double door opened and from the other side entered the Prince, dragging his black cloak behind. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if the cloak weighed heavily and hindered his movements. All knight rose to their feet, just as grim and hard as him, and faced their sovereign.

  Here comes the codger. Plastering a tight smile on my lips, I crossed my legs and relaxed in my chair instead of rising to my feet. Despots didn’t deserve my respect, be it physical or verbal. After everything he’d done to these lands and its people, and his audacity to confine me in a dusty, narrow room, he still expected me to stand up and greet him?

  The Prince took in my relaxed posture and furrowed with indignation. Still, he did not comment on it as he sat, and his knights sat down after him. Then, at last, dinner began, after he nodded with affirmation. Great, I thought with relief and grabbed my fork. I stuck at a sauce-dripping bite of what looked like a stew with sweet potatoes and several varieties of mushrooms, and opened my mouth—

  “You don’t look very young,” the Prince said. I bristled, dropping the morsel back to the plate.

  “Good evening to you, too.” None of them was even remotely interested in the satiric tone of my voice. “Your gorgeous knight right there already pointed out his concern with my age,” I added begrudgingly.

  Darsan gave no indication that he planned to involve himself in this conversation, munching on his venison in calm silence, just like everyone else at the table. If I hadn’t heard him speak earlier today, I would’ve thought he was a decoration. They did all look a bit doll-like. Beautiful and likely bound to serve, like puppets on strings.

  “Then he must have also pointed out that I prefer younger,” the Prince went on, calmly.

  “I am young enough,” I gritted my teeth.

  He examined my features carefully, his wrists at both sides of his plate, “You look as weary with age as myself.”

  “It’s because of my hard nomad life!”

  I didn’t look that bad. Certainly not as bad as he did. How dare he compare me to himself? He didn’t even look that old, either. Now, in this hall, under the warmer light. And I didn’t have a single silver hair on my head or anywhere over my face, unlike him.

  With a scoff, I grabbed my fork again and rejoined the feast. If it could be even called that. Feast suggested revelry, which was grotesquely lacking here. “You forget, Prince, that I came here by my own will. Shouldn’t you be grateful your troubles sort themselves out in such a convenient way instead of insulting me? Stirring villages is nothing to me. I would’ve turned your kingdom upside down and made it a never-ending festival if I hadn’t let your knights find and take me.”

  The Prince was unimpressed, sipping from his goblet with the same poise and boredom as before. “Tell me about your parents,” he commanded.

  I blinked at him, then at the knights. What was going on with this kingdom? What did parents have to do with sacrifice? If I played around it, then he would likely give away more. Smiling, I said: “Look, if you’re trying to uncover the size of my dowry, I can only say you must prepare to be dazzled and amazed.”

  He gave me another bleak look. “No wealthy woman with promising marriage prospects would offer herself as sacrifice. Not one as old as you.”

  Somewhere inside the vacant halls of my mind I screamed.

  “Right,” I said, in a mysteriously blank voice. It piqued his interest, despite that he held on to his ridiculously stoic appearance. Perhaps he was playing hard to get because his knights were present. Quickly, he looked me up and down.

  “Well? Are you rich?” His annoyed voice held a heavy demand, like he was ready to put up with my shenanigans just to get personal information of any kind. What purpose did personal information serve him if he was going to cut me up or throw me into the fire?

  He watched as I pulled out a purse out of my inner pocket. The motion captured Darsan’s attention too: he paused eating and tensed as if suspecting I meant some sort of harm. With a single glance his way, I untied the purse and turned it upside down in the intense quiet. A single chipped bronze coin rolled out and clinked against my glass before it fell flat on the blood-red tablecloth. I looked up again, pleased with this presentation.

  The Prince seemed like he might cry in my stead. “Aren’t Jews usually wealthy and prosperous in all the tales and fables?”

  “I’m unique,” I said.

  “Do you think being a pathetic buffoon will save your life somehow?”

  Woah, rude. “Do you think being a pompous ruffian makes you less ugly?” This time, I felt several of the knights give me a sidelong glance.

  “At least I’m not poor,” he retorted, voice oddly spirited. There, I rejoiced. A remnant of ardor, at last. Stifled down significantly, but certainly present.

  “Your Highness will have to define poorness,” I raised my voice. “Freedom is my treasure, and I am the richest woman in the world. Well—I was, before you ensnared me in your blasted spell and I realized I couldn’t leave.”

  The Prince was quiet, his ringed fingers pulling apart some meat from a chicken’s drumstick. I frowned at the loaded silence. The spark of anger extinguished as quickly as it had appeared, like he shut the gates for it at the moment it formed.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  I prodded, “What do you spend your wealth on, then, rich man? Expensive black dye for your endless drab cape? Keep sacrificing people, and eventually there will be no one left to make it for you in this kingdom.”

  “Are you an orphan?” he asked, in the same flat and bored tone from before.

  “What if I am?”

  “Answer me,” he snapped, looking up at me. “Now.”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Any siblings?”

  “A sister.”

  “Are you close?”

  “Not anymore.”

  If he had any idea I was making it all up, I couldn’t tell. It seemed like he only needed some information, and wasn’t particularly concerned with whether it was the pure truth or not. The idea intrigued me.

  “Don’t you want to know what I eat for breakfast and how many holes are there in my stockings as well?”

  “Would you have preferred to be close with your sister?” the Prince asked, ignoring my quip. “And to have known your parents better?”

  My brows shot up. That wasn’t just plain interrogation. He was trying to peek into my mind. “Naturally,” I said, distracted.

  At that, he nodded, with something like confirmation to himself. “Describe their appearance to me in detail.”

  I pursed my lips to keep from laughing. It was such a relief to me—perhaps due to my recent experience of being locked up—that he couldn’t tell I was lying. Triumph rose in my chest, for I was free once more.

  “Oh, my sister, she’s gorgeous! Luscious forms, eyes large and blue like midnight, and lips red as aged wine. Much like my mother. But their hair is a dull brown, unlike mine and father’s. I have my coal-black curls from him.” This ridiculous description sufficed, and furthered my amusement. The Prince soaked everything in, and his face brightened a little at my easy cooperation. I must have frightened him with my difficult drolleries and shocking bravado previously.

  “What about the clothes they usually wore?”

  “Oh, plain villager clothes, sire,” I waved indefinitely. “We were quite poor. Linen and wool. Me and my sister wore mother’s dresses, and if they wore out, we patched them up.”

  “Any particular colors?”

  How about I slap you? I almost said it, the spiteful urge nipping at my tongue. The questions he asked were getting on my nerves and keeping my smile intact was turning harder. Poking and examining my mind like I was some sort of trapped mouse to play with.

  Now… I was the most imaginative person I knew. Yet I failed to understand why he would require such information. It wasn’t like he could find and hurt my supposed family, even if I hadn’t lied to him. If he was interested in them out of courtesy, knowing the color of their clothes wouldn’t have been necessary. It was absurdly specific.

  Asking out of curiosity did not fit the picture either. Since he planned to sacrifice me, I wouldn’t think he’d interrogate me in such elaborate detail just to make me feel better two days before my death. He didn’t look the type for warm compassion. Especially when he made sacrifices in the first place.

  “What colors did they wear?” he pushed impatiently.

  “Soft woad blues for me, my sister, and mother,” I said, holding his gaze. “And bark brown for my father.”

  “Describe the home you lived in,” the Prince gave another demand as he resumed dining.

  I bit the inside of my cheek. The continuous clinks and clanks of his knights banqueting sent a cold shiver down my spine. “Is that how you treated your other eleven guests before me? Locking them in dusty cellars and bombarding them with odd questions?”

  Darsan, surprisingly, looked up from his plate. “My lord is as hospitable to you as he was to all the others.”

  “Not too hospitable, then,” I murmured. “No special treatment for me—”

  “None has volunteered to be the sacrifice instead of others before,” the Prince interrupted, his eyes fixing on me with wild intensity. The sensation was not pleasant at all, I felt as if a snake was sinking its fangs in me. “You are only special in that sense. Nothing else.”

  “What do you plan to do to me?” I asked, knowing full well my questions disturbed him. If he wanted me to shut up, he’d have to gag me.

  The Prince exhaled very slowly, refocusing on the food. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said, curtly. And then added, anger resonating from his words clearly, “Now, stop diverting the subject matter and tell me about your home.”

  Doesn’t hurt? Was that all he was going to give me? And the way he talked… like the lack of apparent signs of terror and obedience in me, in his presence, was outrageous. If I were to make a wild assumption, it was that my eleven predecessors have been terrified and obedient, and my behavior was subverting the smooth pattern.

  I was still feeling spiteful and considered whether to just throw something at him and bolt outside the door. Given the way they locked me up today, I imagined they would lock me up again, until my third night. When was I to explore this strange castle otherwise? I didn’t expect any of the previous sacrifices to be alive, but maybe I could find something else that would be helpful. Whatever curse was hanging over this kingdom, it originated from somewhere between these walls.

  But the knights… were ever so subtly watchful of every move I made and every word I uttered. Unnaturally so. “By the way, you promised a dinner with yourself only, my lord,” I threw in, munching on the meat. Ignoring his description-of-my-home request once again was sure to make him livid. At least I could take comfort in that. “Any reason why all your slaves have joined us as well?”

  “They’re…” the Prince began, but his breath tumbled in several coughs. The knights, again eerily synchronized, looked up at him with pointed attention until he stopped coughing.

  I blenched at a new sound: something large and made of glass shattered next door. As if a hanging chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell.

  “Years ago, each of us chose to stay and serve the Prince. We are loyal knights to His Majesty. And we are not robbed of free will, as you suggest,” Darsan explained morosely.

  “My God, of course you aren’t,” I was on the verge of hysteria. “It was a jest! Anyone who has eyes and ears can tell you aren’t slaves.” Something was seriously wrong with those people. They didn’t even understand jesting. And what happened with their Prince? He looked nauseous and tired after his coughing fit. Once again, he was leaning against his head, eyes closed as if fighting headache. Was he sick? With how dark and dirty the castle was, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve already breathed enough dust in my lungs for a lifetime myself.

  He straightened up, attempting to resume his dinner. “Your home, Sarai?” the Prince reminded me, voice a little humbler and quieter. It didn’t strike me the first time he said it in the throne room, but now my name resounded purposefully from his lips. Plainly to beguile me, or maybe just weave me into his foul spell, I couldn’t tell.

  “My family lived in a cottage,” I said, simply. “Thatched straw for a roof, weathered timber walls, with the door always hanging slightly askew.”

  “Any windows?”

  I took a deep breath. “One, in the kitchen. It had a wooden shutter and my sister broke one of the handles, so father had to fix it with a new one. But the new one was birch, and the handles ended up in two different colors. I always found that endearing.”

  The Prince looked at his plate, with a somewhat daydream-look in his eye. “What was your village like? Did you have a favorite place?”

  I swallowed thickly. My elaborate lies were beginning to even bother me now. At this point, I could write down a long fable on paper and have it copied by monks. Surely, people would love to read a jester’s fantasies, just as much as they loved listening to them.

  “Favorite place? That would be the river bank,” I announced, convincingly. Goodness, I would have to keep track of all my fabrications. The web of them expanded dangerously. My capacity for memorizing tall tales would carry me so far.

  To my grievance, the Prince interrogated me for another quarter of an hour, requesting painstaking specifics of bizarre items and places of my personal life: my sister’s hair brush, my mother’s kitchen ladle, my father’s wood-chopping axe, the blankets on my bed, the faces of my neighbors, the forest outside my village.

  Then he asked about my relationships with my family, my friends, and the rest of the villagers—and even of the people’s common manner of speech. And he listened to everything I invented for him, with precision and patience.

  Gladly, he believed every single part of it. Or at least he seemed unwilling to verify its truth, as long as I provided something. Even with a fictional story, I still felt uneasy on my way out of the dining room a little later, this time accompanied by four knights (which thwarthed my chances of running off, unfortunately).

  My unease lifted rather quickly when Handsome the Sixth pushed me into a room and locked the door behind my back, exchanging it with a burning irritation. And when I saw they had relocated me to a new room, the irritation vanished. It was a larger room, with a library, a canopied bed, a trough with steaming water, and an old wardrobe. To my further surprise, I also had lit-up candelabras.

  Well, that was a welcome improvement. Though I didn’t want to ask who had warmed the water. Perhaps there were servants after all and the knights and the Prince weren’t the castle’s only occupants. Also, I chose not to question the broken, jutting bed beams of the bed, which was currently crooked to the side. Or why one wardrobe door was open and the other closed.

  Honestly, I did not care much. When you travel on the road for as long as I did and sleep at all sorts of places, you sometimes engage with bandits who just want to gut you like a fish and steal your coins (one coin in my case), and a little ominous doesn’t bother you.

  With a tired sigh, I flung myself on the bed—and its left-side legs came crashing down, sending me rolling on the floor.