The screams that had filled the evening air finally drew to a close. It was hard to tell where they had come from, but they were not far. Had the victim found aid? Or were they dead? In any case, Sharn wondered how long the silence would last. It had been nearly a week since the Shadowlord had claimed Del, but the skies were still filled with inhuman cries, and the laughter of looters carried high above the walls.
Sharn sat perched on the edge of the hard and narrow bed that she now called her own. A book lay flipped open on the bedside table. Who had it belonged to? Had Jarred put it aside before he went to sleep that final night? Or had Anna picked it up as she waited for her husband to return from the palace, desperate for a distraction from her fears? Sharn could not bear to close it. Horror and guilt prickled at her skin like the points of sewing needles. Anna's clothes, uncomfortably tight against Sharn's longer limbs, smelled of the woman's skin and sweat. Mine, mine, mine, the cottage seemed to breathe.
Supper had been a quiet affair, as it had been each of the five nights they had spent in the Forge. The pantry was poorly stocked, a testament to the city's poverty, and neither she nor Endon had ever prepared their own meals. They had mostly sustained themselves upon hard cheese and increasingly stale bread. The palace guard, Barda, did not always sit with them for meals, but when he did, he ate only at Sharn's utmost insistence. They had just eaten, and Sharn knew she should be full, but the meagre meal had done nothing to satisfy her, nor the baby who seemed more eager to join them with every passing day. She sat on the edge of the bed, at a loss. The warmth of the blankets called to her. It was too early to sleep, but what else was there to do?
Barda dozed in a chair in the corner of the little room, untroubled by the noises of the streets. He slept often, and when he woke he spoke only of his failures. Sharn wished she could comfort the man, but did not know how. She knew how he suffered; every day she awoke to thoughts of her parents; her sisters; her friends. How had they died? Had they felt much pain, or had their deaths been swift? She had been too shocked to mourn them properly the first two nights in the Forge, but on the third she had sobbed out her broken heart into her pillow.
Now, there was nothing for them to do, but sleep and eat and grieve, for stepping outside would surely mean their deaths.
Endon stood in the kitchen, a hunched and lonesome figure. He scrubbed at the supper dishes with a ragged cloth, well away from the window. When he had finished, he set his cloth down and stepped away; Sharn watched him closely. He walked gingerly through the cottage, as if he did not belong. He met her eyes as he crouched by the cold fire place.
"I wish I could light it for you," he said miserably. "But I do not know how."
"It is warm enough already," she promised him, soft enough to not disturb Barda.
Endon shook his head and wandered aimlessly to the opposing shelf. He trailed his fingers lightly against the worn spines of books, and paused to smell a pot of little white flowers that sat on the shelf. His lips twitched in a half-smile. Curiosity had clearly bested his hesitance, for he then pulled a battered tin box from the shelf. Sharn watched with some interest as he opened it with a frown. He pulled out a small roll of paper; thick and creamy, in great contrast to the shabbiness of the Forge. The design of the paper made Sharn's heart yearn for home. Endon unfurled the paper, and froze, his face twisted with anguish.
"Endon?" Sharn exclaimed anxiously, and hurried to his side. She pulled the paper from his hand as he clasped the box to his chest. A small sob escaped his lips.
The King thanks you for your message, Sharn read with growing dread. He will attend to your request when time allows. Endon.
"I did not write this," he whispered. His face was bloodless.
"I know," Sharn told him.
"I did not," he repeated, hollow with shock, as if she had not spoken. His hands trembled, and she gently pulled the box from his hands. She looked quickly inside: the letters were more of the same, signed in different names. She shut it tight and set it back down.
Oh, Endon. My good, gentle husband. This is not what you deserve.
She could sympathize with his guilt. While she had eaten sweets and danced and laughed, the people, her people, had starved and suffered. But Endon had spent his whole life knowing that Deltora would one day be his to protect. She would never be able to truly comprehend his pain.
"It was Prandine who did this, who else could have penned such lies?" She said firmly. "There was nothing you could have done, my love."
"It does not matter," Endon's face was a mask of bitter sorrow. "I have failed my people. I should have listened to Jarred, when I first had the chance. I have failed him, too."
Sharn remembered the very first time she had heard Endon speak of Jarred. She had entered their bedroom in the palace, only to find her husband in deep discussion with Prandine.
"Good evening, your majesty," Prandine always smiled like he was laughing at the person he spoke to. He shuffled his papers into a neat pile. "I am sorry to still be here at such a late hour. The king and I were just discussing some matters of the treasury, which I am sure you would find tiresome. I shall take my leave."
"Yes," Sharn laughed; a light and charming sound. She pushed aside the anger and shame that churned in her stomach. "I have never had much of a head for numbers."
Prandine gave her a shallow bow, and shut the door behind him.
Sharn watched him leave, and turned back to Endon, who was staring at her curiously. "Why did you always do that?"He asked.
"What do you mean?" She responded carefully. It had not been so long since they had been married, and Sharn did not yet know what kind of man her husband was.
"You act… differently around him," Endon frowned, searching for the right words. "It is as if you are someone else."
Sharn tilted her head. She thought, for a moment, of lying, but did not know what she would say. Endon's face was open and understanding, and it made her want to tell the truth. "There is something about him… I do not like him. I do not want him to think that he knows me."
Endon said nothing, but a strange shadow passed over his face. Sharn wondered if she had said too much. Finally, he looked at her with an odd smile upon his face. "I had a friend once, who thought as you did."
Sharn held her tongue. She had heard of Endon's ill-fated friendship with Jarred; a bond that had nearly ended with his murder. Gossip and rumours moved swiftly within the palace walls.
"I must tell you, I have no love for Prandine," Endon admitted quietly. "But it does not matter. I owe him everything, and I must trust him."
Sharn nodded, although she had not agreed. Still, the smile she gave him was real. Until then, the only thing they shared had been their bed. But Endon had never been so open with her before, and it was that day that she began to realize that perhaps her feelings towards his had risen beyond what had been required.
Endon's words may have held some truth; he should have listened to Jarred. But Sharn knew that there was no blame to be laid upon him, and wished dearly that she could make him see the same way.
And now, Sharn thought, as she took his hand and clasped it above her heart— Now we all know what was truth, and what was fiction. Now, Prandine is dead— and by my hands.
"No, Endon," Sharn told him firmly. She placed her free hand upon his cheek, and guided his face so that their eyes met. His skin was so soft against her hand. "He would not have done this for us if that were so. He has faith in you, still. As do I."
Some of the pain seemed to fade from Endon's haggard eyes; at her words, at her touch. He raised his other hand so that it pressed against hers; his fingers were like ice, but they warmed against her skin. Sharn heard Barda stir, but she did not look away from Endon.
They would have to do what they must to survive. They would have to learn to be stronger. And they would.
Down the street, the screams rose once more.