Execution

Artemisia eventually did tip back that glass of brown liquor after he finished his explanation.

"I can't even wrap my head around this," she said, "I was raised on the idea of an afterlife, but not anything like this."

Hoggle tilted the bottle to refill her glass again.

"It's not really an afterlife," he said, "I mean, yeah, you continued your life here after it ended there. But it's different. You're still mortal here, you just don't age as fast."

"So how does that work," Artemisia asked, "Aging? Callie was a child when she came here fourteen years ago and now she's a grown woman. And considering how long I've been here, I should look significantly older than her."

"Children still grow up," Hoggle explained, "But but it slows down when they become adults. Callie will probably look much the same even fifty years from now."

Artemisia raised her eyebrows and shrugged as she took a sip from her glass.

"Well, that's not such a bad thing, I suppose," she said.

She allowed a hush to fall between them momentarily before asking a burning question.

"Do you remember what brought you here?"

He lifted his eyes up to meet hers. Even though he had certainly imbibed quite a lot more than her, his expression maintained its sobriety.

"My country go involved in a long, pointless war. 'The war to end all wars': that's what they called it. It ruined almost every nation that got involved. But ours got the brunt of it. We went through years of hardship until a leader rose up, promisin' to fix everything. And he did. He turned it all around." Hoggle took another sip from his glass.

"But then they started roundin' people up. All the undesirables: Jews, gypsies, criminals, homosexuals…" His eyes flickered up at Artemisia briefly. "They put us in camps, made us do hard labor, and anyone who couldn't, they were done away with. I don't remember exactly what took me out, but it was either that or one of the sicknesses goin' 'round. I only wish it had happened sooner. The memories I have of that place…" He tipped back his glass and swallowed its remainder.

"What 'bout you?" he asked.

"Surprisingly similar circumstances," she answered, "I had traveled to a new city with my sword master, and he had me disguise myself as a boy to keep a low profile. I passed easily for a boy, but I was still effeminate enough to have people whispering about the nature of our relationship. It was all just really bad timing. There was a monk gaining significant influence over the city, and he was currently on a crusade against the sodomites. When we were accused, I revealed myself to be a woman to get my master off the hook, but because we both frequented the local brothels, it only further incriminated me. I can't remember anything after that, but I can only assume they burned me at the stake. That's how they usually dealt with us sodomites."

"And Sarah's daughter…" he said, "is she…?"

Artemisia shrugged. "I would assume so," she said, "We started seeing each other a while ago, and I can say with all honesty that she pursued me just as much as I pursued her."

"Then why are you trying to send her home?" he asked.

Artemisia went quiet as she was reminded of the true reason behind her visit.

"I have to get her away from the King," she said, "He's been… hurting her."

Hoggle's expression went still and deadly serious.

"Hurtin' her how?" he asked.

"He has forced her into… concubinage," Artemisia told him, "Next, he intends to force her into marriage."

Hoggle went quiet, staring down at his glass, rubbing between his eyes with his fingers.

"That rat…" he said, "He clearly always had a thing for Sarah. He even acted jealous of me when we became friends. Can you believe it? Him, jealous of me! But I didn't think he would be that way with her kid too…"

"That is why I need your help," Artemisia explained, "I can't just leave her there with him. He will destroy her."

Hoggle sighed and scratched his head, then looked very intently up at Artemisia.

"Look, I can't send her home," he said, "but if you can somehow get her here unnoticed, I can let you both stay as long as you need until you figure something out."

Artemisia reached across the table and took hold of his hand, squeezing it tightly.

"Thank you, Hoggle," she said, "I can't tell you how much help that would be."

The first half of dinner consisted of the two of them sitting together in silence, the tension thick in the air like smoke. After the King's disturbing revelation, Callie could not take her mind off of it, spending the whole day sewing little beaded fireflies to her dress. A firefly… Now it all made sense.

She did not change out of her dress after the incident, even though it was torn and smeared with dirt and dust. She kept it on partially just to spite him and partially because she didn't have the energy to deal with any prying maid asking about the bruises that were surely underneath. The only thing she could do from the time she left the library to the time she sat down with him for dinner was channel all of her rage and grief into finishing her dress.

After the silence became too heavy, the King finally spoke.

"I must apologize for earlier," he said, "I told you I would treat you with more respect now that you're carrying my child, and I broke my word. I'm sorry."

It wasn't what Callie expected to hear. He wasn't one to demonstrate contrition or humility, but his words rang hollow all the same. They struck her as more of an attempt to preserve his own integrity than an actual apology.

"I just want to know if it was all worth it," Callie replied in a low, calm voice. "Watching a grown man do that to a little girl… Was it worth it? Do you have everything you've always wanted now?"

He paused a moment before speaking. "I have seen worse happen to girls a lot younger," he replied.

"I bet you didn't intervene then, either," she sniped.

"I am not permitted to interfere in the affairs of mortals without invitation," he told her.

"No," she replied, "You can only take advantage of them once it's worked out in your favor."

"Yes."

"Then I ask again: was it worth it?"

He propped his elbow on the table and leaned his face against his palm, drumming the fingers of his other hand against the table's surface.

"And what if I were to say that it was?" he asked.

She flashed her eyes up at him to study his face. "Then I would say you still look pretty miserable for a man who has everything."

"I said it was worth it," he told her, "I didn't say I have everything. I have a consolation prize, which is better than nothing, but it still isn't everything."

"Am I really that much of a consolation to you?" she asked incredulously.

A smirk crossed over his lips. "In some ways, yes," he said, "Though much more so last week when you were still behaving yourself."

"Really? I got the distinct impression that you enjoyed it more when your had to force me," she sneered.

His smile widened slightly. "It's more exhilarating, yes, but quite a bit more work."

"Well," Callie scoffed, "so sorry you had to work for it."

A hush fell over them again as Callie stared down at her plate. She hadn't even eaten half her food, but she wasn't hungry. She entertained the thought that maybe she could starve the baby out. Then she felt an overwhelming urge to cry.

"And you want to bring a baby into this?" she asked, "Into an unhappy union between parents who hate each other?"

He paused before answering. "If people only had children under the most optimal of circumstances, there would be no children."

"There's a difference between non-optimal and subpar," Callie argued.

"The child will be born to a King, in his own castle, and will be provided with the finest of everything," he replied, "There's nothing 'subpar' about that."

"Except for having a mother who hates it," Callie answered.

"You won't hate it," he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "You think you will because you hate its father, because you hate the way it was conceived, but that will all change when you see it."

Callie threw him a poisonous glare but he did not react.

"I don't delude myself with the notion that every woman has an unlimited capacity for maternal love," he continued, "My own kingdom is evidence enough against that. But you, Callie, I think you will be helpless against your own love for that child."

Callie wondered how he could always speak of her with such certainty, as if he knew her better than she knew herself. Was it pure arrogance, or could he simply read every thought and emotion upon her face? But then she remembered something that brought a wicked smile to her lips. Something he hadn't thought of yet.

"And how can you be so sure of that?" Callie asked. She crossed her own arms now and leaned back in her chair. "You told me once that you believed I could be capable of great cruelty if I were to ever have you at my mercy. Now you have taken a small part of yourself and left it so carelessly within my keeping."

Her eyes lit up as she watched him grow rigid in his seat.

"I suppose now we can test your theory," she continued, "See how alike we really are in that regard." She lifted her water glass and tilted it towards her lips nonchalantly, never taking her eyes off of him.

He rose slowly from his chair and her eyes watched him unflinchingly as he made his way around the table towards her. She did not relent, even as he grabbed the arm of her chair and turned it, scraping against the floor, so she was fully facing him.

"Know this," he said, his voice coming low and rough as he leaned in, looming over her. "I have my men out right this moment searching for Artemisia, and though they have not found her yet, they will, and then she will be at my mercy once more. If you so much as entertain the thought of harming that child, born or unborn, I will make sure she answers for it. At the end of this week, I will give you a full demonstration of how."

Callie said nothing, only held his gaze, though she felt her throat become suddenly parched. He pushed off her chair so hard that it scraped back against the floor as he turned away.

"If you aren't going to finish your dinner," he said, "I suggest that we retire for the evening."

Then he left the room without bothering to see if she followed.

By the end of the week, he delivered on his promise as he almost always did. He made her dress in red, insisting that it was only appropriate for the occasion, and then he took her to another part of the castle she had never seen before. An amphitheater, open air, like the Colosseum, structured in a circular arrangement around a plain wooden scaffold at it center. Faint traces of bloodstains could still be seen upon the wood and the sand, and though someone had clearly attempted to scrub them away, it was obvious to Callie what they were. She and the King were seated in a private box near the top so that they has full view of the ring down below, something which Callie would have gladly been spared. All the rows down below were packed tight, suggesting that nearly every subject of the goblin city was there to witness what was about to take place. Callie felt a sinking sense of dread in the pit of her stomach, not knowing what was about to happen, only that, whatever it was, she would not wish to see it inflicted upon Artemisia.

Soon after they were seated, a string of prisoners were lead out and stood before the scaffold, and a large, fierce looking goblin stepped up to the platform, carrying a long switch like the one Callie herself had been beaten with. His features were pointed and almost as sharp as his teeth that formed several rows in his mouth like those of a shark. Upon his head he wore a shriveled brown cap which, when Callie looked closely, appeared to be made from the flayed flesh of a dead man's face. He looked up and addressed the crowd.

"For the crime of public disorderliness and slander against The Crown, these here goblins are sentenced, by order of the King, to a public flogging of fifty lashes each," he announced, "Bring forth the first prisoner!"

The first in the row of prisoners was brought up upon the scaffold and forced to kneel before his punisher. The loose tunic he wore was rent down the back, just as Callie's dress had been, and as soon as the canvas was laid bare, that artist began with his brushstrokes.

Callie couldn't help but cringe as she watched, feeling the lingering lashes on her own back burning in solidarity as the switch came down, flicking droplets of blood through the air. It was almost easier to endure the infliction itself than to watch it administered upon someone else. She looked over at the King who, in spite of it being only nine in the morning, already cradled goblet of wine in his hand. His expression as he watched the spectacle was that of indifference, boredom even, as though he was only there out of a sense of obligation. There was no pity, or even a resolute sense of righteousness that justice was being carried out. To him, these faceless subjects could have easily trade places with any in the stands and he would hardly know the difference.

The beatings went on for nearly a good hour, for there were fifteen prisoners and each received their fifty lashes at the same slow, methodical pace, the executioner's switch always striking with the rhythmic steadiness of a metronome. What astounded Callie was that he didn't ever seem to tire and he grinned the whole time, clearly enjoying his work as if it were hardly work at all. By the time he finished with the fifteenth, there was decent size pool of blood mingling upon the scaffold where they had been made to kneel, and there were spatters of it upon the executioner's tunic.

Afterward, they were all lead out and Callie wondered if that was it. She had anticipated something a lot worse to emphasize the gravity of the King's threat. But even as the prisoners were lead out of sight, he did not move from his place, and then Callie could see one more lone prisoner coming across the sands towards the scaffold. Though he had not been among the first group, Callie could see that his clothes were already rent and he had already been freshly beaten, though not within sight of the crowd. But even so, he walked upright, not hunched or sullen, as if preparing to receive a great honor. An for a moment, Callie could have sworn as she watched him approach the scaffold, that he was looking directly at her.

The executioner stood him up on the scaffold, facing the direction of the King, before calling out his crime.

"Grendel Brensworth," the executioner intoned, "for the crime of treason and conspiracy against the Crown, you are sentenced, by order of the King, to death by method of the executioner's own choosing." His voice seemed to lilt with glee at the utterance of those last few words. "If you have any final words before you leave this world, you may speak them now."

The goblin smiled, now standing up even taller than he had been. Callie knew for certain this time that he was looking at her, and her heart began to pound as her eyes locked with his.

"Daughter of the Champion," he called out, "Resist! Do not let him rule you. Don't let your mother's conquest be for naught! Death to tyrants! Long live the Champion!"

Apprehension gripped Callie, and she turned towards The King to see him throwing a dark look her way. Then, lifting his cup to his lips, he turned back toward the scaffold and waved a hand to the executioner. Then it began.

The goblin's screams issued forth like reverberations from the lowest pits of Hell. Even on the worst nights, as Callie turned over in her mind all the tortures she would inflict upon the King were she to have him at her mercy, she couldn't ever fathom anything like this. This cruelty bordered on artistry, administering the horrific agonies so precisely as to keep the martyr hovering upon the threshold of life and death, literally torn asunder in the tension between the two. The Marquis de Sade would have blushed for shame to see his depraved imagination so brilliantly upstaged. Callie couldn't look away. Even as the Augustinian torments carried on and she felt her skin become clammy, her breathing growing her shallow, her stomach turning in and devouring itself, she was only relieved of the gruesome spectacle when darkness began to blot out her vision. Soon a sanctuary of black oblivion wrapped itself around her consciousness, and she slumped back against her chair.

When she came to, the King was carrying her in his arms through the corridors of the castle. Disoriented as she was, she immediately began to struggle against him.

"No…" she moaned, "Get away from me!"

"Be still," he growled. As she looked up she could see he wore that same dispassionate mask he used to conceal only the darkest of his furies.

When they reached the room, he nearly threw her on the bed. She tried to crawl back to put some distance between them, but he snatched her ankle and pulled her back in towards him.

"How did he know you?" he demanded. His gaze pierced into her as if trying to slice the truth right out of her.

It took Callie a moment to even register who he was talking about.

"I…" her mouth went dry, "I've never seen him before in my life," she told him. She tried not to sound nervous, but with what she had just witnessed and the way he was now looking at her, she couldn't help but stammer.

"He addressed you directly," he loomed over her, his gloved hands squeezing her arms progressively tighter. "Why?"

Callie swallowed hard as she shook her head. "I don't know," she said, "I don't know him. How could I know him? I can't leave the castle."

"You can't…" he pushed off of her, stepping away, "But Artemisia always could."

He stared at her silently for a few moments, as if contemplating what to do with her. Callie could only lay very still, staring back in doe-eyed petrification.

"You have just witnessed what becomes of those who plot against me," he told her. "When Artemisia is caught, she will be thoroughly interrogated. If either of you are found to be guilty of treason…" He didn't need to finish his statement. She had already seen.

He regarded her for a few moments longer before turning away and slamming the door on his way out.

If Callie was having any second thoughts about leaving, they were done away with right then.

Samhain finally came, and as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Callie would have just been getting laced into her satin gown, her hair already threaded with gold ornaments, her cheeks and lips already dabbed with rouge. She would have tied on that mask of midnight satin with the gold filigree and gold veined insects wings and waited quietly until she heard a knock on the door. The King would have arrived to escort her, offering her his arm, walking her to another hidden part of the castle where the ball was being held.

As they entered, the guards would bow, they would announce their titles as they descended the staircase of the ballroom bedecked in pumpkin vines that twisted around the gargoyles wrought into the stonework, hovering amongst the chandeliers that dripped crystalline light upon the dancers. They would mingle among those otherworldly courtiers, who would regard Callie with amusement and curiosity as she stood silently by the King's side. They would make jabs about her being mute or having lost her tongue, which the King would excuse away as just the result of her natural timidity. Then he would draw her away to dance, and though she would not be the most graceful, he would be mildly impressed by how easy she was to lead.

The hours would pass, the evening would carry on, and by midnight, the King would ascend with Callie to the top of the staircase and announce his engagement to the Daughter of the Champion, Lady Calliope of the Labyrinth. All would applaud, though many a jilted princess would scowl and whisper the scandalous rumor that the King's betrothed was a lowly bondmaid before he granted her such a dubious title to make marriage possible. Then they would toast to the new Queen, though the new Queen would not participate—spurring more rumors of premarital pregnancy—much dancing and rejoicing would follow. The hours would pass, the King would mingle, his Lady would dance with the gentlemen who would offer their congratulations over and over in succession. She would curtsey and nod and behave herself so well that the King would stop watching her so closely.

Hours would pass and he would look around and not see her. He would dip down into the throng to search for her, but wouldn't find her. Then he would calmly excuse himself, stepping out to discreetly alert his guards, sending them out to look for her without alarming his guests. They would receive reports of a woman in a ballgown heading west and they would follow her trail. Near they outskirts of the city, they would find the dress and mask discarded and they would lead a search though the junk fields, searching for a dark-haired young woman dressed only in her stays and petticoats.

By then, Ellowyn would be walking through threshold of her home, pulling the gold ornaments out of her hair and wiping the rouge from her mouth and cheeks. She would go into her children's room to stroke their hair and kiss them gently on their sleeping heads. Then she would crawl into bed beside her husband who would stir and turn and pull her into his arms after another long night of missing her, and she would lay her head down on his chest, praising heaven for her life full of blessings.

All this, Callie could only imagine, because by that time, she had already been traveling through the night, heading east towards the gate that Ellowyn said would lead her straight to the forest. She wore her old dress, the one she had stolen back from the King, and a goblin mask Ellowyn had found in the King's closet. Callie's heart beat wildly, her nerves drawn taut, she watched over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't being followed. She could scarcely believe she had finally done it: she was beyond the walls of the castle for the first time in fourteen years. But she couldn't stop, she had to keep moving, she had to keep track of the ridges as she crested them.

Ellowyn said it would be on the seventh ridge, to look for a discoloration in the hillside and there it would be: the door. It was dawn by the time she finally reached it, and Callie wandered up and down the hill in search of the door. Then she saw it. It was exactly as Ellowyn described, a discoloration of grass upon the hillside, and she pulled it up. Underneath was a tunnel, like the rabbit hole that Alice fell down, and she crawled in without hesitation. On the other side, she found herself surrounded by trees and foliage and the songs of the first birds of morning. Then she collapsed against a tree, her trembling nerves flooded with relief and exhaustion. She knew the forests was dangerous, but she couldn't go any further. Now hidden among the oaks and firs, she felt safe enough to rest, grateful to for the chance to sleep anywhere but the King's bed. As her eyes closed, she considered that she could be eaten by some wild beast if it found her there, but didn't care. If she died in that forest before she woke, at least she would die free.