Gild (The Plated Prisoner, #1)(42)

A nearby fight makes me jump, the sound of fists against fists, people hurling insults at me as we go, spitting on the carriages, cursing the king.

I’m too afraid to look out the window as we go, so I sit ramrod straight on the cushion, cursing myself for my stupidity.

I know better than to flash wealth around in the poor parts of a city. But seeing those kids...it was like looking in a mirror of my past. I wasn’t thinking straight.

When the shouting grows louder, the horses move faster, as fast as they dare in the slogged and muddy street. I pray that no one attacks, over and over again, I beg the starry goddesses to hold them at bay.

Not because I fear for myself, certainly not because of what they could steal. But because I don’t want the guards to be forced to hurt them. These people have been hurt enough.

Poverty like this is a wound. A wound that King Midas has let fester and infect. It’s not their fault, this desperation, this weighed decision of whether or not to attack for the chance at a meal, at a blanket, at medicine. It’s survival. And all of us, every single one, would do the same in their position, would battle with that burdensome “what if.”

But luckily, no one attacks. Luckily, the guards sheathe their swords. But relief doesn’t find me. Only guilt. Guilt that I dangled that carrot in front of the starving and then snatched it so callously away.

The gold castle sitting on the mountain in the distance must be like a thorn in their sides. A constant reminder of a horizon they can’t reach.

I wish the sun would come up sooner. I wish that my pouch had held more coins. That I could’ve bathed the street in gold. But under the chilling cover of night, helplessness weighs on my spirit as our party moves on without further incident, until the last of the decrepit buildings are past, the last haunting face disappearing from view.

And it’s a sad, bitter realization that settles in my bones. Because if even the city ruled by a golden king is as impoverished as this, then what hope does the rest of Orea have?





Chapter Eighteen





I thought that after the ramshackle shanties, the view outside couldn’t get any worse.

I was wrong.

As we make our way to the edge of the city’s boundaries, my eyes squint, trying to see in the distance, past the outpost’s burning torches.

“What…” My question is unheard and unfinished, but the carriage comes to a halt, the sound of voices calling out.

I see Digby get off his horse and go stalking forward, and I waste no time opening the carriage door and getting out, my eyes still locked on the view ahead that I can’t quite make out.

I pass by the other carriages holding Midas’s royal saddles, and the handsome male—Rosh—is looking out the window, frowning. “You smell that?” he asks someone inside. I don’t hear the answer.

Sail steps up to me as I continue forward, where I see a large group of the guards all gathered, speaking to soldiers at the outpost. The outpost itself is just a simple stone watchtower and wall that runs up into the side of the mountains at our back, a checkpoint for those who want to enter the city.

I step closer, but Sail moves to stop me. “We should wait here.”

“What...what is that?” I ask, trying to look past the soldiers, at the figures I can see just beyond the torches. I can’t make it out from this far away, but something tugs me forward, urges me to see.

Skirting close to the line of the horses, I make my way forward, Sail sticking by my side. And although I can tell he wants to insist I turn back, I can’t, not even when a sick feeling enters my stomach, like a premonition.

When I’m twenty feet away, the smell hits me. Hits Sail too, because his steps falter, a gagging noise crawling up his throat.

I bite down on my tongue and rush on, and as soon as I make it to the gathered soldiers, I’m finally able to see, my mind able to piece together what my eyes and nose are telling me.

There, in front of Highbell’s wall, hang a dozen bodies, strung up on a row of gnarly, weather-beaten branches.

The bodies are…wrong. Abhorrent.

They aren’t just corpses. They aren’t gilded heads on spikes, warning people of Midas’s wrath if one should break the law. No, these...these are...

“Rotted,” Sail says grimly beside me, as if he were hearing my thoughts. “That’s what the smell is. We’ve been getting these little gifts from King Rot all week.”

My mouth is dry, moisture wicked away with the sight of their spoiled skin. The bodies are molding in some places, like King Ravinger used his power to make them decay like a piece of fruit. Green, white, and black tufts of furry mold clusters over their mortal wounds like a macabre plumage.

Other parts of them are browned and shriveled, like a husk left out too long in the sun. And the rest of them...just gone. Like those parts of their bodies rotted away completely, disintegrating into the air as nothing more than peeled scraps of skin and powder of bones.

Bile curls in the pit of my stomach, and I cover my mouth and nose with my hand. I don’t need to ask Sail who they are. I can see the purple-plated emblems on their still-visible armor. They’re King Fulke’s soldiers.

“He’s sent them here and to Fifth Kingdom as well,” Sail explains morosely as Digby and the others still speak, several paces away from the putrid bodies.

“Why?”