As the light dwindled Iona put her hand on Carter’s shoulder before she lost sight of him. He didn’t react, just kept walking—and she let him lead her farther and farther into the darkness. She swallowed down the fear that she would never get out again and hoped that when Carter stopped walking this would all make sense.

Iona’s thoughts and fears were interrupted by splitting pain as she walked into something, cutting her forehead in the process. She put out a hand to touch whatever it was.

There was a wall ahead of her, and it wasn’t made of soil or wood. It wasn’t quite metal either. It was hard and smooth—a little like the wall at the edge of the forest. But it was underground.

Iona heard a movement from nearby. She wondered if it was Carter—in the last few moments she had lost track of where he was. “Who’s that?” she said—but she received no answer.

A knife was held to her throat.

* * *

Fresh rumors washed from one side of the crowd to another. There was nothing malicious in these rumors. Nobody here wanted to get rid of the king. The rumors were driven by uncertainty, verging on panic. New editions of the newspaper were being printed as fast as details could be confirmed, in an effort to calm the populace—but these were just words on a page. Could they be trusted? If the king could be attacked in public, who knew what to trust anymore? Were they foolish even to trust each other?

More than once a hush came over the crowd as they anticipated the king’s arrival, but when he didn’t appear the murmurs would start again and then build. Who had said he would be here anyway? Perhaps that was just another rumor? What would they do if they didn’t get to see him?

Then a figure appeared at the window. It was not the king but an attendant in household uniform. He signaled for silence and got it.

And the king appeared. He smiled and waved to his people. He didn’t even look that badly hurt.

The crowd cheered and applauded.

Up at the window the king allowed the sound of their adulation to wash over him. He found something oppressive about the noise, even if it was well meant. His concerns over his personal safety were replaced by a deeper unease. All he’d ever wanted was for the citizens to be happy and to like him, and now he feared his relationship to them had changed forever.

He wondered how much longer he needed to stand here.

7

SOMEONE SWITCHED ON A LIGHT, so that was something at least, even if the knife was still threatening to slice open Iona’s windpipe. The light shone directly into her eyes and obliterated everything else in her vision. Its source was a handheld torch. (Not fire, Iona thought: electricity. Another dream-word with newfound purpose.) The hand that held it did not belong to the person who held the knife: the holder of the knife was behind her, the holder of the torch was in front.