#crown traitor

Sabyl sat inside a ring of mountains, nestled in a little valley. Buildings lay scattered around the area, small and squat and made of stone. He could see people moving around them, but the cart was still too far to see any details.

You can’t escape this place. He realized it instantly. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There were trees, but scattered and separated, never allowed to clump together to form a hiding place. You couldn’t run without the guards seeing you. He could pick them out now- they were the people in white furs and sturdy black boots.

And half of them had wolves by their sides. Even bigger than the ones that pulled the cart. They weren’t on leashes. They paced around like they were guards themselves, and Anatol had no doubt that if a prisoner tried to run, the wolves would be on them.

Would the guards call them off? he wondered. Would the wolves obey?

He remembered the way the wolves had circled him last night. I wonder if they’re trained to eat people.

It made him feel sick, seeing just how trapped he was. A prisoner couldn’t run without being seen. If they somehow managed to avoid being spotted, the wolves would catch them. If they weren’t caught by the wolves, they faced the frozen mountains. There’s no way out of here.

The cart traveled deeper into the valley, and now Anatol could see detail. The guards in their white furs and black boots, with expressions of mixed curiosity and tension on their faces. Anatol wondered if they’d been told that their newest prisoner was the prince. Is it better if they know who I am, or better if they don’t? he asked himself.

He saw the prisoners, too, and the sight of them sent an odd mixture of fear and sympathy swirling through his heart. They were miserable creatures, wrapped in ragged furs or scraps of cloth or anything they could use to keep themselves a little warmer. Their faces were thin and drawn, scattered with bruises and cuts and scars. All of them shivered with cold. They glanced up at the cart as it went by, and Anatol flinched at the hopeless looks in their eyes.

Did Mother know that it was like this? He’d known, of course, that Sabyl was no easy life. But he couldn’t imagine his mother knowingly condemning people to this. She must not have known…but then, she visited Sabyl twice a year to make sure it was secure. She had to have known.

But they’re criminals, aren’t they? another side of himself argued. Not only that- this place is for those who commit crimes against the royal family. Don’t they deserve this?

Anatol glanced at the nearest prisoner. She was an old woman, bent nearly double, her lips blue with cold.

Does she deserve it? he asked. Do I? I was falsely accused…maybe some of these people were too.

The wolves sped up, and Anatol frowned, wondering why. One of the guards on the seat, the tall one, laughed. “They know they’re coming home.”

“They want their supper,” remarked the one with the tattooed dragon on the back of his neck. “Think there’s been any escape attempts while we were gone? Maybe they’ll have a treat.”

Anatol shuddered, remembering the wolves from last night. The way they had circled the carriage, the glow of their eyes in the dark…and those were wild wolves, not the trained ones of Sabyl. The ones trained to rip would-be escapees to pieces.

The cart stopped with a rough jerk in the middle of a small cluster of buildings at the far end of the camp. Anatol nearly fell on his face again. I am getting tired of that. He hadn’t noticed it before, but his heart was racing. I wonder what Katria is doing right now. Will they tell her that I’ve arrived here? Or have they scratched my name from the royal records already?

The tall guard unchained his hands from the side of the cart. The second the chains fell away, the one with the dragon tattoo hauled himself into the cart, grabbed Anatol by the collar, and dropped him out onto the snow. Anatol gasped with shock and pain.

The guard chuckled and jumped out after him. Anatol rolled to the side before the man's boots landed in his ribs, which unfortunately meant that he got himself thoroughly soaked with snow. Furs would have done something to protect him, but Anatol had none, so he was dragged up shivering from the icy ground.

Maybe these two didn't get Katria's orders.

They marched him towards the central building in the cluster, which boasted a solid wooden door. The doors on the other small buildings seemed to be either iron bars or merely stiff cloth curtains, which flapped in the wind and didn't seem secure enough to keep a snowflake out. Let alone one of those wolves.

One of the guards pounded on the door, and when it opened Anatol realized that the guard with the dragon tattoo was not a big man, after all. The Sabyl Watchdog standing in the doorway was. Anatol was rather tall, but this man towered over him. His arms bulged with muscle, and he looked distinctly displeased to see a new prisoner.

"This him?" the Watchdog rumbled, eyeing Anatol with a glare.

The tattooed guard, by way of answer, practically threw Anatol at the Watchdog. Anatol stumbled right into the man's burly arm, and the Watchdog held him easily with just one hand on his shoulder. It felt as though it were a hand made of iron. Anatol was getting rather tired of being tossed back and forth between large men, but he kept his mouth shut and didn't try to pull away from the Watchdog's firm grip.

"I'll take him from here," the Watchdog said.

Anatol's guards didn't protest, walking back towards the center of Sabyl, already jostling and joking with each other. Package delivered, I suppose. I am no longer their problem.

The thought didn't come with any bitterness, or even fear, though he still had plenty of that- his trembling wasn't only because of the cold. His mind had felt strangely numb since arriving at Sabyl, seeing just how remote and impenetrable it was. There was no going back. No one escaped Sabyl, certainly not a prisoner as high-profile as Anatol. And Katria would not have some miraculous change of heart and send for his release.

I am trapped here.

The Watchdog half dragged, half shoved him through the doorway. Anatol was glad when the wooden door slammed shut, cutting off some of the cold wind screaming outside.

The Watchdog seized him suddenly around the waist. Anatol yelped in surprise. "Shut up," the guard rumbled, and Anatol realized that he was being searched as the man's big hands felt all around his clothes. Anatol felt his face turning hot, but he didn't dare open his mouth to protest.

"What are you looking for?" he ventured.

The Watchdog grunted. "Contraband."

"What's contraband here?"

At that, the Watchdog looked up, grinning. He had a gold tooth. "Everything I decide you can't have."

Anatol turned his gaze away.

Fortunately- or unfortunately- he hadn't anything with him but the clothes on his back. Sabyl hadn't seemed to have any kind of uniforms for its prisoners, so Anatol was allowed to keep them.

The Watchdog went to an almost comically small desk and took out a huge leatherbound book and a pen. "Name?" he grunted.

"Anatol Soranov."

"Wrong."

Anatol jerked his head up. "I know what my own name is!"

"Soranov is the name used by members of the royal family. You, boy, are no member of the royal family. You are nothing but a prisoner." The Watchdog grinned, enjoying himself. "Want to try again? Your name."

Despite himself, Anatol felt the telltale prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes. Even my name, Katria?

"Your name," the Watchdog growled, sounding much less like he was enjoying himself.

Anatol swallowed hard. "Anatol," he answered, leaving his family name off.

The Watchdog's lips turned up. "Good. Learning already."

Anatol didn't answer.

"I'd tell you the rules, but there really aren't many. Do as you're told. Don't try anything stupid. And, a special one just for you- we don't care who you were before. You're nothing here. Remember that." He shuffled through some papers as he opened the wooden door, glancing up to fix Anatol with a hard look. "You're in Block D. The stone buildings over there, fourth one down." The big Watchdog gave Anatol a shove towards the door. "Go on, get moving."

All he could see through the doorway was white and gray. Snow fell gently in the city around the palace. But here, the rough mountain winds threw the snow down in whirling fistfuls, turning the world outside the stone door into nothing but a blinding, cold whiteness.

Anatol took a step towards the door. The Watchdog's voice froze him where he stood.

"Wait. Come here."

He felt like a deer caught in the sights of a hunter's crossbow, just waiting for the arrow to loose, as he walked back to where the burly Watchdog stood waiting for him.

"Forgot to give you something," the Watchdog said.

And he slammed a meaty fist into Anatol's stomach. Anatol sank to the floor like a stone in the sea, coughing and gasping as he tried to reel his breath back in.

The Watchdog rumbled a laugh above him.