Free The Shadow Throne by Jennifer A. Nielsen Page A

of course, and the hunger never goes away. But once a person has reached this stage, he has bigger problems than the next meal.
    Hunger was the least of my concerns.
    In the first couple of days following my capture, I was left almost entirely alone. My prison was well guarded — I knew that from the conversations that filtered down through the boards over my head. But I remained in the darkness, was given nothing to eat, and had only the muddy water that dripped from the earth above to drink. The few visits I did get were only to be sure I was still there, and to add to my injuries in whatever way entertained the vigils. In all that time, I never fought back, never said a word, never gave a single indication I registered their presence. As far as I was concerned, if they were going to tell everyone I was dead, I might as well behave that way.
    On the morning of the third day, their treatment changed. A couple of Vargan’s soldiers came with a bowl of soup they insisted I eat. I gave them a thorough description of where they could shove it and waved it away. The taller of the men threw the bowl at me, as if I cared about that, and they left.
    Later that evening, a plate was carried in with a chunk of stale bread and a cup of dirty water. I tossed the bread into the corner, hoping the rats would prefer chewing on it rather than getting any closer to me. I tried to hit someone when I threw the cup, but didn’t manage to throw even as far as the vigil’s feet.
    Commander Kippenger was immediately summoned, and yelled a lot about how much trouble he’d be in if I didn’t start eating. Somehow, that single fact made the hunger easier to bear.
    The next morning, a woman was sent in with a towel that she used to wash me up. I begged her to wipe whatever was left of Imogen’s blood off my chest and she did. Only then did I feel able to breathe again.
    “I helped take care of the girl once they brought her here,” the woman said. “They offered her every possible reward for information about you, but she always refused.”
    It hurt to hear about Imogen, yet I realized not hearing about her was worse. I had spent much of the past two days thinking back on things the priests of the churches had taught about an afterlife. If they were right, that all good people became saints in heaven, then surely that was where Imogen now rested. My family would be there as well. Whether it was true or not, I chose to believe that’s where she was, happy and free from any worries or pain. It helped.
    After the woman left, a chair was brought into the room. A herald outside announced the presence of King Vargan, though by the prickle of my skin, I’d already sensed him nearby. Moments later he entered my prison.
    In his youth, Vargan had been a commanding presence, but time had worn away at him like seawater against a sandcastle. His gray hair was tied back and he had thick round spectacles that enlarged his dark-saddled eyes. A servant accompanying him discreetly mentioned the spectacles and Vargan quickly removed them, as if he hadn’t wanted anyone to see. When he gave them to his servant, he was then handed a cloth, which he pressed to his nose. I found that odd, since it hadn’t even occurred to me how it must smell in here. He stood in the doorway, stretched his back, and then studied me as he walked forward. Eventually he settled into his chair, though he still hadn’t spoken a word, and I had yet to acknowledge him.
    “I’m told you won’t eat,” he said finally.
    “Avenian food tastes like salted dung,” I muttered.
    “I expected some humility. I could let you die in here.”
    “I wish you would.”
    He shifted his weight and looked me over. “Captivity has been hard on you. You look terrible.”
    “So do you. At least I have an excuse.”
    He chuckled softly. “The boy king single-handedly invades my country, causes the death of the girl he loves, and now is mine to treat in any manner I see fit. As you were told, we