The knight’s heavy boots echo through the hall. Cut from the mountain’s interior, polished stone pillars vanish into shadow. At the far end sits his King’s throne, like a rock resting against a tree. The throne-room is big enough to hold every citizen of the kingdom and have room to spare.
The King leans forward, “Well? What did she say?”
Tucks his helmet under his arm, kneels. “My, King. Your sister says what she always does.”
The King sighs, runs a hand over his face. “And there’s nothing she wants?”
“Not that she says.”
“You know, if she wasn’t blood I’d have her dragged inside.” Waves to a scribe a short ways off. “How long now?”
“Less than a month, my Lord. It’s possible the flood will come within the next two weeks, but they don’t think it’ll be quite that soon.”
“Less than a month,” the King mutters. Looks back at the kneeling knight. “Have you—on any of these trips—gotten any clue as to way she won’t come? Anything you might have seen or picked up on? You’re an observant man, there must be something she wants.” Runs his hand over the armrest, back and forth.
“I believe this is exactly what she wants. She doesn’t seem angry or mad at you. From what I can tell she sees this as her only way of resisting.”
“Resisting? Resisting what?” Shakes his head, throws his arms up. “What on earth did have I done? What does her throwing her life away prove to me?”
The knight dips his head, “I don’t think she means to prove anything to you at all, my Lord. I get the impression her resistance is meant to show your people—”
“Show them what?”
The knight clears his throat. “That it’s possible to resist your will.”