Wintertide (30 page)

“You know I will.”

“I want you to go back to the city again. This time I want you to stay there. You need to be careful and find somewhere safe until the rioting is over. But—and this is the important thing—I don’t want you to come back here again. Will you promise me that?”

“Yes, if that is what you want,” Mince told her.

“I don’t want you to see what I must do. Or be hurt afterward because of it. I want you to remember me the way I’ve been over these last few days with you.”

She got up, crossed to the boy, and kissed him on the forehead. “Remember what I said, and keep your promise to me.”

Mince nodded.

Modina waited until he left the room and his footsteps faded down the hall. She blew out the candle, took the water pitcher from the dresser, and shattered the mirror.

***

Royce peered out from under the tarpaulin draped over a potato cart. No one was paying attention to the courtyard. He took special care to study the darkened corners and the gap behind the woodpile. A yellow glow rose from beyond the front gate as if the city was ablaze. Shouts were still coming from the far side, growing louder and demanding the release of Hadrian and Breckton. The unseen mob called for the empress to show herself. It was a perfect diversion, but also put every guard in the palace on alert.

“Are we going in or not?” Magnus grumbled, half-buried in tubers. Royce slipped out and led the dwarf to the well while keeping a constant check on the guards facing the gate. The thief was impressed by how quietly Magnus moved.

“You want to crank me down, or do you want to go first?” Magnus whispered.

“There’s no power in existence that could cause me to let you do the lowering.”

Magnus muttered something about a lack of trust and sat on the bucket, holding the rope tight between his legs. Royce waited for the dwarf to get settled, then lowered him until Magnus signaled for him to stop. When the weight left the bucket, Royce lowered the pail to the bottom, braced the windlass, and climbed down the rope.

Albert had gained the dwarf access to the inner ward as a member of the wedding event crew. It had taken Magnus just five minutes to determine the dungeon’s location. A few stomps told him where to find empty spaces below. A nighttime lowering into the well by Royce revealed the rest. Peppered with small air ducts, Magnus deduced the well ran along the outer wall of the prison, granting the dwarf access to the face of the ancient stone. For eleven nights, Magnus worked cutting an entry. Merrick was right, the prison was dwarven made, but he never expected Royce to bring his own dwarf—especially one with experience in burrowing through stone.

As Royce descended, he spotted a faint glow from an opening in the side of the shaft. The hole itself was really more like a tunnel due to the thickness of the ancient stone. He removed the bundle he carried containing a sword and lantern and passed it through the hole to the dwarf. Even with all of Magnus’s skill, the stone must have been difficult to dig through, as the passage was narrow. While sufficient for a dwarf, it was a tight squeeze for Royce, and he hoped Hadrian would fit.

Emerging from the tunnel, Royce found himself peering around a small cell, where a dead body was lying on the floor. Dressed in a priest’s habit and curled into a tight ball, the dead man gave off a terrible stench. The room was tiny, barely large enough to accommodate the corpse. Magnus stood awkwardly against the wall, holding a crystal that glowed with a faint green radiance.

Royce pointed at the rock. “Where’d you get the stone?”

“Beats the heck out of flint and steel, eh?” Magnus grinned and winked. “I dug it up. I’m a dwarf, remember?”

“Really trying to forget that,” Royce said. He crossed to the door, picked the lock, and peered down the hallway outside. The walls had the same kind of markings he saw in Gutaria Prison—small spidery patterns. He examined the seam where the walls met the floor.

“What are you waiting fer. Let’s get on with it,” Magnus said.

“You in a hurry?” Royce whispered.

“It’s cold. Besides, I can think of a lot better places to be than here. Heck, the stench is reason enough. I’d like to be done with this.”

“I’m heading in. You wait here and watch for anyone coming behind us—and be careful.”

“Royce?” Magnus asked. “I did good right? With the stone work, I mean.”

“Sure. You did fine.”

“After this is over…You think you could let me study Alverstone for a while? You know, as kind of a reward—to show your appreciation and all.”

“You’ll be paid in gold, just like Albert. You’ve got to get over this obsession of yours.”

Royce entered the hallway. The darkness was nearly absolute, the only illumination coming from Magnus’s green stone.

He made a quick sweep of the corridors—no guards. Most of the cells were empty but he could hear faint movement and breathing from behind four doors. The only other sound was the
drip, drip, drip
of the well echoing off the stone walls. After he was sure it was safe, Royce lit the lantern but kept the flame low. He picked the lock on one of the cells and found a blond man lying motionless on the floor. He was dangerously thin but still breathing. Royce shook him, but the man did not wake. Royce left the door open and moved on.

He unlocked the next cell, and a man sitting on the floor looked up. The resemblance was unmistakable and Royce recognized him immediately.

“Who’s there?” Breckton Belstrad asked, holding up a hand to block the glare of the lantern.

“No time to chat. Just wait here for a minute. We’ll be leaving soon.”

Royce moved to the next cell. Inside, two women slept. One he did not know, and the other he almost did not recognize. Princess Arista was ghastly thin, dressed in a rag, and covered with what looked to be bite marks. He left them and moved to the last cell.

“Fourth time’s the charm,” he whispered under his breath as he opened the final door.

Hadrian sat leaning against the wall. He was shirtless. His tunic had been torn into strips and tied around his leg, arm, and midsection. His shirt was fashioned into a pad pressed tight to his side. Each piece of material was soaked dark, but Royce’s partner was still breathing.

“Wake up, buddy,” Royce whispered, nudging him. Hadrian was damp with sweat.

“About time you got here. I was starting to think you ran off and left me.”

“I considered it, but the thought of Magnus as my best man kinda forced the issue. Nice haircut, by the way. It looks good on you—very knightly.”

Hadrian started a laugh that turned to grunts of pain.

“They skewered you good, didn’t they?” Royce asked, adjusting the cloth strips. He pulled the midsection one tighter.

Hadrian winced. “The prison guards don’t like me much. They lost money betting against me five jousts in a row.”

“Oh, well, that’s understandable. I would have stuck you, too.”

“You got Arista, right? And Gaunt? Is he alive?”

“Yeah, she’s sleeping next door. As for Gaunt, he’s in pretty bad shape. I’ll have to drag him out. Can you walk?”

“I don’t know.”

Royce gripped Hadrian around the waist and slowly helped him up. Together they struggled down the corridor to the end cell with the well breach. Royce pushed on the door but it did not budge. He tried harder, but still nothing happened.

“Magnus, open the door,” Royce whispered.

There was no answer.

“Magnus, come on. Hadrian is hurt and I’m gonna need your help. Open up.”

Silence.

Chapter 18
Wintertide

In the darkness of the prison, Amilia lay cradled in Breckton’s arms, pondering the incomprehensible—how it was possible to simultaneously drown in both bliss and fear.

“Look,” Sir Breckton whispered.

Amilia raised her head and saw a weak light leaking around the last cell’s door. In the pale glow, the figures in the prison appeared ghostly faint, devoid of all color. Princess Arista, Sir Hadrian, and Degan Gaunt lay in the corridor, upon a communal bed built from straw gathered from all the cells. The three looked like corpses awaiting graves. Sir Hadrian’s torso was wrapped in makeshift bandages stained frighteningly red. The princess was so thin that she no longer looked like herself, but Degan Gaunt was the worst of all. He appeared to be little more than skin stretched over bone. If not for his shallow breathing, he could have been a cadaver, several days dead.

During the night, a man had broken into the prison in an attempt to free them. He opened the doors to the cells, but the plan to escape had failed. Now the man prowled around the prison.

“It’s morning,” Sir Breckton said. “It’s Wintertide.”

Realizing the light indicated a new day, Amilia began to cry. Breckton did not ask why. He simply pulled her close. From time to time the knight patted her arm and stroked her hair in a manner she could hardly have thought possible less than a day before.

“You’ll be all right,” he reassured her with surprising conviction. “As soon as the empress discovers the treachery of the regents, I am certain nothing will stop her from saving you.”

Amilia pressed her quivering lips tightly together. She gripped the knight’s arm and squeezed it.

“Modina is also a prisoner,” Arista stated.

Amilia had thought the princess was sleeping. Looking over, she saw Arista’s eyes were open and her head was tilted just enough to see them.

“They use her as a puppet. Saldur and Ethelred run everything.”

“So she’s a complete fabrication? It was
all
just a ruse? Even that story about slaying Rufus’s Bane?” Breckton asked her.

“That was real,” Arista replied. “I was there.”

“You were there?” Amilia asked.

Arista started to speak, then coughed. She took a moment then drew in a wavering breath. “Yes. She was different then—strong, unwavering. Just a girl, but one determined to save her father and daunted by nothing. I watched her pick up a bit of broken glass to use as a weapon against an invincible monster the size of a house.”

“There now, My Lady,” Breckton said. “If the empress can do that I am certain—”

“She can’t save us!” Amilia sobbed. “She’s dead!”

Breckton looked at her, stunned.

She pointed at the light under the door. “It’s Wintertide. Modina killed herself at sunrise.” She wiped her face. “The empress died in her room, in front of her window, watching the sun rise.”

“But…why?” he asked.

“She didn’t want to marry Ethelred. She didn’t want to live. She didn’t have a reason to go on. She…she…” Overcome with emotion, Amilia rose and moved down the corridor. Breckton followed after.

***

Hadrian woke to the sound of Arista coughing. He struggled to sit up, surprised at his weakness and wincing at the pain. He inched close enough to lift the princess’s head and rest it on his thigh.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Scared. How about you?”

“I’m great. Care to dance?”

“Maybe later.”Arista said. Her body was bruised and covered with ugly red marks. “This sounds terrible,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

“This sounds stupid,” he replied, “but I’m glad I am.”

“That is stupid.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a run of stupidity as of late.”

“I think we all have.”

Hadrian shook his head. “Not like mine. I actually trusted Saldur. I made a deal with him—and Luis Guy of all people. You and Royce wouldn’t have made that mistake. Royce would have used the time between jousts to break you out. And you—you would’ve probably figured some way to take over the whole empire. No, you two are the smart ones.”

“You think I’m smart?” she asked softly.

“You? Of course. How many women could have taken a city in armed conflict with no military training? Or saved their brother and kingdom from a plot to overthrow the monarchy? And how many would have tried to single-handedly break into the imperial palace?”

“You could have stopped before that last one. If you didn’t notice, that was a colossal failure.”

“Well two out of three isn’t so bad.” He grinned.

“I wonder what is happening up there,” Arista said after a time. “It’s probably midday. They should have come and taken us to the stakes by now.”

“Well, maybe Ethelred had a change of heart,” Hadrian said.

“Or maybe they’ve decided to just leave us down here to starve.”

Hadrian said nothing and Arista stared at him for a long time.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I want to ask you to do me a favor.”

“What is it?”

“It’s not an easy favor to ask,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Name it.”

She still hesitated and then took a deep breath. Looking away at first, she said, “Will you kill me?”

Hadrian felt the air go out of him.

“What?”

She looked back at him but said nothing.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“You could strangle me.” Reaching out, she took his hand and placed it to her neck. “Just squeeze. I’m certain it won’t take long. I don’t think it will hurt much. Please, I’m so weak already, and Royce didn’t bring any food or water. I—I want it to be over. I just want this nightmare to end…” She started to cry.

Hadrian stared at her, feeling the warmth of her neck against his hand. His lips trembled.

“There’s this rat, and he’s going to…” she hesitated. “Please, Hadrian. Oh, please. Please?”

“No one is going to be eaten alive.” Hadrian looked again at the marks on her skin. “Royce is working on a way out. This is what he does, remember? This is what we always do. We’re miracle workers, right? Isn’t that what Alric calls us? You just need to hang on.”

Hadrian took his hand from her throat and pulled her close with his good arm. Feeling dead inside, only the stab wounds reminded him he was otherwise. He stroked Arista’s hair while her body jerked with the sobs. Gradually, she calmed down and drifted back to sleep. Hadrian faded in and out as well.

“You awake?” Royce asked, sitting down next to Hadrian.

“Am now. What’s up?”

“How you feeling?”