I found myself praying he would survive the night and his fever would break. I made lists of the herbal remedies and poultices I could make to heal his wounds. I even began to gather a few things together when I was in the sick room…
Before remembering the orc was my father’s prisoner.
But.
But I’d been bringing food for him to the dungeon for months. I knew my father didn’t want Kragorn dead. Iknew he went down there—took his friends and allies even—to gloat at his great prowess in battle…even though I’d heard whispers the orc was only overcome by eight of father’s best warriors, and only after he’d slaughtered a dozen more.
My hands stilled as I finished pouring ale into my father’s favorite mug. I stared down into the froth, my thoughts racing.
My father hadn’twantedKragorn dead, but once the orc had tried to escape—and killed more men in doing so—did my father care? I remembered the way Kragorn had been chained so uncomfortably, the way his wounds hadn’t been treated…
“Come on, girl,” Father grumbled. “I’m thirsty.”
“I am sorry,” I whispered, hurrying to do his bidding. I carefully placed the pitcher on the tablecloth then settled the mug near his hand.
“’Tis cold, the way you prefer.”
“Good,” he grunted, and I blinked in surprise. Father rarely noticed me, much less my efforts to please him.
Tucking my hands into my skirts, I stepped back, giving him space to enjoy his ale before his dinner was served. Or at least, that was my intention. Instead, my ruined foot twisted under me, and my hand shot out to grip the back of his chair. I gasped, knowing falling would be a worse sin than spilling his ale.
I saw my father shoot a glance at me, his brows drawn down in a scowl, and I expected to be berated.
As if I could help the fact my injury hadn’t healed properly all those years ago. ‘Twas why I’d learned what I could of healing, to try to help other poor souls.
But instead of rebuking me, Father asked me instead, “You visited the beast today?”
I hesitated. What response would upset him the least? Ducking my head, I clasped my hands in front of me and moved so he could see me without having to crane his neck—something else which had sparked his ire in the past.
“I did, Father,” I murmured.
“What? Speak up, girl. Was the bastard dying?”
How to answer?
“He was not well. I know he was strong once, but not any longer.”
Father snorted in satisfaction and gulped his ale as he settled back against his chair. Servants began to bring out the food—succulent pig and roasted vegetables to attest to Father’s wealth this close to Hogmanay.
“The bastard killed two of my men trying to escape the other day, did you know that?” he mused, now watching the serving of the food instead of me. “That’s why he’s chained. I suppose you had to go into his cell this time, eh? Or did one of the guards do it?”
“I did,” I whispered, surprised by how loquacious he was being. “Since he was chained, I did not think him a danger.”
Another snort as Father plunked the mug down on the table and reached for his trencher.
“Don’t be fooled, Lillian, the bastard is vicious. He’d rip your arm off as soon as look at you.”
That’s what the guard had said, or similar enough. But Kragorn hadn’tseemeddangerous to me. In fact, he’d seemed…well,politelikely wasn’t the appropriate word for a defeated enemy, especially one half-mad with fever. But he’d looked at me, at least once, as if I were his savior.
That had been a heady feeling.
Since my father seemed to be in a talkative mood, I wondered if I could ask him what I’d been wondering all day.
“Father?” I edged closer just as he bit into the pork. “Would you mind if I asked you a question about the prisoner?”
He grunted an affirmative and waved the chunk of meat on the tip of his knife as he reached for his ale again.
Taking a deep breath, I kept my head bowed as I carefully worded my query. “Is it your intention he live? Or is his punishment…”
