“Official orders, Lord Treveryan. Seems that witches’ specters can fly and torture their victims unless they be bound.”
Sloan spat out the word “Rubbish!” The jailor cast him a glance, but did not dispute him, for Lord Treveryan was a duke and a personal friend of their Majesties William and Mary.
“There’s your man, Powell,” the jailor told Sloan, clanking his ring about to find the proper key. “Now, sir, I mean no disrespect by this, but by the law I must ask. You’ve no files there, knives, or the like?”
Sloan answered wearily. “No—I’ve no knives. Blankets and ale and clothing, and nothing more.”
The man nodded and locked the door behind Sloan.
Sloan blinked for several minutes before seeing the figure on the cot. There was a clink of chains, and he saw the figure rise.
Sloan moved to him. Robert Powell looked like death itself; his coloring was gray, his cheeks were hollow, and his great dark eyes seemed sunken in his face.
“Treveryan?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Aye, Powell, ’tis me.” Sloan hunched down by the cot, spreading out the things he had brought, finding the spiced ale. Robert watched Sloan as he accepted the drink, and when he had swallowed it, he continued to stare at him with no malice.
“Get her away from here,” Robert said simply.
Sloan lifted his hands. “She won’t come without you, Powell.”
“Make her.”
Sloan rose and walked about the cell. “I can’t do that—yet. I’ve some powerful friends and we’re going to stand and fight this horrible madness.”
Robert started to laugh but then started to cough. Sloan thumped him on the shoulders and the fit ended. He sobered quickly. “Treveryan, I do not believe that anyone can stop it. And I would rather see Brianna and Michael safe.”
Sloan emitted a slightly impatient oath and with renewed determination came back to sit on the cot. “Powell, I’ll be damned if I’ll let you sacrifice yourself! You’ve not been examined yet or brought to trial. There is no evidence against you.”
“Imaginary evidence.”
“And what is that?” Sloan demanded.
“Everything—or so it seems,” Robert replied dryly.
“Listen! If you go to trial, we’ll do our best to free you.”
“And when they condemn me anyway?” Robert queried politely.
“Then you confess. They are not even planning trials for those who confess first.”
“Only so that the confessed may testify against others.”
“Damn you, Powell! Take an interest in your life.”
Robert sighed and offered Sloan a weary smile. “I cannot confess to witchcraft. It would be against all that I believe. Perhaps it would be an answer to the court, but there is a far greater judgment. And who would answer unto God for my lie?”
“God in His heaven, Powell! Where is your sense, man? Surely the Almighty sees what is happening!”
Robert lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I will stand trial—and fight for all that I am worth. If you would help me, Treveryan, take my wife and my chi—Michael—far away from this madness.” He paused a moment. “I assume you have seen Brianna. I have been terrified since they brought me here that she would come, so wound and wild in my defense that they would lock her away, too, without bothering for a warrant. Where is she?” He came to his feet, gripping Sloan’s arm with a surprising strength.
Sloan eased the grasp from his arm, pressing Robert back to the cot. “She’s fine.”
“But she can connive, that one can! If she’s promised to stay behind, she will follow anyway.”
Sloan could not help but grin; it seemed they both knew her well. “Powell, she can come nowhere. I knocked her unconscious.”
Robert stared at him in wonder and actually smiled humorously. Then he closed his eyes and murmured, “Thank you.”
