“Miss Aoife,” he said. “You’d better come through before the wrong eyes see you.”
Behind him, a soldier stepped forward, ready to stop her.
Wiren raised a hand. “Easy,” he said. “She’s only here to talk.”
“How can you be sure she won’t try to bust him out?” The man’s Eldrossi accent was almost perfect, but there was still a Morran lilt to several of the words.
Wiren gave a dry laugh. “You think she could smuggle him past us? Let her be.”
The other soldier relented, and Wiren waved her through.
Aoife descended the stone steps into the darkness. Her candlelight quivered across damp walls slick with moss. The air was heavy with rot and mould. Iron-barred doors lined the passage, their hinges furred with rust. Water dripped steadily, unseen. The stench of sweat and decay clung to everything.
She passed each door, shining the light through the barred openings until she found him. Only one cell was occupied. Cormac sat on a straw mat, cradling his left arm. A single slit ofa window let in air. Dust motes swirled in the candlelight. Rats skittered along the edges, bold in the silence.
Cormac was on his feet as soon as he saw her, his right hand gripping the bars. “Aoife,” he breathed. “What are you doing here? It’s too dangerous.” She almost smiled at the sound of her name, the way he said it, half-scolding, half-relieved.
“I had to see you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Cormac shook his head, the movement sharp. “Aoife,” he cut her off. “I found something.” His voice was low but urgent. “Remember when you told me he wasn’t meeting his quotas? I couldn’t make sense of it. It didn’t match the shipments from the county.”
“Does this matter?” She asked, glancing toward the stairs, her heart hammering.
“Of course it does,” he said, fierce but not unkind. They had fought like this a hundred times: her wanting to help him, him focusing on anyone and everyone else, but usually the circumstances weren’t so dire. “I followed a cart to the docks. They loaded most of it onto a ship, but the rest was taken to a warehouse. It’s packed, Aoife. Overflowing with food.”
“Curse the crows, Cormac.” She gripped the cold iron bars between them. “I don’t want to hear about that now.”
“This might be my only chance to tell you.”
“You’re not dying tomorrow,” she said, her tone hard enough to sound like belief.
He gave a faint, pitying smile and wrapped his hand around hers. Her arms trembled at the touch.
“Maybe not. But you and I both know many men don’t survive twenty lashes.” He swallowed. “Not for long, anyway.” And not when they’re already half starved. Neither said it, but they both knew it was true.
“Stop it. You’re not dying.”
“Please,” he said, voice breaking. “I have to tell you this.” The way his voice caught on the words cut through her. He was still trying to help, even now. “I overheard the soldiers at the dock talking. Didn’t catch all of it, but Halverton isn’t just exporting grain. He’s hoarding it. Selling it abroad at inflated prices.”
“By the Shee, will you stop,” she snapped. “This is all my fault. I should’ve taken the lashes. Then none of this would’ve happened.”
He flinched at that, and the sight undid her, not the bruise already darkening his cheek, but the way he couldn’t bear her self-blame.
“It’s not your fault,” he said quickly. “It’s his.”
Her throat tightened. “You were right,” she said. “Men like him don’t change. I should’ve listened. Halverton hasn’t softened. He’s a monster. There’s not an ounce of goodness in him.”
“Maybe we can make it all worthwhile. The empire won’t like that he’s profiteering.”
“They’ll send another lord,” Aoife said bitterly, thinking of Lords Montbrass and Severcombe. “And based on the ones I’ve met, he’ll be the same. Maybe worse.” Lord Oswin would be an improvement, but she doubted he, or anyone with his ideals, would receive such a posting.
“Listen,” she went on, “tomorrow, as soon as the door opens, you take on your Athraith form and you run.”
“Aoife,” he said sadly.
“I know, they’ll see you, but you have to go into hiding either way.”
“Aoife.”
