Page 2 of Honor Requires

The thought disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

Darcy lifted his head slowly and examined the cell again, forcing his mind toward practical matters. The room was scarcely eight feet across. No window save a narrow slit high in the outer wall through which damp air entered in weak drafts. A bucket stood in one corner beside a chipped pitcher. Someone had left bread near the door.

Untouched.

His stomach turned faintly at the sight of it.

He attempted to stand.

The first effort failed. His injured leg threatened to buckle beneath him before he managed to catch himself against the wall. A bitter laugh escaped him then, short and humorless.

Excellent, Darcy.

He tried again more slowly.

This time he remained upright, though every bruise in his body protested the effort. He crossed the chamber in uneven steps until he reached the door. Thick oak reinforced with iron bands. No handle inside. He pressed his palm against it anyway as though pressure alone might reveal weakness hidden within the wood.

Nothing.

The corridor beyond remained empty.

“Hello?”

His voice sounded rougher than expected.

No answer came.

Darcy rested his forehead briefly against the cold iron and closed his eyes.

This could still be corrected.

The thought persisted stubbornly despite everything surrounding him. Men disappeared under suspicion during wartime. Mistakes occurred. Once his identity was confirmed, once he spoke to someone possessing actual authority—

Footsteps interrupted the thought.

Darcy straightened at once despite the pain in his side.

A lantern appeared beyond the bars, throwing uneven light across the corridor stones before a man stepped into view. Middle-aged. Broad shouldered. Weathered face. He carried a ring of keys at his belt and regarded Darcy with the detached expression of someone inspecting damaged cargo.

“You are awake then,” the gaoler muttered.

Darcy gripped one of the iron bars. “I demand to know by what authority I am held here.”

The man snorted and crouched near the door, setting down a dented tin cup.

“You demanded that earlier too.”

“I was denied an answer earlier.”

“Aye.”

The gaoler slid the cup through a narrow opening at the bottom of the door.

Water.

Darcy hesitated only briefly before taking it. His hands were less steady than he would have preferred. The water tasted stale and faintly metallic, but he drank every drop regardless.

“What prison is this?” he asked.