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“Please?” he calls after me.
Ignoring him, I make my way back through the stronghold’s open gates to the north eastern corner of the courtyard and take the stairs down to the holding cells. Somehow it’s colder down here than it is in the open air. A single torch in the wall bracket illuminates the recruit on guard duty. My lip curls when his gaze skitters away from mine. He may still be young, but the show of weakness is still aggravating. By his age, I’d already been a fully-fledged warrior for a year.
“The key,” I order, my voice echoing off the stone walls.
He swallows. “It’s not locked, my deve.”
I stare at him until he stutters, “Mother Cyrun didn’t return it.”
“Mother Cyrun?” I drawl in a way that says he better explain immediately.What was Zola doing down here?
“Yes,” the boy gets out. “I asked for the key’s return but she chose not to hear me when she left.”
My mind sifts through what he’s telling me. “She came alone?”
“No, sir. She came with her youngest . . . at least I think he’s her youngest. She has so many sons.”
Bron?No, Bron avoids her meddling. He must mean Crion, who’s a year older.
“Is the prisoner still among the living?”
His eyes bulge. “I . . . I don’t know. Should I check?”
I slam my fist into his ribs, sending the air whooshing from his lungs. He goes down onto the dirt floor like a stone. “Report to Noé. You’ll be cleaning chamber pots for a month. Now get gone.”
He does his best to scramble to his feet, choking out a, “Yes, Deve.”
In the corridor there are four doors, but only the second is closed. For a moment, I hesitate. If this woman is dead, there will be consequences. I should have known Zola would try something and made sure that an actual warrior was put on guard duty. Stupid. But there’s nothing to be done for it now.
Pushing the door open, I’m greeted by a wall of complete darkness. Backtracking to grab the torch, I return and hold it up to illuminate the small, dank room. She’s there, sprawled on the floor, her body arranged at an odd angle, seemingly bent in half.
“Oy,” I call. No response. Since her actual name is a mouthful, I use the shortened version Bron gave me. “Rina!” Still nothing. Moving closer, I watch for any sign of life, but with the way she’s positioned on her side with her hair over her face, I can’t discern anything. “Hey, Rina,” I try again, this time using the toe of my boot to nudge her. Not even a twitch. “Shit.”
Sliding the torch into the bracket by the door, I bend down and jog her shoulder. I get nothing, but she’s breathing, and I see now why she’s bent into such an awkward position. The shackle on her wrist and its counterpart on her ankle have been affixed to the same iron ring that’s embedded in the floor. I feel a twinge in my chest. She’s not a battle-hardened soldier, just a woman, a small one by the look of her.
Carefully, I move her hair back. Her chapped lips are an unnatural shade of blue and her left eye is partially swollen shut by a bruise that runs from her jaw up to her temple. I squint at the black hair plastered there.Is that blood?I lay my hand on her forehead and instantly pull it back. She’s ice cold. Turning her more fully onto her side, I catch sight of a fresh, bright red stain on the skirt of her dress at about thigh level.
“Rina.” Still nothing.
Father damn me.I tilt my chin up and stare at the ceiling.She deserves to die,I tell myself. If I leave her here, she won’t last a day and she’ll no longer be a problem . . . until the First Deve comes sniffing around for an explanation. And I suppose at a minimum I should listen to her side of the story before I do anything. Though what is the word of a snake worth? Not a lot.
Unsure, I grunt with frustration and fall back on my tried and true system.
What would my father have done?
A short and bitter laugh comes out of me. He definitely would’ve left her to die. No question. And therein lies my answer.
Fuck.
I inspect the shackles. The damage they’ve wrought has me frowning. Her wrist is bruised and bloody, and her ankle is worse, barely recognizable with all the swelling.Why was she shackled at all? Couldn’t they handle one small girl?
I guess there was the whole issue of the murder to consider.
I could ask Noé for the key, but I have a feeling he’d lobby to leave her here, and I’m not interested in defending my decision. Pulling my dagger from my belt, I work at slipping the iron pin free. It takes some doing but I get the shackle off her wrist.
Holding my dagger up to the light to inspect it, I mutter, “If it chips or cracks, I’m going to have to kill her anyway.”
I’m more careful with her ankle, which is in rough shape. When the pin finally gives and I open the cuff, I get my first sign of life in the form of a small whimper. Sheathing my knife, I get her up and over my shoulder. She weighs less than nothing, and again, I wonder why she was shackled.
