22

Cell

“WELL, THIS SUCKS,” BERYL BEMOANED.

Wynn glanced up at him, making out his silhouette in the dim light of the Windlebriar cell. He hovered only a few feet due to the steel chain on his leg. He sat and folded his arms.

“More than sucks,” Wynn said. She looked around their small dreary cell. Beyond the bars loomed a seemingly endless dark corridor that housed other prisoners.

“This is like being housed in a grim dungeon waiting for the executioner to show up and chop off our heads,” she said.

Beryl rubbed his neck, disturbed. “You don’t think that’ll happen to us, do you?”

Wynn looked around worriedly. “I hope not,” she said, and felt a sprig of terror in her stomach. Why did I have to think that up? Oh yes, act two—The Crimson Crown of the Mad Bard. Poor little Percival.

Wynn heard a grunt and looked over to see Lance leaning against the brick wall. He held a small cloth to the wound on his cheek and gazed at the barred crescent-shaped window that light seeped through. The lark hadn’t said much since they were tossed into the cell hours prior.

But then again it may hurt to talk, Wynn sympathized. That and his gloomy demeanor had kept her from prying him for questions. At least until now.

Beryl looked over to him. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” Lance grumbled.

“Geez, they could’ve at least tossed us a couple of bandages,” Beryl muttered.

“They’re not exactly our friends,” Lance said, wincing as he spoke.

Wynn frowned. Lance seemed extra prickly.

Still, the harrowing eyes of Captain Conifer popped into her mind.

“Hey Lance, that Captain Conifer,” she said. “It was that caster wasn’t it.”

The pair looked up at her.

Beryl looked at her funny. “The Captain? No way, the caster is a lot taller.” He stuck out his arm to emphasize his point. “And less leafy. Brume can shift form but not to that extent.”

“It is,” Lance confirmed.

Beryl looked at him, bewildered. “You sure? Doesn’t he usually look off somehow…”

“It’s not out of the realm of reality. He’s gotten better at it,” Lance said. “Especially with that item he took from us.” He looked at Wynn. “Usually you can tell it’s him because there’s always something off about his appearance or the way he acts. This time it was eyes, but…”

He sighed and looked away, “I spotted it too late.”

“So, what do we do?” Wynn asked nervously. “I mean he has a whole guard under his command.”

There was silence.

Somewhere, a prisoner coughed in the darkness.

“I don’t know,” Lance said. “I need to think.”

Beryl plopped down, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

Wynn gazed back through the bars. Before her were rows and rows of cells dimly lit by torchlight.

She pulled her cloak closer.