| |
Lawrence had kept very careful track: 53 days. That was how long he had been in this damp, dark cell in the lower vaults of Wealdan Castle. He measured time by the meals. There were two every day, served by different guards. Lawrence knew there had been daylight when he was first brought down, so he called that first meal supper. It was brought by a fat, red-haired man. Many hours later—in the morning, or so Lawrence had to assume—there was a second meal, brought by a thinner man with a black beard. Seeing that black beard meant another day had gone by, and once the guard had left the cell, Lawrence would scratch a mark on the side of his wooden cot with a chip of stone. He could feel those marks, even in the dark. Ten groups of five now, plus three: 53 days.
The meals themselves weren’t that bad. They were all the same, both morning and night: some kind of greasy, lumpy stew with a crust of very dry bread to dunk in it. The flavor was bland, and the texture of some of the things in the stew made him glad for the darkness. If he swallowed quick, he didn’t have to feel it ooze over his tongue. He hadn’t starved yet, though on the rare occasions he was allowed to get to his feet, he found that his trousers were a bit looser on him than they had been.
“Fools! They’re just helping me get into fighting shape again!” he said to himself. Occasionally he would exercise his muscles a bit by pushing against the stone walls or jogging awkwardly in place. He liked to think this would keep him fit for his inevitable escape.
Technically, he was still under a death sentence. He didn’t let this worry him too much. If Broderick the Black had really meant to have him executed, he would be dead already. Lawrence wondered if perhaps he was being kept alive to be used as a bargaining chip in the final negotiations. He liked to think this meant Broderick wasn’t so sure of winning anymore. Maybe the Sigor armies had rallied and were pushing back. It would certainly explain the reluctance to kill him immediately.
Who was the captain general now? The Duke of Pinshire, probably. Unless maybe Caedmon Aldred had wanted the job, which he probably didn’t. Or was it the Duke of Leornian? Lawrence considered everything he knew of the two dukes, trying to decide which one would be better suited for the job. Some days he inclined toward Pinshire, other days he inclined toward Leornian. You could never know how a man would handle a job like that until he’d actually done it. Whoever had the job now was evidently winning battles again. But how many? And how much territory had they regained? Maybe the Sigor armies were in the Crown Lands already, about to retake Wealdan Castle.
He had no doubt he would get out of the dungeon soon, one way or another. Granted, nothing he had tried so far had worked, but he had nothing but time on his hands, and he could devise incredibly elaborate escape plans to his heart’s content. So what if he hadn’t succeeded in tunneling through the walls? The foundations of Wealdan Castle had been built by hillichmagnars. It only stood to reason they would be impossible to dig through. So what if his attempts to bribe the jailer with the black beard had earned him a kick in the teeth? He just needed to wait until he got new guards who were greedier. Or perhaps more patriotic.
Getting out of Wealdan Castle was the first and largest step. He hadn’t come up with a way to do that yet, but that was no excuse for not planning the rest of his escape. And that was how he spent most of his days: sitting on the miserable straw pallet, weighing the risks and benefits of all the various routes between Formacaster and Pinburg. The first few days would take him through his own earldom—he would have to fight the urge to go look in at his estate. Best not to do anything to arouse suspicion.
After that, he had to decide whether to stay in Trahernshire—heading to Leornian, perhaps—or going the more direct route southeast through Keneshire. How much could he trust the people of Keneshire right now? He had seen Flora and Hugh kneel to Broderick, but were they really serious about switching sides again? You could only do that so many times before everyone stopped trusting you. He didn’t doubt Flora had it in her to turn her coat a third time—she was the backstabbing sort. But he also didn’t think she really wanted Andras to marry Donella. He was willing to bet she would do anything possible to stop that from happening.
If his little Helena were older, and the Gramirens demanded she marry one of them, would he give in? No, of course not. A father had a duty to help choose the right sort of man for his daughter. He didn’t trade her away like a fleece at a May Fair. No, if he had to choose, he would take death before he gave away his little girl. And whatever else one might say about Flora, she genuinely loved her children. There was no way that wedding between Andras and Donella was ever really going to take place. And who knew? Perhaps the threat of losing Andras might finally bring Elwyn to her senses. She might finally realize that she loved the boy.
The earl constructed an elaborate fantasy of the grand royal wedding. He particularly enjoyed the part where he was about to escort Elwyn down the aisle, and Elwyn thanked him with tears in her eyes for never giving up and for continuing to insist that she marry Andras.
“Nothing more than my duty,” he told her in his mind. “Nothing more than what your father—Earstien grant him Light—would have done.”
Suddenly a key squealed in the lock, and he looked up. It wasn’t supper time. What was this? He tried to straighten his filthy tunic, hoping he wouldn’t look too awful if this really was the Sigor army come to rescue him.
But it wasn’t his army, and it wasn’t even a Sigor. It was Muriel Gramiren, of all people. He knew her by her silhouette in the doorway, even before she spoke. No one else could convey such complete disdain with a slight angle of her hips and a turn of her head.
“How charming to see you again, Muriel.”
“Hello, Lawrence. I see you’ve made yourself at home.” He could make out the dim outline of her features now. She wrinkled her nose slightly.
He had long since lost the ability to smell himself, but he could see the way the jailers shuddered and blanched at the stench. Muriel’s lilac perfume cut through it all like a sword. It almost made it hard to breathe.
“How are things going out in the world?” he asked. Not that he really believed she would be so obliging as to tell him the Sigors were winning again, but he hoped she would betray her dismay with some slight gesture, or perhaps with a display of temper.
Instead, she laughed. “Out in the world, things are going marvelously. Can you guess where I’ve returned from?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Keneburg. Congratulate me, Lawrence—my darling little girl is now Donella Byrne, Countess of Arven. That’s a title Broderick created for our new son-in-law, by the way.”
“No.” He felt the blood draining from his face. “No, Flora would never have gone through with it.”
“Oh, she was quite unhappy, but one has to expect these little disputes between family.”
Lawrence tried not to show how upset he was. He didn’t want to give this bitch the satisfaction. She was here to taunt him, and the only power he had now was the power to limit her enjoyment at his expense. “Congratulations. I hope the union is a prosperous one.”
Muriel shook her head. “Oh, Lawrence. You don’t need to hold back. You can tell me how you really feel. Think how much joy this wedding will bring. And I don’t just mean for my daughter and her new husband. I mean for your niece, Elwyn. She’s going to be thrilled, I imagine.”
“Fuck!” Lawrence couldn’t help it. He punched the straw pallet as hard as he could. Then he pushed over the wooden cot and kicked it.
“Andras, the poor dear, seemed to think it important to tell me and my husband that he had never been serious about Elwyn. And that Elwyn had been against the match all along.” Muriel crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “You were going to force her to marry against her will. Shame on you.”
Lawrence didn’t trust himself to speak. He took a length of his chain and twisted it in his hands until his arms ached and his fingers were shaking.
The queen continued. “Imagine how happy Elwyn must be now. Think of that—your own family is overjoyed that you’ve been beaten and humiliated, yet again.”
Damn and blast Elwyn! All she needed to do was to marry Andras, and none of this could ever have happened. All of this—losing the battle and being captured and the Byrnes switching sides again—all of that was Elwyn’s fault. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he was pretty sure it had to be.
“Oh, dear,” said Muriel. “I appear to have upset you. My apologies. But as it happens, I really didn’t just come here to share my good news. I have a proposition for you.”
“Don’t bother,” he spat out. “Whatever it is, the answer is ‘no’!”
“You haven’t even heard my idea yet. I can get you a pardon. But I need a tiny little favor in return.”
He knew it would be something stupid and awful, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he had to ask. “What favor?”
“I want you to convince Elwyn to marry my son, Broderick.”
Lawrence almost couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Are you joking, or are you mad? Don’t you remember trying that before?”
“Yes, seven years ago, before this war started. Indeed, you might say that the war never would have started if young Broderick and your niece had been married. Stupidly, your family refused. Now I’m giving you a chance to make the right choice.”
Why on earth would Muriel resurrect this ancient, disastrous proposal? Surely this had to be a good sign. Surely the Gramirens were desperate. “What makes you think I would ever agree to this?”
“Because otherwise you will die in this room.” She stepped back out the door and into the hallway. “I will give you until the Equinox to think it over. Not quite a month.” An unseen jailer pushed the door shut with a sudden, echoing clang. Lawrence was in the dark again, and Muriel’s voice was muffled and distorted as she added, “Consider carefully. This might be your last chance.”