Still no response. “The sword will remain in Western hands,” he said. “I won’t be able to return it to Maev.”
“You’re wasting your breath, Rymour.” Brega’s voice was colder and harder than ever. “What can a little fay do? We’ll rot in here until Gerwyn remembers us. Then he’ll execute us. Behead us if we’re lucky. Hang us if not.”
“Beheading doesn’t sound lucky.” That was Katharine. She sounded sad but she was still alive. Tom wondered how they’d know if one of them drowned. Would the guards tell them?
“Ever seen someone drop?” Brega asked.
“No.”
That surprised Tom. In all her travels she’d never seen an execution? But then when had he last seen one? Before Faerie, he realised. They weren’t as common anymore and they didn’t take place in public, either. Tom remembered when people had been hung by the roadside in his village. It was an event that people came to watch. The Duke’s Justice. People cheered, jeered, men sold meats and pies, other men sold rotten fruit to throw at the condemned.
He knew how they felt now. How many of them were truly guilty, he wondered? And how many, like him, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time?
“You have a plan, Thomas?” Siomi. She ignored the chatter as ever.
“Almost.” He wanted to say yes, to fill them all with confidence and hope.
“What do we do?”
“Wait. For now.” Tom didn’t want to tell them in case the guards heard. “If Dank can send his fay to me then we have a chance.”
Dank still didn’t say anything.
“And if he can’t?” Siomi asked.
“Then we’ll need another plan.”
That stilled the conversation. He wondered if the others were thinking of their own plans.
“Are you okay, Katharine?” It was a stupid question. He knew it as soon as he said it. But he wanted to talk to her.
Brega interrupted. “I’m sure she’s having a grand time.”
“I meant aside from the cells,” he said, defensive. But even that sounded stupid too.
“What else is there?” Brega asked.
Tom was standing on his toes, back arched and head tilted back, the water lapping at his ears. He clung to the rough sides of the cell to steady himself and tried not to think about the water. How it pressed on him. How it quickened his breathing. Instead he thought of the grapes in Gerwyn’s room. They were good grapes. He closed his eyes and remembered how they tasted, how they’d popped in his mouth. It was better than thinking that one slip would send him under. Then he’d choke. Would he be able to get back into position if he was choking?
There was a scream. It took a moment to pierce his worries and then it dissolved in gurgles. Tom didn’t recognise the voice. Dank. It had to be Dank. What happened? Was he hurt? Dead? Was he drowning?
“Guard!” he shouted. “Guard, I think someone’s drowning!”
“Do you?” The accent was thick and the voice was bored. It came from down the hallway. “One less mouth to feed.”
“Doesn’t Gerwyn want us alive?”
“Proctor Gerwyn wants you in cells,” the guard replied. “He didn’t say alive or dead.”
“Dank?” Katharine’s voice. So she was still okay. “Dank, can you hear me?”
Nothing.
“Dank, if you can hear me, say something.” That was Siomi.
“He’s dead.” Brega.
The only sound was the infernal lapping of water.
The tide was receding, down to Tom’s chest. He was still out of breath but he could relax his feet, legs and back. He leant back against the wall in the least uncomfortable spot he had found. Dank hadn’t made a sound and Tom felt guilty. He was upset, not because the boy was dead but because the plan was. He told himself he couldn’t be that upset over someone he didn’t know. But he felt like he was using him, somehow. That Dank represented a tool in his mind rather than a person. It was a very fay way to think.
But then there was a flicker of light above him and, when he looked, Dank’s sprite was at the edge of the pit, looking down on him.
“Eirwen’s grace,” he whispered. He held out his hand, expecting the fay to fly down and land on it. Instead it hauled itself over the edge and dropped. Tom had to catch it.
“Iron nails,” he swore. The fay flinched. “It’s okay,” he said, cupping the fay to his chest. “It’s okay.”
The light coming from the little sprite was fainter than before. Tom could make out its figure now, female, like a little woman with four translucent wings.
“I need your help, little fay,” Tom said. “Will you help us, if you can?”
The fay looked at him. The light from under the skin, dim though it was, obscured the features. But he saw a nod.
It wasn’t the most intricate plan, but he laid it out for her in whispers. Then he spoke into the Call and dropped it into the water. It spun for a moment before drifting into the channel, carrying Tom’s hopes with it.
He was woken by sound. How he’d fallen asleep he couldn’t comprehend, but he found himself wedged into a nook, rock poking him everywhere and his limbs twisted around edges and outcroppings. The cell was still dripping but it was empty of water and the sprite was curled up on the ground. As far from the bars as possible. As he blinked awake, he heard the sound again. Faint and echoing, it was coming from the channel at the bottom of his cell. Singing. Singing like Nimuë’s.
“Hello?” he whispered.
The singing stopped. “We are in the bay, Thomas Rymour.” The voice was less than a whisper, so quiet he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it. “We wait.”
Tom grinned. “You see?” he said to the fay. The sprite nodded. It seemed exhausted, weak. Tom wondered if it would be able to stand, let alone fly.
“We do not wait forever,” the voice said.
“How long?”
No answer.
“How long?”
Nothing.
He couldn’t risk them giving up. That would leave them with only two options for escape: jump into the bay and swim, or fight their way back to the Faerie Circle. They were starved and exhausted and hundreds of soldiers would try to stop them; they’d never make it.
The merrow were their only chance. Besides, Ambrose had said as much.
He grabbed the bars and lifted himself. He couldn’t see much. But he could make out the top of a guard’s head. There was no talking. He must be alone. “Hey.”
The elf wandered over. “What is it you want?”
“I want to see Gerwyn.”
The guard smiled. “Do you?”
“Yes. He said I could see him when I’d learnt manners.” Careful. Pick careful truths. “I want to see him.”
“His orders are to make you wait two days.”
He’d hoped they wouldn’t remember that. He whispered something at the guard.
“What?”
He whispered again.
“Speak up, human.” He leaned forward.
He shook his head, coughed, whispered.
The guard sighed and leaned even closer.
Tom surged forward, thrusting his arm through a gap in the bars and grasped at the elf. Caught off balance, the guard fell, and Tom wrapped his other arm around him, swinging with his full weight around the guard’s neck. The elf gasped and choked against a metal bar.
“Keys,” Tom said. “Give me the keys and I’ll let you live.”
The elf choked, waved his arms.
“If I don’t let you up, you’ll die.”
The elf’s face was inches from Tom’s own. It twisted between hate and panic.
“Keys,” Tom said again. “Now.”
The elf’s arm waved, pointing. Pointing back, down the hallway. Iron nails, the keys were down the hallway. He didn’t have them.
Tom swore. “Help!” he shouted. “Help, help, the guard, he’s dying, help!”
“Tom, what are you doing?” Katharine asked.
“Getting us out of he
re.”
“By bringing the place down on top of us?” Brega swore. “Good plan, Rymour.”
Footsteps echoed. Someone was coming. He wasn’t hurrying.
“Just be ready,” Tom said.
Someone swore in elfish.
“Keys,” Tom said yet again. “This elf has seconds to live. Get the keys now.”
The elf was going blue in front of him, his kicks and flails growing smaller.
This guard was obviously young or foolish. He scampered away and came back with the keys. He appeared by the doorway. Young. He held them like they were a biting rat, at arm’s length.
“Unlock the other cells,” Tom said. “Hurry, he hasn’t got long.”
The flailing had almost stopped. The elf wasn’t looking at him anymore. Tom braced his legs against the wall as best he could. As cruel as the guards had been, he didn’t want to kill anyone. The other guard was unlocking a cell. It must have been Brega’s because he heard her yell and the grate surged up, catching the guard in the head and knocking him down.
“Filthy Westerners.” She clambered out of her cell. Her shift clung to her, her hair hung wet and lank. When she realised Tom could see her she covered her face with her hand.
“Get the others out,” he said.
She freed Siomi first, then Katharine. Then she called out. “The Faerie man’s still alive.”
He knew he should have felt more relieved. But his arms were aching, the muscles on fire. “Good. Let him out. Then get me out.” The guard was unconscious. He lowered himself down. “We’re coming,” he called down the channel.
“We wait.”
Brega kicked the guard aside and opened his cell. She’d appropriated a yellow scarf from one of the Westerners and wrapped it around her face. Tom cradled the sprite in one hand and then Brega hauled him out. She did it with little care or grace. But he was free.
The others looked like he felt: exhausted, underfed, emotionally drained. “What now?” Siomi asked.
“Now we move,” Tom said. He turned to Dank. He looked terrible, one foot already in the Isles of the Dead.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Dank offered a feeble smile. “We’ll be better once we’re gone.” He spoke in short gasps.
“So will the rest of us.” Brega’s tone was pointed. “It won’t be long before we’re discovered.”
“We have to get Lord Neirin,” Siomi said.
“I know.” And Caledyr. Six and Draig too. “Dank, how far away do we need to get from iron for your sprite to recover?”
“Not far,” he said. “A hundred yards, maybe.”
“Good.” Tom walked down the hallway. Would there be other guards? He stopped at the table. Two plates and two cups. He picked up a cup and sipped. Small beer. It tasted like heaven.
“What are you doing?” Brega demanded. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
“No.” He handed her the cup. “Let everyone have a sip.” The plates were empty, unfortunately. They’d have to eat later. He looked in his hand and saw the light from the sprite was stronger. “Do you need anything?” he asked.
It hauled itself to its feet, hanging onto his thumb. Its wings fluttered. Tom looked to Dank.
“It’s drawing on the magic in the air,” he said. He sipped at the cup gratefully. Tom passed him the other. The boy looked like he needed it. “Just a few minutes.”
The air felt dull and mundane. “I can’t feel any magic,” said Tom.
“There’s magic everywhere,” Dank replied. “Even if it’s only a little.”
“Guard?” a voice came from down another hallway.
Tom ignored the call and looked at Katharine. Like the rest of them she was wet and exhausted. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I just want to get out of here.” She didn’t look at him. There wasn’t time to worry about that.
“Do you know the layout of the castle?”
“How would I?”
“We know, Thomas Rymour,” Dank said.
“Good. Take Katharine and find a way to the water. There’ll probably be a door they use to throw out waste and bodies. That’s our way out.”
“We’re going to swim for it?” Brega sneered.
He shook his head. “There are merrow waiting for us in the bay.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good thing,” said Katharine.
“They’ll help us,” he said. “I made a deal with them.”
“How?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said. The cups were empty. The fay seemed stronger. “Ready?”
The sprite nodded.
“You know what to do.”
It leapt into the air. It struggled to stay airborne for a moment before drifting up the stairs.
“We need to get Lord Neirin,” Siomi said.
“That’s where she’s going,” Tom replied. Siomi’s face was bare but she showed no embarrassment. She looked older than Tom had imagined, her skin wrinkled and dark. It bore three tiny, intricate tattoos on one cheek, a scatter of dots and marks on her forehead. The rest of it was peppered with liver spots. Her face told you she was in her twilight years, her best days behind her. Her eyes told you that her face was lying. Tom blinked. He’d been staring. Siomi smiled. It was a kind smile.
“We don’t always hide our faces,” she said. “We show it to family, good friends. Those who are important.”
“Thank you.” He meant it, too. He felt honoured that she didn’t hide it from him. It made him feel closer to her, made him feel trusted.
“This is very touching,” Brega said from behind her scarf. “But we need to move.”
Tom shook his head. “No, we need to wait here.” He looked down and saw she’d appropriated two swords from the guards. “Give one of those to Siomi. We might need them.”
“We need to rescue Lord Neirin,” she replied. She didn’t give up the weapons.
“Neirin and Six will rescue themselves.” He nodded at the swords and she made a disgusted sound before giving one to Siomi.
Wails and complaints came from down the hallway. More people in tide cells. In rat pits.
“Give me the keys,” he said to Brega.
“What?”
“The keys.”
“We can’t protect them,” she said.
“Maybe not,” he replied. “But we’ll let them choose: the safety of a rat pit or the risk of freedom.”
There were two other chambers full of cells. Tom unlocked them all. He had no idea what these people were guilty of. Some of them might have been dangerous criminals. But many of them looked similar, like they were the same people. And they didn’t look like Erhenni. They had a lean, hard look to them, their clothes stripped leather, wound and bound around the body. Their faces bore tattoos, but very different from those on the Eastern elfs, all swirling lines in decreasing circles. Maybe these were prisoners of war?
“You’re free,” he told them all. Some of them cowered in their cells. Most of them clambered out. Only some of them thanked him. He got suspicious looks and silence from the rest. Brega stayed at the foot of the stairs, waiting. Siomi went from man to woman to child, reassuring them, explaining that she had no food or water. One woman stopped Tom.
“Who are you?” She was probably his age, crows feet at her eyes and a few missing teeth. She had cloth attached to her wrist and her back like wet, sandy wings. She wore a stone around her neck, no jewel but just a simple, black pebble.
“Thomas Rymour,” he said. “You’re free to go.”
“Are you saving us?”
“I’m setting you free,” he said. “Your fate is your own.”
She smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “We will remember this.”
She seemed to take charge of the others, herding them together and speaking in a tongue Tom had never heard before.
Brega called to them. There was yelling and com-motion from above. “Something’s going on up there.”
The sprite drifted around the corner an
d almost fell the last few feet into Tom’s hands. “Are they coming?” he asked it.
It nodded, lying in his hands, panting.
“It’s them,” he told the elfs. “Neirin and Six.”
The commotion grew louder and Six came down the stairs holding Caledyr in his hands. He stopped when he saw the others. “You’re free,” he said and then grinned. “Neirin, they’re free.”
Neirin came down next, but with his back to them. He had Proctor Gerwyn by the hair with a blade to the elf’s throat. He inched down a step at a time.
“Stay back,” he called.
“Stay back,” Gerwyn echoed. He sounded like a small child.
“Where’s Draig?” Brega was right. Neirin was followed by a crowd of Western guards, but there was no sight of the other elf.
“I couldn’t find him,” Neirin said. “They must have taken him somewhere else.”
“No, he’s here.” Gerwyn sounded panicked. “Fetch the traitor.”
“He’s no traitor.” But Brega shouted it, like a child sticking to a heartfelt lie.
No-one argued with her. Six joined their little huddle and they stepped back to give Neirin and Gerwyn room. He stopped in the middle of the little chamber, up against the table, and the guards stopped on the stairs.
“Good work, Tom,” Neirin said. Now that he was closer Tom could see Neirin was threatening Gerwyn with Caledyr. Six just held the scabbard.
“Thanks,” he replied. “Well done for bringing Caledyr.”
“Everything hinges on this sword,” said Neirin, almost at the same time that a foresight flashed into Tom’s mind: Ambrose’s voice, saying, “Everything hinges on the glarn.”
Tom blinked. What in Emyr’s name was a glarn?
“What now?” It was Gerwyn who asked, panic making his voice high and quavering. “We’re in the dungeons, there’s no way out.”
“There’s a way out,” said Tom. He turned to the other prisoners, all gathered in the hallways. “You can take the guards’ weapons. Now’s a good time to run.”
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 30