She frowned. "They all said she was bad. They said she didn't care about her people."
"They lied, child." He stroked the golden hair. "They lied."
Bridin heard the vanishing sounds of Tristan and the girl, Amelia, even as she watched the last few grains of sand fall into the lower half of the hourglass. She'd known he couldn't free her, and she'd known he wouldn't leave her behind. And yet she hadn't been able to be completely unselfish. She'd had to know his embrace, his love-making, one last time.
She'd sent him out with the child, knowing that Vincent would come back for her before Tristan could return. But at least the girl would be safe. And Tristan... Gods, please, she whispered, protect Tristan. He had to stay alive long enough to oust his brother and free the people. He had to.
Vincent's growl of outrage reached her before she even heard the footsteps of the guards. And then he was there, glowering at her from the stone archway. "What have you done with the child?" he demanded.
"You didn't think I'd let you harm her, did you?"
He panted, breathless with rage. And then he seemed to catch control of himself. He braced his hands on the doorway's edges, narrowing his evil eyes on her. "Guards, fetch me another child. A younger one this time. We'll proceed with the torture right on schedule. You should be able to find a suitable substitute in the village. Go, and hurry."
The large guard, one of the two who'd brought her down here, nodded from behind Vincent and turned to go.
"Wait!" she cried.
He halted, and Vincent looked at her.
"I'll tell you... all I know. I'm afraid it isn't much, but—"
"If it isn't enough, Bridin, we'll go on with the torture as planned."
She closed her eyes and prayed she could bluff her way through this. First, though, she had to get out of these dungeons. Tristan would return before long. And if he saw her here, with his brother threatening her like this, he'd leap to her defense and likely get himself killed.
"Well?"
Bridin nodded firmly. "Take me to your war chambers, Vincent. I can show you on the map you keep there, where your brother's men make ready to overthrow your rule."
Vincent stared at her for a long moment. And finally he nodded. "Loose her bonds and bring her up. I'll be waiting." He turned to go, lifting one edge of his cloak to his face and grimacing. "Gods, it stinks down here!"
And then he was gone. Frederick, the gentle, young guard, rushed forward, seemingly as eager to free her as she was to be freed. Unlike Tristan, this youth had a set of keys. And even with those it took several minutes to get her loose from the iron jaws that held her captive.
"There, lady," he said at last, and frowned as he lifted a torch from the wall sconce and examined the red marks on her wrists. "Come along then." Taking her forearm in one gentle hand, careful not to touch the sore spots on her wrists, Frederick led her around the corner and along the margin of stone floor that stretched between the cells. All the way to the far end they walked, with the gruff, older guard hulking silently on her other side. At the very end of the row of cells was the base of that crumbling, curving stone staircase, and Frederick had to let go of her then. Single file was the only sane way to ascend the thing.
Bridin tried hard to plan what she would do when she joined Vincent in the chambers above. Show him some false place in the enchanted forest that surrounded Rush? Lie and pray he wouldn't find out for a while? All that would do would be to buy her some extra time. Days at the most. More likely hours. And what then?
She thought of Tristan as she'd last seen him, wondered if he was even now making his way back to her. To rescue her, or so he thought. Please, let him just run back to the forest unharmed when he couldn't find her. Let him finish his preparations for war as he should, so that he could be successful in his attack against his brother.
She could see her beloved in her mind's eye, so clearly. His smile. His strong, callused hands. The lines at the corners of his eyes. The fullness of his mouth. His—
The stone beneath her crumbled. She felt it fall away as she stepped down upon it. She felt herself pitch sideways, and a quick glimpse below told her she'd ascended nearly to the top of this towering stairway. Stupid, she realized, to let herself become distracted with plotting and daydreaming while walking up such a curving and crumbling ruin. It had been treacherous even with her attention fully on her footing. But this...!
The man behind her reached for her, and she glimpsed his face. Frederick, looking mortified. His hand swung toward her as she seemed to hang for a split second in the air, her feet still touching the step, but her body already arching outward, over the endless darkness below. He closed his hand, but she fell away, and all he caught was the pendant.
She felt it snap free of her neck, heard him cry out as her body sailed past him and into the black maw of space beyond the open side of the stairs. She looked at him. For one brief moment she met his eyes, brown eyes filled with horror. And then her momentum pulled her downward, and she was untethered, and plummeting. She heard the men shouting, their feet pounding down the stairs, saw the flicker of their torches, briefly. Then she heard only the dank, stale air whistling past her ears. She didn't cry out. She wouldn't give them that satisfaction. But she did whisper.
"Tristan..."
The floor slammed up to greet her, its impact so powerful, the breath was forced from her lungs as she rebounded to fly upward again, and then came down for another blow. She felt the crystal ball split into pieces. The third time she hit bottom, she found blessed darkness.
Chapter Nineteen
Old Mary Riley saw the whole thing. She'd been sentenced to thirty days in the dungeons on bread-and-water rations, for the crime of stealing firewood from the prince's forest. What she'd stolen, of course, had been no more than a single limb, no longer than her own leg, and about as big around. It was obviously dead and had been blown to the ground. Not that it had made any difference to that arrogant bastard when he'd passed sentence.
But she'd survived her stay here. Tonight was her final one, and tomorrow she'd be released. She supposed she might have to endure a few of that whip-monger's lashes before she was let go, but she could manage it. She might be old, but she was strong.
Until tonight, she'd thought she'd seen everything. Torture and beatings, and all manner of persons being dragged down here, from the elderly to the crippled to the dying to the very young. Even those women whose bellies bulged with child were tossed into these filthy, vile cells if caught committing what that idiot called a crime.
But never had she seen this kind of cruelty.
She'd come to the bars when she'd heard them approaching, bringing that fair lady from the bowels of the torture chamber to the foot of the stairs. Mary had seen the other man, the one who'd come earlier, and who'd left with that sweet little girl cradled in his arms. She'd heard that one promise to come back for the beauty in the room of horrors. But he hadn't come back in time.
Life offered little enough diversion here, so even seeing the comings and goings of other prisoners became a thing of great interest. But this hadn't been interesting. No, but more like a nightmare. The way Mary saw it, it seemed they'd hurled that poor woman right off those steps. Just tossed her. And she hadn't so much as made a peep, even when she'd hit with enough force to split a melon.
By the gods, she must be dead!
Mary leaned close to the bars in her cell, pressing her face between them, gripping them with her hands. This was the closest glimpse she'd yet had of the nubile young woman. She was beautiful; that was sure even in the harsh, flickering light of the few torches left burning. A face like— why, like Queen Maire's had been, before she'd been killed. Oh, and she'd been the most beautiful... But all those fay females were. And this one was fay, or her name wasn't Mary Riley. The beauty lay still, not moving at all, not even to moan, and Mary feared the girl was dead. Then the guards came thundering toward her, holding their torches over her face. And Mary gasped as she saw that torchlight fall upon
a golden yellow braid of hair so long, it must reach to her waist.
Gods fury, could it be... ?
"The prince will have our heads!" one beefy guard said, punching a smaller one hard in the breastplate.
The second staggered backwards, staring down at the pendant he held in his hand and then flinging it away in horror. "I tried—"
"He wanted her alive! He'll make us pay!"
But the second only remained silent, and knelt beside the fallen woman. He touched her face gently, looked almost... guilty. "I think..." he whispered. "Yes. Look, she breathes. Fair Bridin isn't dead... not yet, at least."
The older one bent over, nodded once. "But how long can she hold on after a fall like that? And when she dies, we'll die with her, you can be sure."
Mary Riley backed away from the bars into the shadows, careful not to make any sound. If they knew she'd seen... she'd be as dead as the fairy princess on the floor.
"We'd do well to make haste away from here. Just drag her into a cell and let's go."
The younger guard nodded. But he seemed reluctant. "He'll find her, and tend to her," he muttered as if to convince himself of it. "He'll surely come looking when we fail to bring her up as he commanded. So he'll find her."
The first guard was already opening the steel-barred door of the nearest cell. But it was the second, the one who'd touched her so tenderly, who scooped her up into his arms. There was a jangling sound, and Mary squinted out of her dark cell to see his keys fall from his belt to land on the floor. He didn't seem to notice as he ever so carefully laid the beauty down again, inside the empty cell. As Mary watched in blatant amazement, he removed his cloak and tucked it around and beneath her. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I tried to catch you..."
"Come on," said the first. "Let's be on our way before he arrives."
The two hurried away, no doubt never to set foot in sight of their prince again. Mary Riley watched them go, and then she sat down on the floor and focused her attention on the still form of the woman. And she knew that the body lying wrapped in the blue cloak of the castle guard was none other than Bridin of the Fay, rightful ruler of Rush.
She hadn't turned her back on her people at all, then. Mary Riley had never truly believed she had. She'd met the girl's mother once. Queen Maire. Never had she known a woman who exuded such strength and purity of heart. It practically shone from her eyes. No, no daughter of hers would grow up to shun her duty. Young princess Bridin hadn't. She'd come back here, turned herself over to these brutes in good faith, and they'd broken their word not to harm her, and pitched her from the very stairs before her own old eyes. Likely that haughty Vincent of Shara wouldn't keep any of his other promises either, particularly the one about easing the constraints he'd placed on the people once he had the princess in his evil clutches.
Well, Mary Riley had suffered enough under Vincent's rule. The second she was released, she'd make sure the people knew what was going on inside the walls of the castle. Yes indeed. She'd make sure.
It was only moments later when a third guard came partway down the stairs, glimpsed the princess's broken body lying in a cell, bathed in flickering torchlight, and raced back up the stairs shouting for the prince.
Tristan left the child in the care of a wise woman he knew would protect her, come what may. And from that same woman he borrowed an ax, which he fastened to his belt in all haste, even while making his way back to the castle. But the dread in his stomach did not dissipate, nor did the feeling that he never should have left her behind. That ominous chill had dug deeper into his heart with every second he'd been away from her, and it was that which drove him faster. Like a madman he darted over the twisting, narrow lanes of the village, ducking into the foliage that surrounded the castle proper, leaping roots and ducking vines and dashing around brush and undergrowth. He made his way back to that secret entrance and raced through the tunnel, heedless of the noise he might be making.
But when he dropped from the ceiling into the dank cell, he guessed he'd already known what he was going to find. The cell door creaked as he pushed it open, and the sound echoed. In the distance he heard only a haunting hollow sound of stagnant water dripping from some crack in the stone walls. He stepped into the corridor and hurried through it, his steps loud in the silence, then swung around the corner and through the archway into the torture chamber.
And the chains that had formerly held Bridin's delicate limbs now hung harmless and vacant against the stone wall. Gone. Bridin was gone.
Picking up a torch, he thrust it into the deepest shadows of the room, just to be sure. And then he paused as its dancing light fell upon an hourglass, upright in a corner. Frowning, Tristan recalled the way Bridin had kept glancing at something beyond him, and how she'd kept saying how little time there was left.
Then he closed his eyes and groaned. Dammit, she'd known they were coming for her. She'd known she wouldn't be here by the time he returned. Damn her stubbornness. Damn her courage. Gods, but he loved her beyond all reason.
He turned and made his way back along the rows of cells, peering into each one he passed in search of her, but she wasn't there. He drew nearer the narrow, curving staircase that stretched upward until it vanished in the pitch black distance. The one that led up to the castle's ground floor. And then he went rigid at the plaintive whisper coming from one of the cells.
"My Lord, whom do you seek?" rasped the aged voice.
Tristan turned quickly, spying the elderly woman who clutched the bars, keeping the torchlight as far from his face as he could, lest this prisoner recognize him. "I seek no one," he said, but wondered if perhaps this old woman had seen something, knew something. Anything that could help him find Bridin. "Why do you ask me such a thing?"
She narrowed her eyes, pressing her face tight to the bars and peering at him. "Come closer, boy. You're familiar to me."
Tristan shook his head, averting his face.
"I saw you peering into each cell as you passed. It's her you've come to find, isn't it?"
Tristan's head snapped around quickly. "Her?"
"The beautiful one with the long, golden braid."
Forgetting all about protecting his anonymity, Tristan rushed forward, standing close to the woman's cell. "You've seen her? Tell me!"
"Is it true?" she asked in a whisper. "Is she the princess Bridin?"
Taking a step away from the cagelike cell, Tristan lowered the torch with a sigh, and heard the woman gasp as the light fell on his face. The next thing he knew she was on her knees, head lowered. "Prince Tristan! You're back from the dead!"
"Hush," he commanded. "I'd rather not alert the entire castle to my presence here."
"I should say not," she said, her voice quieter now. "But I can tell you nothing of my lady Bridin, for you and she are enemies, sworn. Both vying for the throne."
"We're more than that," Tristan whispered. Gods, they were so much more than that. He shook himself and went on. "We're both enemies of my treacherous brother. Our own fight for this kingdom will be settled only when Vincent has been vanquished, dear lady. I promise you that. But for now, my fondest wish is to see to it she lives long enough to give me that fight, for I relish our battles."
The woman blinked up at him, slowly rising to her feet. Her eyes widened in wonder, and she even smiled, showing her missing teeth. "I do believe you mean that," she said softly. "For your eyes go all misty when you speak of her. Could it be our fay princess has captured the heart of a Sharan prince?"
"Are you going to tell me what you know or not?"
Her smile died, head lowering again. "I'm afraid it isn't good news, my lord. The princess was treated roughly by the guards who held her. Oh, they came for her right after you left with the little girl. But the poor lovely never made it as far as the top of the stairs."
Tristan lunged forward, gripping the bars of her pen as his heart lurched. "What are you saying?"
She met his eyes, her own deeply sad. "They pitched her from the top," she wh
ispered, nodding toward the towering set of stone stairs. "I heard one claim it was an accident, but knowing those kind, I—"
"Was she killed?" he cried, no longer caring who heard him.
"They said she was still alive, sweet prince. Oh, I can see how this news pains you. The guards left in haste, fearing Vincent's wrath. And that prince himself came down here only a scant few moments ago, to find her in the cell where those brutes left her to die."
Clutching the bars, Tristan fought a shudder that weakened him, tried to control the roiling in his stomach. His knees gave out, though, and he sank slowly to the floor, letting the torch fall, still burning, beside him. "Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me all of it."
A leathery hand stroked his bowed head. "Vincent carried your lady upstairs, shouting for the guards to fetch a healer woman from the village. I heard him vow they'd all face the gallows if she died before he got from her the information he wanted." The hand on his head trembled and finally drew away. "My guess, now that I've seen you, is that the information he wants concerns you, my lord. And Vincent seemed to want it badly. He'll save her, if he can, though his motives are as black as his heart."
Gathering his strength, Tristan rose to his feet again and turned toward the stairway. It was only as he started climbing that he saw the keys at the base of the stairs, and shards of convex quartz crystal scattered around. Gods, Bridm's crystal ball! Shattered!
Drawing a breath, he fell to his knees and stroked one large hunk of curving glasslike crystal as he battled emotions threatening to overtake him. But only for a moment. He knelt there and saw a glimmer from the corner of his eye, and when he turned to investigate, he felt the wind knocked out of him. Bridin's fairy pendant, its chain broken. Torn from her throat, no doubt.
Damn his brother for this!
Tristan knotted the chain and draped the necklace around his own throat. Then he stiffened his spine, and converted his grief and fear for her into righteous rage. With a swipe of his hand he scooped up the keys, and returned to the woman in the cell. "What time of day do the dungeon keepers come for the first time?"
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